Based on his views mentioned in the passage, one could best characterise Dr. Watrall as being:
dismissive of laypeople’s access to specialist images of archaeological and cultural sites.
critical about the links between a non-profit and a commercial tech platform for distributing archaeological images.
Dr. Watrall's characterization can best be deduced by examining his viewpoint in the context of the provided passage. The passage discusses Google's efforts to preserve archaeological sites by making them accessible through 3D images. However, there is criticism about the commercial relationships and motivations behind these actions.
Dr. Watrall, an archaeologist, expresses discomfort with the collaboration between CyArk, a nonprofit, and Google, which is a commercial entity. He suggests that Google's true motive is to drive traffic and promote its brand under the guise of cultural preservation, rather than purely for educational or scholarly purposes. He argues that these images would be more appropriately housed on a museum or educational institution's site, reflecting a mission focused on scholarship. This highlights his critical view of how commercial interests intersect with non-profit endeavors in distributing archaeological images.
Therefore, based on the passage, Dr. Watrall is best characterized as being:
the scanning process can damage delicate frescos and statues at the sites.
The correct answer to the question about the "digital colonialism" critique of the CyArk–Google project is: "countries where the scanned sites are located do not own the scan copyrights." The comprehension passage outlines several crucial aspects of this critique:
1. Background Context: Google, in collaboration with CyArk, is using 3D scanning technology to digitally preserve archaeological sites, making them available on Google's Arts & Culture site. This is positioned as a preservation effort amidst threats like war, natural disasters, and climate change.
2. Access and Control: Critics raise concerns about who controls the digital copyrights of these scanned cultural sites. Despite being located in other countries, the 3D scan copyrights are owned by CyArk, not the host countries.
3. Criticism Details: As highlighted by critics like Erin Thompson, this arrangement is seen as a form of Western appropriation of foreign cultural heritage—a centuries-old issue. The concern is that ownership of digital representations is not with the local authorities, which implies the need for permission from CyArk for commercial use by the host countries.
4. Commercial Interests: Ethan Watrall argues that even though Google claims not to profit from this venture directly, the underlying motivation may still be commercial, intending to increase site traffic and visibility for Google's broader business interests.
5. Recommendations: Critics suggest that digital copyrights should belong to the host countries, ensuring cultural heritage control remains with the originating culture and community.
To identify which statement would most strongly invalidate Dr. Watrall’s objections, we need to understand the core of his argument. Dr. Watrall's primary concern is that the partnership between CyArk and Google serves Google's interests by driving advertisement traffic rather than benefiting educational or scholarly purposes. He suggests that the digital images belong on museum or educational institution platforms that prioritize scholarship. Thus, any evidence that counters this idea could invalidate his objection. Analyzing the provided options:
Therefore, the strongest counter to Dr. Watrall’s objections is: CyArk uploads its scanned images of archaeological sites onto museum websites only.
Dr. Thompson’s comparison of CyArk owning the copyright of its digital scans to "the seizing of ancient Egyptian artefacts by a Western museum" is rooted in the concept of cultural appropriation. The argument is that similar to how Western museums have often seized and exhibited foreign cultural artefacts, the ownership of digital scans by a non-local entity is seen as a continuation of this practice.
Here's the explanation:
1. Contextual Background: The passage highlights how the digitization of archaeological sites raises questions about digital ownership and cultural representation. Critics express concerns that these digital endeavours, while preserving culture, might also represent a form of "digital colonialism."
2. Critical Perspective: Critics believe that these digital scans should belong to the cultural nations rather than external organizations like CyArk, as this echoes historical patterns where foreign cultures were controlled by Western powers.
3. Dr. Thompson’s Stance: Dr. Thompson sees this as an extension of a "centuries-long battle" of Western appropriation of foreign cultures. She supports the perspective that these cultural digitizations should be owned by the originating countries.
4. Comparative Analysis: The seizing of ancient Egyptian artefacts; similar to CyArk's digital copyrights, reflects the perceived imbalance of cultural authority and ownership, reinforcing Dr. Thompson's view.
Thus, the correct analogy, as per Dr. Thompson's view, equates CyArk's digital retention of cultural scans to the historic practice of Western museums acquiring cultural artefacts.
