

A symbol — but of what? Iron Age
daggers, Alessi corkscrews and
anthropoid embellishment reconsidered
Jack Carlson∗

An ingenious derivation for the La Tène dagger with anthropoid hilt shows how craftsmen gave
an agreeable character to a working weapon. The dagger remained every bit as effective, but the
splayed person on the hilt added a touch of playful luxury to the serious business of stabbing.
By way of a modern anthropoid corkscrew, the author lures us away from an obsession with
symbolism and encourages us to look for a more down-to-earth ‘psychological functionality’ in
decorated objects.

Keywords: Europe, Iron Age, La Tène, dagger, anthropoid ornament

Introduction
In 1873, while digging for gravel near his home, a Mr Guyot of Salon, France, discovered a
human skeleton and associated burial objects (Morel 1898: 145). Among these artefacts was
a dagger with an anthropomorphic hilt (Figures 1 & 2), now in the British Museum’s Morel
Collection (London, British Museum: Morel Collection ML.1669; Megaw 1970: no. 228;
Stead & Rigby 1999: no. 1669). The dagger is iron, 460mm long including a 345mm-long
blade, while the hilt is bronze-coated iron. The hilt, formed from two pieces, is in the shape
of a saltire, or X, with each branch of the X terminating in a round knob and forming the
limb of a human model. The width across the arms of this anthropoid hilt is 45mm. The
human figure’s ‘head’, sunken between the outstretched arms, features eyebrows and oval
eyes, a nose, moustache and downturned mouth, a high hairline and a ponytail.

But why was this dagger’s hilt shaped like a man and decorated with human features?
Current research on this and other anthropoid weapons has not addressed this question,
although it is clearly of great consequence to our understanding of La Tène ritual, art, social
and military hierarchy and warrior culture. Similar daggers, all dated to the La Tène period
— fourth to first centuries BC — have been found as far afield as Hungary and western
Ireland: the number of discovered examples is unknown, although estimates have ranged
from 40 to 70 (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 205; Zeller 1980: 119–20; Drilhon & Duval
1985: 308; Pleiner 1993: 49, 69; Fitzpatrick 1996: 376). While scholarship related to these
weapons has concentrated almost exclusively on typology, there remains much confusion

∗ Institute of Archaeology, Oxford University, 36 Beaumont Street, Oxford OX1 2PG, UK
(Email: john.carlson@arch.ox.ac.uk)

Received: 15 February 2011; Accepted: 4 April 2011; Revised: 18 April 2011

ANTIQUITY 85 (2011): 1312–1324 http://antiquity.ac.uk/ant/085/ant0851312.htm

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Figure 1. Anthropoid-hilt dagger from Salon, Aube, France.
La Tène II, second century BC. British Museum Morel
Collection ML.1669. Iron blade; bronze-coated iron hilt
( c© The Trustees of the British Museum).

about their functionality (Clarke &
Hawkes 1955; Petres 1979: 176; Drilhon
& Duval 1985: 185; Pleiner 1993: 49–51,
166; Megaw 2002: 408–411; Stead 2006:
72).

The idea that such daggers must have
been symbols of chiefs or other high ranks
and offices is pervasive (Bulard 1980: 49;
Pleiner 1993: 49–51; Fitzpatrick 1996:
388; Cunliffe 1997: 233; Megaw 2002:
411) but it fails to consider context and
comparanda. Traditionally, false dilemmas
have been presented between the function-
ality of the anthropoid handle — as a
religious, symbolic or funerary object —
and the functionality of the dagger as a
weapon, and between “art for art’s sake”
(Megaw & Megaw 1995: 345; Cunliffe
1997: 112; see also Aldhouse-Green 2004:
xvi, 6) and a meaning related to rank or
ritual (cf. Freedberg 1989: xxi–ii).

