Carvings in
stone are tricky to record: sometimes they are so fine as to be nearly
invisible; occasionally, they are damaged or worn to an extent which obscures
them; they can be located in places of difficult access. Nowadays there are
digital electronic means of pinning down the information contained on a slab of
rock, or etched into a wall: topographical laser scanning, or high-definition
digital photography for example. In eras passed, researchers depended upon the
work of trained artists to record images and text, or they produced rubbings.
Rubbings are
made by covering an incised or raised text with a sheet of paper and then
rubbing across the paper’s surface with charcoal, or graphite, in order to
leave an impression of the carvings beneath. In essence, this provides the
researcher with a quick copy of the piece and provides good information in
terms of the dimensions and shape of the work; a downside of the process is
that irregularities of the stone or other material, which would otherwise be
unseen, are also highlighted and may be read into the text as part of the
design. The reduction of the carving to a monochrome format has similar
results.
Sketching the
text, bringing in the skills of a trained artist, would seem to be an
improvement over this process. With the correct implements and techniques, the
basic elements of the design can be maintained, such as size, layout and
proportion. The downside is that the information necessarily passes through an
interpretive state by being relayed through the artist; even the best artist
can make assumptions about an image that will damage elements causing confusion
in the final analysis. As well, artists can take shortcuts in an attempt to
complete work in a pressured timeframe; they may well gloss over details deemed
to be irrelevant; or leave sketches unfinished to be completed later back at
camp or the studio, with the essential loss of accuracy that an imperfect
memory dictates.
As an example
take these three images: the first is a kangaroo taken from a catalogue of the
Museum compiled in the late 1700s by Sir Ashton Lever. No-one in their right
mind would call this an accurate representation: the creatures are too spindly
and rat-like; there has been too much attention paid to the forearms and the
anatomy of the leg on the main animal; and that whimsical little hunting scene
in the background is just too fantastic.
The next image
is a coloured engraving from a catalogue of the world’s peoples, dating from
the early Nineteenth Century. This image purports to be of a family of Indians
from the Arctic regions of North America, and I’m sure all such people of the
time were this ruddily complected and European-looking!
The final
image is taken from French wallpaper manufactured in 1805, showing a scene of a
typical Hawaiian cultural activity. Hawaiian? It could be Ancient Greek; it
could be a fancy dress ball imagined from a Jane Austen novel. The point is,
accuracy has left the building. It's at these points during gameplay that the Keeper needs to remember to call for Art, Craft and Archaeology skill checks.
So, in the
final analysis, modern recording techniques would seem to be the best. At first
glance this would seem to be the case, but everything becomes less than perfect
when the Mythos becomes involved. An extremely dangerous Mythos text can affect
and distort any attempt to pin it down. Equipment may fail, batteries can drain
of power, memory cards and flash drives wipe themselves clean. In the past,
attempts to store some Mythos texts in electronic formats have caused server
fires, de-gaussing of hard-drives and software corruption. It would seem that
technology is no assurance of quality.
Investigators
should be aware that any recording of an original Mythos source is going to be
less than perfect. As with the recording of any Mythos material, each
iteration, at every remove from the original source, becomes more error-ridden
and fraught with danger. Keepers should construct the chains of their
information with this thought in mind.
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