It provides images free of cost to all users.
It enables people who cannot physically visit these sites to experience them.
In light of the provided comprehension passage, several arguments are put forward both in favor of and against the digital scanning of cultural sites. The passage discusses Google's efforts to make the world's heritage available online, alongside criticism against the corporation's motives and actions.
Firstly, let's analyze the arguments that are commonly used to justify the scanning of cultural sites:
However, among the options provided, the argument that a company uses scanning to project itself as a protector of culture is not a genuine benefit that aligns with the aims of preserving and democratizing access to cultural sites. This argument refers to corporate interests more than the preservation or educational goals.
Therefore, the argument: "It allows a large corporation to project itself as a protector of culture." is the one least likely to be promoted as a legitimate reason for digital scanning by the companies involved, as it primarily benefits their image rather than contributing to cultural preservation or education.
Imagine a world in which artificial intelligence is entrusted with the highest moral responsibilities: sentencing criminals, allocating medical resources, and even mediating conflicts between nations. This might seem like the pinnacle of human progress: an entity unburdened by emotion, prejudice or inconsistency, making ethical decisions with impeccable precision. . . .
Yet beneath this vision of an idealised moral arbiter lies a fundamental question: can a machine understand morality as humans do, or is it confined to a simulacrum of ethical reasoning? AI might replicate human decisions without improving on them, carrying forward the same biases, blind spots and cultural distortions from human moral judgment. In trying to emulate us, it might only reproduce our limitations, not transcend them. But there is a deeper concern. Moral judgment draws on intuition, historical awareness and context qualities that resist formalisation. Ethics may be so embedded in lived experience that any attempt to encode it into formal structures risks flattening its most essential features. If so, AI would merely reflect human shortcomings; it would strip morality of the very depth that makes ethical reflection possible in the first place.
Still, many have tried to formalise ethics, by treating certain moral claims not as conclusions, but as starting points. A classic example comes from utilitarianism, which often takes as a foundational axiom the principle that one should act to maximise overall wellbeing. From this, more specific principles can be derived, for example, that it is right to benefit the greatest number, or that actions should be judged by their consequences for total happiness. As computational resources increase, AI becomes increasingly well-suited to the task of starting from fixed ethical assumptions and reasoning through their implications in complex situations.
But, what exactly, does it mean to formalise something like ethics? The question is easier to grasp by looking at fields in which formal systems have long played a central role. Physics, for instance, has relied on formalisation for centuries. There is no single physical theory that explains everything. Instead, we have many physical theories, each designed to describe specific aspects of the Universe: from the behaviour of quarks and electrons to the motion of galaxies. These theories often diverge. Aristotelian physics, for instance, explained falling objects in terms of natural motion toward Earth’s centre; Newtonian mechanics replaced this with a universal force of gravity. These explanations are not just different; they are incompatible. Yet both share a common structure: they begin with basic postulates assumptions about motion, force or mass– and derive increasingly complex consequences. . . .
Ethical theories have a similar structure. Like physical theories, they attempt to describe a domain– in this case, the moral landscape. They aim to answer questions about which actions are right or wrong, and why. These theories also diverge, and even when they recommend similar actions, such as giving to charity, they justify them in different ways. Ethical theories also often begin with a small set of foundational principles or claims, from which they reason about more complex moral problems.
In 1982, a raging controversy broke out over a forest act drafted by the Government of India. This act sought to strengthen the already extensive powers enjoyed by the forest bureaucracy in controlling the extraction, disposal and sale of forest produce. It also gave forest officials greater powers to strictly regulate the entry of any person into reserved forest areas. While forest officials justified the act on the grounds that it was necessary to stop the continuing deforestation, it was bitterly opposed by representatives of grassroots organisations, who argued that it was a major violation of the rights of peasants and tribals living in and around forest areas. . . .
The debate over the draft forest act fuelled a larger controversy over the orientation of state forest policy. It was pointed out, for example, that the draft act was closely modelled on its predecessor, the Forest Act of 1878. The earlier Act rested on a usurpation of rights of ownership by the colonial state which had little precedent in precolonial history. It was further argued that the system of forestry introduced by the British—and continued, with little modification, after 1947—emphasised revenue generation and commercial exploitation, while its policing orientation excluded villagers who had the most longstanding claim on forest resources. Critics called for a complete overhaul of forest administration, pressing the government to formulate policy and legislation more appropriate to present needs. . . .