No ornament is insignificant. Owner-
ship of an object as eye-catching as the Salon
dagger, not to mention the ability to create
it, surely begets a degree of prestige and
respect. At the same time, the social and
political functions of the anthropoid deco-
ration are far from explicit. There is nothing
to indicate that the weapon was the definite
indicator of a certain rank or status (indeed
there is evidence to the contrary), just as
there is nothing to suggest that the Salon
dagger was not a real weapon. In the broader
typology of Hallstatt and La Tène weapons,
anthropoid examples like the Salon
dagger developed from pseudo-anthropoid
weapons and antenna-daggers. Context
and comparison with other objects —
old and new — reveal that it is both a
La Tène custom and a human impulse to
create such representations on utilitarian
objects, especially when those objects
already resemble humans or animals. In
turn, a reassessment which looks beyond

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Figure 2. Anthropoid-hilt dagger from Salon, Aube, France. La Tène II, second century BC. British Museum Morel Collection
ML.1669. Bronze-coated iron handle (illustration by R. Pengelly & M. Moores from Stead & Rigby 1999: fig.146; c© The
Trustees of the British Museum).

conventional categories (symbol, ornament, talisman, implement) may inform the ways in
which anthropoid embellishment more generally is deconstructed and understood.

To argue that anthropomorphic or zoomorphic decoration on functional objects of the La
Tène period is more than mere ornament, is to state the obvious (Cunliffe 1997: 111–12).
The anthropomorphic hilt served some purpose, but to take the Salon dagger as a specific
emblem of rank or as a primarily symbolic object is to go a step too far. As Alfred Gell
(1998: 74) has argued, the function of an object’s decoration and the function of the object

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are not mutually exclusive. Gell’s theory on the relationship between decoration and “the
psychological functionality of artefacts” must also be considered as an alternative to hitherto
unchallenged rank-related explanations for anthropoid decoration. The Salon dagger is a
functional dagger and its functionality was enhanced — though not dominated — by the
anthropoid hilt.

The false dilemma
Ruth and Vincent Megaw (2001: 19) introduce their book, Celtic Art, by stating that a
“minimal working definition of Celtic art is that it encompasses elements of decoration
beyond those necessary for functional utility”. The construction ‘functional utility’ is
somewhat contrived, perhaps because it is clear that elements of decoration may also possess
utility. But the role of decoration on the Salon dagger and on La Tène objects in general
has been presented as a false choice between mere ornament and specific symbolic meaning.
Barry Cunliffe’s discussion of the Celtic fire-dog, a wrought-iron hearth device, is a typical
example (1997: 111–12): “the simple functional fire-dog[’s] projecting ends were frequently
decorated with enormous skill to create the spirited essence of horned bulls’ heads. . .. The
quintessential bovine head on the fire-dog is a symbol, but of what?. . . [W]e reject ‘art for
art’s sake’ as a starting point (and with it the even less acceptable ‘art for art historians’ sake)”.

Why must it be a symbol? Zoomorphic decoration on fire-dogs was a common feature,
as Cunliffe indicates; a relatively banal choice of embellishment given that the shape of the
object already suggested a bovine head and, in many cases, would have required relatively
little extra effort on the part of the craftsman (the highly ornate Capel Garmon fire-dog,
mentioned by Aldhouse-Green [2002: 11] is exceptional). If it is granted that the bulls’ heads
probably made the piece more expensive, more interesting, perhaps more pleasing to use
and more prestigious to display, it still seems a stretch to reach the following line of enquiry:
the “bovine head on the fire-dog is a symbol, but of what?” (Cunliffe 1997: 111–12).

The same thinking has been applied to La Tène period weapons with anthropoid hilts.
Cunliffe himself has speculated that “such [anthropoid] swords . . . may have been an
emblem of a particular social class” (1997: 233). Elsewhere, Radomı́r Pleiner (1993: 49–
51) has described the daggers, including the Salon example, as “emblem[s] of rank among
warriors, commanders, or chiefs”, “symbols of rank” and “denot[ing] warriors of special
. . . rank” (see also Megaw 2002: 408, 411). Others have ascribed apotropaic or talismanic
significance to the daggers, and A.P. Fitzpatrick has taken them as wholly symbolic priestly
objects (Petres 1979: 176; Fitzpatrick 1996: 373, 388; Megaw & Megaw 2001: 164; Megaw
2002: 411). The premise that such weapons must have been specific symbols, related to rank
or ritual, has not accounted for the anthropoid hilts’ more general social or psychological
functionality. One wonders if such theories have not been influenced — directly or indirectly
— by the rank-related dress daggers worn by certain officers in some modern militaries.
Symbolic and apotropaic interpretations have even discounted the functionality of the Salon
dagger as a weapon. While “distinguishing warriors or commanders of a certain rank” Pleiner
(1993: 69) writes, “this type of sword [sic] . . . could hardly have been used for fighting
on the field of battle” given its small size (compared to long, slashing swords). Fitzpatrick
(1996: 376) agrees that these daggers were purely symbolic.

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It is surprising that such views have gone unchallenged for so long. The approach that
has been taken to the anthropoid decoration on these weapons is very different from
the model proposed by Alfred Gell about the agency of decoration. While Gell (1998:
74) emphasises that there is no such thing as “‘mere’ decoration” and that “decoration is
intrinsically functional”, he does not advocate that decoration should automatically be taken
as symbols or emblems. With a more mature approach, Gell gives examples: a child may
be more inclined to go to bed if his sheets and pillowcases are embellished with spaceships
or dinosaurs; the spaceships and dinosaurs are not symbols, but the decoration enhances the
bedding’s functionality. Likewise, decoration on lime containers from Iatmul, New Guinea,
served a general social function, enhancing the owners’ prestige, but was not pegged to a
specific rank or station. These sheets and lime containers are, of course, also able to “do duty”
as sheets and as lime containers and certainly are not solely symbolic objects (Gell 1998:
74).

It is clear that a richer model than the binary view of function — mere decoration or
emblem — may be applied to the Salon dagger. Given this theoretical background, what
do the development and contexts of anthropoid-hilted weapons suggest about the Salon
dagger’s functionality?

Development and context
The Salon weapon was associated with a Middle La Tène non-anthropoid long sword which
is now lost, and an iron scabbard (for the dagger) about which little is known except that it
was entirely broken on discovery (Morel 1898: 145; Stead & Rigby 1999: no. 1669). Based
on what is known, this was not a richly furnished burial by any standard. Comparanda may
give a better sense of the burial objects with which this type of weapon was associated and,
perhaps, of the people who were likely to have owned them.

In their 1955 article on a La Tène anthropoid sword from Shouldham, Norfolk, UK, R.R.
Clarke and C.F.C. Hawkes proposed a typology for anthropoid swords. The Salon piece has
several parallels in this typology: these hilts (Clarke & Hawkes, type E) are distinguished by
the sunken head, the strongly profiled grip and median ring moulding and they have been
found in Hungary, Bohemia and the Italian Alps (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 209–211). The
only other one of this type with a known provenance comes from an assemblage which is
rather different from the Salon burial: “a cremation grave at Malnate, Varese, in northern
Italy near Lake Como where it was found with an iron chain belt and part of a glass armlet,
characteristic of later Middle La Tène graves” (Megaw 1970: no. 228).