That debate is not over yet. The draft act was shelved, though it has not as yet been formally withdrawn. Meanwhile, the 1878 Act (as modified by an amendment in 1927) continues to be in operation. In response to its critics, the government has made some important changes in forest policy, e.g., no longer treating forests as a source of revenue, and stopping ecologically hazardous practices such as the clearfelling of natural forests. At the same time, it has shown little inclination to meet the major demand of the critics of forest policy—namely, abandoning the principle of state monopoly over forest land by handing over areas of degraded forests to individuals and communities for afforestation.
. . . [The] 1878 Forest Act itself was passed only after a bitter and prolonged debate within the colonial bureaucracy, in which protagonists put forward arguments strikingly similar to those being advanced today. As well known, the Indian Forest Department owes its origin to the requirements of railway companies. The early years of the expansion of the railway network, c. 1853 onwards, led to tremendous deforestation in peninsular India owing to the railway’s requirements of fuelwood and construction timber. Huge quantities of durable timbers were also needed for use as sleepers across the new railway tracks. Inexperienced in forestry, the British called in German experts to commence systematic forest management. The Indian Forest Department was started in 1864, with Dietrich Brandis, formally a Lecturer in Botany, as the first Inspector General of Forests. The early years of the forest department, even as it grew, continued to meet the railway needs for timber and wood. These systems first emerged as part of the needs of the expanding empire.
Over the course of the twentieth century, humans built, on average, one large dam a day, hulking structures of steel and concrete designed to control flooding, facilitate irrigation, and generate electricity. Dams were also lucrative contracts, large-scale employers, and the physical instantiation of a messianic drive to conquer territories and control nature. Some of the results of that drive were charismatic mega-infrastructure—the Hoover on the Colorado River or the Aswan on the Nile—but most of the tens of thousands of dams that dot the Earth’s landscape have drawn little attention. These are the smaller, though not inconsequential, barriers that today impede the flow of water on nearly two-thirds of the world’s large waterways. Chances are, what your map calls a “lake” is actually a reservoir, and that thin blue line that emerges from it once flowed very differently.
Damming a river is always a partisan act. Even when explicit infrastructure goals—irrigation, flood control, electrification—were met, other consequences were significant and often deleterious. Across the world, river control displaced millions of people, threatening livelihoods, foodways, and cultures. In the western United States, dams were often an instrument of colonialism, used to dispossess Indigenous people and subsidize settler agriculture. And as dams slowed the flow of water, inhibited the movement of nutrients, and increased the amount of toxic algae and other parasites, they snuffed out entire river ecologies. Declining fish populations are the most evident effect, but dams also threaten a host of other animals—from birds and reptiles to fungi and plants—with extinction. Every major dam, then, is also a sacrifice zone, a place where lives, livelihoods, and ways of life are eliminated so that new sorts of landscapes can support water-intensive agriculture and cities that sprout downstream of new reservoirs.
Such sacrifices have been justified as offerings at the temples of modernity. Justified by—and for—whom, though? Over the course of the twentieth century, rarely were the costs and benefits weighed thoughtfully and decided democratically. As Kader Asmal, chair of the landmark 2000 World Commission on Dams, concluded, “There have been precious few, if any, comprehensive, independent analyses as to why dams came about, how dams perform over time, and whether we are getting a fair return from our 2 trillion Dollar investment.” A quarter-century later, Asmal’s words ring ever truer. A litany of dams built in the mid-twentieth century are approaching the end of their expected lives, with worrying prospects for their durability. Droughts, magnified and multiplied by the effects of climate change, have forced more and more to run below capacity. If ever there were a time to rethink the mania for dams, it would be now.
There is some evidence that a combination of opposition, alternative energy sources, and a lack of viable projects has slowed the construction of major dams. But a wave of recent and ongoing construction, from India and China to Ethiopia and Canada, continues to tilt the global balance firmly in favor of water impoundment.