In fact there is wide variation in the contexts and burial goods associated with La Tène
anthropoid-hilt weapons in general. Pleiner (1993: 49–51), who has taken these weapons
as rank “emblems”, has focused on those contexts he deems to “deserve special attention”.
Those are ones in which anthropoid daggers are accompanied by ornamental boar tusks, and
a boat-coffin burial which included such a weapon at Chatenay-Macheron (Chaumont).
Other anthropoid daggers, however, were found in relatively poorly furnished burials (Vidal
1983: 383); in some cases the weapons were not even accompanied by long swords (Stead
2006: 72). Éva f. Petres (1979: 176), writing on the Hungarian examples from the same
period, notes that “in the case of [anthropoid-hilt weapons] found in cemeteries and single

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graves, the other grave-goods do not demonstrate any outstanding luxuriance”. Pleiner
himself (1993: 59) has commented that in this period, swords were “no longer reserved for
the top men in society, but had become spread throughout the bulk of the population”, and
that to “distinguish between [sic] different classes of leader among the Celts . . . on the basis
of archaeological evidence is almost impossible in the Middle La Tène period.”

Why, then, should we suppose that this, of all objects, is a symbol of a certain class of
leader? A consideration of this dagger’s context and that of related weapons resists such a
classification and encourages new, more broad-minded readings to answer the question of
why this little man was crafted on the hilt.

An understanding of the way in which these anthropoid hilts developed also suggests a
more nuanced concept of functionality. For the human figure that adorned the Salon dagger
was an adaptation of earlier antenna hilts and of earlier and coeval pseudo-anthropoid
weapons. As decoration, an anthropomorphic hilt is fundamentally different from, for
example, the lunar and solar images that are emblazoned on some La Tène period weapons
(and to which Pleiner [1993: 49–51] compared the anthropoid motif ). Not only is the
anthropoid hilt different in terms of imagery, but it is different in that the choice to turn the
handle into a little man was based on the fact that the shape of La Tène dagger handles was
already suggestive of a human figure. The decoration, therefore, is more closely tied to the
pure functionality of the dagger as a dagger; the little man is the hilt. Moreover, there was
less creativity and additional effort required, and less freedom of choice involved in turning
a pseudo-anthropoid hilt into an anthropoid hilt than, for example, in embellishing a sword
with images of dragons or moons.

Late Hallstatt period (sixth to fifth centuries BC) daggers and swords from Central Europe
have similar X-shaped hilts, often with a knob between the arms at the pommel end of the
X (Sievers 1982; Figure 3). It is surely from these weapons that the later anthropoid dagger
hilts developed, even if the fourth-century missing link weapons with pseudo-anthropoid
hilts (i.e. without facial features) — a dagger from Ay (Senden), Bavaria (Figure 4) and a
long sword (840mm) from Kyšice, Plzeň in the Czech Republic — cited by R.R. Clarke and
C.F.C. Hawkes (1955: 204–205) may be less clearly datable to the fourth century than has
previously been suggested (Sankot 1995: 413–15). There is, of course, an abundance of La
Tène pseudo-anthropoid daggers, the hilts of which were functionally and technologically
the same as their Hallstatt counterparts. As daggers came to incorporate facial features on
their pommel knobs, pseudo-anthropoid daggers also continued to be produced and in
many cases they are exactly the same except for the lack of facial features. This development,
often taken for granted, is far from trivial because the human figure was not expressly chosen
to badge the objects, but rather the anthropoid hilts were a variation on those which were
already felt to resemble human forms (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 204–205); in the same way,
perhaps, that artist Pablo Picasso felt his bicycle seat to resemble the shape of a bull’s head
(Walton 1990: 276–7).

The final step — which in many cases, including the Salon case, only involved the
addition of human features on the knob — it must be said, would not have required a large
amount of extra effort on the part of the object’s creator, and no additional metal. Robert
Bagley (1987: 40) reminds us that in “antiquity . . . in East and West alike”, metal was
relatively expensive and labour relatively cheap.

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Figure 3. Antenna dagger from Hallstatt, Upper Austria,
sixth–fifth centuries BC. Iron; c. 550mm long; blade
c. 420mm long (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: fig. 1.3; after
Déchelette 1913: fig. 282.1; courtesy of the Prehistoric
Society).

The Kyšice anthropoid-hilted long
sword (fifth to fourth centuries BC;
Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 204–205; Sankot
1995: 413–15) also provides an important
clue about the functionality of X-shaped,
pseudo-anthropoid and anthropoid-hilt
designs. What was the purpose of such
a hilt shape? The gory truth is that it
effectively enabled the warrior to stab and
then draw the blade back out again; the
warrior would push against the hilt figure’s
legs to stab, and then pull against the figure’s
arms to retract. The weapons to which
these hilts were affixed were, of course,
stabbing weapons, not — or at least not
solely — slashing weapons. It is for this
reason that almost all anthropoid hilts are
attached to daggers and not long swords.
Only early long swords, which were lighter,
shorter and more sharply pointed than their
later counterparts, would have use for this
type of hilt (in addition to the Kyšice
example, there are earlier Hallstatt pseudo-
anthropoid swords; Sievers 1982: 57–9).
In the Middle and Late La Tène period,
the long sword was modified for “slashing
only” (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 204–205).
In fact, it is probably the development
of the slashing only sword which required
warriors to carry an additional weapon for
stabbing. Stead (2006: 72) notes briefly that
anthropoid-hilt weapons may have been
“subsidiary weapons” hence the presence at
the Salon burial of both the Salon dagger
and an accompanying long sword.

Part of the confusion, perhaps, about
the functionality of the Salon dagger and
other La Tène anthropoid daggers relates
to a matter of vocabulary. Traditionally,
these daggers have been referred to as
swords or short swords (Smith 1925; Clarke
& Hawkes 1955; Megaw 1970: no. 228;
Petres 1979: 176; Pleiner 1993: 49–51;
Fitzpatrick 1996; Cunliffe 1997: 233; Stead

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Figure 4. Pseudo-anthropoid hilt from Ay (Senden),
Bavaria, fourth-century BC. Iron; hilt c. 100mm long;
c. 60mm across the ‘arms’ (Clarke & Hawkes 1955: pl.
24.4; courtesy of the Prehistoric Society).

& Rigby 1999: no. 1669; Jope 2000:
101; Megaw & Megaw 2001: 164; Stead
2006: 71; see also Megaw 2002: 408).
If only subconsciously, surely this word
choice has impacted the ways in which
scholars have conceived the weapons. While
most authors, presumably working from
convention, do not discuss their choice
to refer to these objects as swords, A.P.
Fitzpatrick (1996: 373) actually gives his
rationale: “most of the weapons. . .are
approximately 300mm or more in length”.
But surely the question of slashing weapon
or stabbing weapon is more relevant than
what seems to be an arbitrary measurement.
Ironically, the most careful discussion about
the difficulties of such measurement-based
distinctions is presented in relation to
earlier, Hallstatt weaponry (Sievers 1982:
57–9). Megaw (2002: 408) justly remarks
that it is “strictly incorrect to call many of
[these] weapons ‘swords’ [when] the average
length of La Tène swords is 700mm”,
using instead “poignards” as a loanword
or, less neatly, “short swords”. I.M. Stead
(2006: 5), in his catalogue on British Iron
Age weapons, recognises that the difference
between a dagger and a short sword is the
difference between stabbing and slashing
weapons, but nevertheless sets “arbitrary
limits” of 305mm for the longest dagger
blade and 320mm for the blade of the
“shortest short sword”; these parameters
would place the Salon dagger (with a blade
length of 345mm) just inside the sword
category. As slashing swords, however, these

objects would be fairly useless and Pleiner (1993: 69) concludes that “this type of sword
[sic]. . .could hardly have been used for fighting”. As daggers, however, they would have
been fully functional thanks, in part, to the design of their grips, some of which are worn
“by use” (Smith 1925: 59–60).

Considerations of context and development confirm that the anthropoid shape of the
Salon dagger’s hilt had much to do with the weapon’s stabbing efficacy and little to do with
the specific symbolic functionality of a human figure. But why make the anthropomorphism
of these dagger hilts explicit by adding human facial features?