Once a society accepts a secular mode of creativity, within which the creator replaces God, imaginative transactions assume a self-conscious form. The tribal imagination, on the other hand, is still to a large extent dreamlike and hallucinatory. It admits fusion between various planes of existence and levels of time in a natural and artless manner. In tribal stories, oceans fly in the sky as birds, mountains swim in water as fish, animals speak as humans and stars grow like plants. Spatial order and temporal sequence do not restrict the narrative. This is not to say that tribal creations have no conventions or rules, but simply that they admit the principle of association between emotion and the narrative motif. Thus stars, seas, mountains, trees, men and animals can be angry, sad or happy.
It might be said that tribal artists work more on the basis of their racial and sensory memory than on the basis of a cultivated imagination. In order to understand this distinction, we must understand the difference between imagination and memory. In the animate world, consciousness meets two immediate material realities: space and time. We put meaning into space by perceiving it in terms of images. The image-making faculty is a genetic gift to the human mind—this power of imagination helps us understand the space that envelops us. With regard to time, we make connections with the help of memory; one remembers being the same person today as one was yesterday.
The tribal mind has a more acute sense of time than the sense of space. Somewhere along the history of human civilization, tribal communities seem to have realized that domination over territorial space was not their lot. Thus, they seem to have turned almost obsessively to gaining domination over time. This urge is substantiated in their ritual of conversing with their dead ancestors: year after year, tribals in many parts of India worship terracotta or carved-wood objects representing their ancestors, aspiring to enter a trance in which they can converse with the dead. Over the centuries, an amazingly sharp memory has helped tribals classify material and natural objects into a highly complex system of knowledge. . .
One of the main characteristics of the tribal arts is their distinct manner of constructing space and imagery, which might be described as ‘hallucinary’. In both oral and visual forms of representation, tribal artists seem to interpret verbal or pictorial art as demarcated by an extremely flexible ‘frame’. The boundaries between art and non-art become almost invisible. Atribal epic can begin its narration from a trivial everyday event; tribal paintings merge with living space as if the two were one and the same. And within the narrative itself, or within the painted imagery, there is no deliberate attempt to follow a sequence. The episodes retold and the images created take on the apparently chaotic shapes of dreams. In a way, the syntax of language and the grammar of painting are the same, as if literature were painted words and painting were a song of images.
This book takes the position that setting in literature is more than just backdrop, that important insight into literary texts can be made by paying close attention to how authors craft place, as well as to how place functions in a narrative. The authors included in this reference work engage deeply with either real or imagined geographies. They care about how human decisions have shaped landscapes and how landscapes have shaped human practices and values. Some of the best writing is highly vivid, employing the language of the senses because this is the primary means through which humans know physical space. Literature can offer valuable perspectives on physical and cultural geography. Unlike scientific reports, a literary narrative can provide the emotional component missing from the scientific record. In human experience, geographical places have a spiritual or emotional component in addition to and as part of a physical layout and topography. This emotional component, although subjective, is no less “real” than a surveyor’s map. Human consciousness of place is experienced in a multi-modal manner. Histories of places live on in many forms, one of which is the human memory or imagination.
Both real and imaginary landscapes provide insight into the human experience of place. The pursuit of such a topic speaks to the valuable knowledge produced from bridging disciplines and combining material from both the arts and the sciences to better understand the human condition. The perspectives that most concern cultural geographers are often those regarding movement and migration, cultivation of natural resources, and organization of space. The latter two reflect concerns of the built environment, a topic shared with the field of architectural study. Many of these concerns are also reflected in work sociologists do. Scholars from literary studies can contribute an aesthetic dimension to what might otherwise be a purely ideological approach.
Literature can bring together material that spans different branches of science. For example, a literary description of place may involve not only the environment and geography but the noises and quality of light, or how people from different races or classes can experience the same place in different ways linked to those racial or class disparities. Literary texts can also account for the way in which absence—of other people, animals, and so on—affects a human observer or inhabitant. Both literary and scientific approaches to place are necessary, working in unison, to achieve a complete record of an environment. It is important to note that the interdisciplinary nature of this work teaches us that landscapes are not static, that they are not unchanged by human culture. At least part of their identity derives from the people who inhabit them and from the way space can alter and inspire human perspective. The intersection of scientific and literary expression that happens in the study of literary geography is of prime importance due to the complexity of the personal and political ways that humans experience place.