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Psychological functionality

Alfred Gell (1998: 74) contended that “the world is filled with decorated objects because
decoration is often essential to the psychological functionality of artefacts, which cannot
be dissociated from the other types of functionality they possess”. But just as the
anthropoid hilt was, as mentioned above, a fundamentally different sort of decoration
from inlaid astral images on La Tène weapons it is, of course, also different from Gell’s
‘psychological functionality’ examples: decorated Iatmul lime-containers and children’s
bedsheets embellished with dinosaurs or spaceships. If, many centuries from now, an
archaeologist discovers early twenty-first-century children’s bedding, she might rightly
wonder why images of dinosaurs and spaceships, of all things, were chosen to adorn the
textile. But we need not even ask such questions about the Salon hilt: why a human? Why did
the designers of this object choose this motif? Why are his arms and legs outstretched? It is a
symbol, but what does it mean? The grip was made into a model human with outstretched
limbs because that is what effective dagger handles looked like anyway. This was the most
obvious, straightforward way of making the La Tène dagger fancier; more obvious, certainly,
than the other methods of embellishment — chagrinage; engraved combatant dragons on
the blade; plant motifs — employed by those “major creators of Celtic art” (Megaw &
Megaw 2001: 126), the iron- and bronzesmiths.

One very simple rationale for at least part of the Salon dagger’s functionality, and yet
one which has scarcely been mentioned, if at all, in scholarship on anthropoid weapons, is
that it was a luxury object. Many warriors owned daggers, but not all daggers were created
equal. We need not search more deeply to understand the anthropoid hilt than we do to
understand decorated Iatmul lime-containers. The anthropoid hilt was an adaptation of a
relatively commonplace object, and it was modified such that its increased complexity was
clear to the observer. Like any luxury item, it enhanced its owner’s prestige in a general way
and, in turn, was likely to have had a psychological impact on the owner or bearer of the
dagger, whether the owner lived in Salon, in Ireland or in the Carpathian Basin, and whether
the owner’s burial was rich or sparse. While still related to social standing, this notion is
clearly very different from the rank symbol interpretations.

One modern example of a functional object for which an anthropoid luxury version exists
is the wing corkscrew (Figure 5). I remember thinking, as a child, that these devices looked
like little men; one could make their arms flap by moving their heads up and down. I am not,
of course, the only person to have thought so; since 1994, one of Italian utensil company
Alessi’s best-selling products has been an explicitly anthropoid version of the wing corkscrew,
designed by Alessandro Mendini (Figure 6). One might also compare the anthropomorphic
hilts to pouring spouts decorated as birds’ mouths — a global phenomenon in both the
ancient and modern world. As these objects demonstrate, there is a universal impulse
to see anthropomorphic and zoomorphic shapes in objects, and to make that zoo- or
anthropomorphism explicit.

The Alessi corkscrew is a luxury item and surely these objects are sometimes conversation-
starters at parties, while at other times guests may simply take note of the owner’s tastes and
of the affluence which ownership of such an object implies. But ownership of the Alessi
corkscrew is not strictly limited to any certain group of people. And, most clearly, Anna G.,

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Figure 5. A household wing corkscrew, twentieth century, chrome ( c© iStockPhoto.com/Nikolay Titov).

as the anthropoid corkscrew has cheerfully been christened by its designer, is not a symbol
or emblem of anything at all. If, rather than adding facial features and hair to a conventional
corkscrew design — to make the corkscrew truly anthropomorphic — the creators of this
object had instead emblazoned the device with an heraldic badge, a moon or a dragon, or
fashioned the head of the corkscrew in the shape of a cross or a fleur-de-lis, then many more
questions would need asking and answering.

Needless to say, the anthropoid version of the corkscrew is also a working corkscrew:
if it were not, how could it function as an index of taste or wealth? It would also lose
its psychological functionality if it could not work as a corkscrew. Any pleasure derived
from using, holding or displaying the corkscrew, or from seeing it in action, must also be
considered as part of the utensil’s functionality.

While it is true that we need not search too deeply for the meaning of the figure on
the Salon hilt (just as we do not in the case of the Alessi corkscrew), it surely had other
psychological effects beyond the social esteem associated with owning, wearing and bearing

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Figure 6. An anthropoid household wing corkscrew designed by Alessandro Mendini and produced by Alessi S.p.A., twentieth
century, chrome-plated zamak (courtesy of Urban Attitude).

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such a weapon. This is not to say that the anthropoid hilt made the act of stabbing enjoyable
in the same way that the Alessi corkscrew may well be a source of pleasure for its owners.
When one is relying on an object to be able to save one’s life, one wants to know that
the object is as finely crafted as possible and the inclusion of human features would have
clearly reflected the smith’s attention to detail. In the same way that a warrior might derive
a psychological benefit by entering battle with well-polished armour, boots or weaponry, so
too might the Salon warrior have benefited from fighting with a showy dagger. A similar
comparison may be made between the Salon dagger and modern military aircraft, bombs
and missiles decorated with a shark’s face motif on their noses. If, in battle, our Salon
man found himself engaged in “the ancient and European tradition of dagger fighting”
(Clarke & Hawkes 1955: 204), the warrior with the fancy, anthropoid hilt may have had
a psychological edge. Such theories are not far-fetched and, in a complete consideration of
the daggers’ functionality, must be taken into account; by way of comparison: in a recent
psychological study, it was proven that the fighter wearing red benefits from a psychological
advantage and has a significantly greater chance of winning in boxing and other combat
sports (Hill & Barton 2005: 293).

The possibility that the anthropomorphic nature of these hilts may have helped La Tène
warriors connect with their weapons must also be considered. As Kendall Walton (1990: 11,
51, 276–7) describes, representations, including toys, paintings, plays and the bull’s head
Picasso made from a bicycle seat, inevitably invite their viewers and users into a game of
make believe. Modern US marines and soldiers name their rifles which, of course, are not
even anthropomorphic so it is not such a stretch to imagine warriors of the La Tène period
naming their anthropoid daggers. We may never know if they did, but this is the type of rich
consideration of functionality which comparison is often able to bring to light and which
the Salon dagger and other anthropoid weapons deserve.

Anthropoid objects have been created and used in civilisations ancient and modern. They
provoke a range of responses and associations: they are whimsical, dazzling and uncanny
(unheimlich) and they resist classification as art, symbol or implement. This reconsideration
of the Salon hilt — as a form inspired by function and, inexorably, possessing a dynamic social
and psychological functionality of its own — may find application in our interpretations
not only of other La Tène objects, but of archaeological artefacts more broadly. There
is a temptation among archaeologists to declare that ancient objects which the modern
world has long treated as art were more significant — often symbolically significant —
than mere ornament in the societies which created them. This is at once a truism and
a misleading assumption. Anthropoid hilts very likely came about not because of some
mysterious political or religious semiotics on which we can only speculate, but because
earlier dagger hilts, in order to function properly, happened to look a little like men with
outstretched limbs. But decoration, especially when it is representational, intrinsically affects
the ways in which useful objects are useful (Walton 1990: 51; Gell 1998: 74). Interpretations
of anthropomorphic and zoomorphic embellishment — whether that embellishment occurs
on Iron Age weapons and fire-dogs or on twenty-first-century corkscrews — must begin
with this understanding and not with the straw man proposition that such images are
art for art’s sake. By considering and actively applying — through comparison if it is
helpful — the notion of an artefact’s psychological functionality, it is possible to overcome

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perpetuated assumptions (emblem of rank) and scholarly impediments (a symbol, but of
what?).

References
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and ironworking in Iron Age Europe, in M.
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