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A trowel (/ˈtraʊ.əl/), in the hands of an archaeologist, is like a trusty sidekick — a tiny, yet mighty, instrument that uncovers ancient secrets, one well-placed scoop at a time. It’s the Sherlock Holmes of the excavation site, revealing clues about the past with every delicate swipe.
The story of the bulul begins not in an auction house or museum display, but in the rice fields and alang (rice granaries) of the Ifugao, where these wooden figures serve as guardians of life. For centuries, these spirit representations have been at the heart of rituals, believed to protect the rice crops that sustain the community.
Yet, as I stood in Kiangan listening to a mumbaki (ritual practitioner) recount the role of the bulul in their lives, his words struck me with profound clarity: “These figures are not just wood; they are family. To lose them is to lose a part of ourselves.”
This loss is not just metaphorical — it is real and far-reaching. Over the decades, bulul have been uprooted from their cultural contexts, swept into the tide of colonial fascination, and commodified in the global art market. The mumbaki’s lament underscores a deeper truth: collecting without respect for cultural significance is an act of erasure. It disconnects objects from the communities that created them, transforming sacred guardians into decorative trophies.
Today, we explore the ethical dimensions of collecting indigenous cultural materials like the bulul. It is a practice fraught with historical inequities and present-day implications. As we delve into the history of bulul collecting, from colonial expeditions to high-profile auctions, the question remains: How can collectors and institutions transition from practices of appropriation to ones of accountability and respect? Let us begin with the story of a figure that embodies the Ifugao’s spiritual and cultural foundation, a figure that calls us to rethink what it means to be a steward rather than an owner.
Ethnographic cultural materials, particularly those from indigenous communities, embody histories, spiritual beliefs, and community identities. Collecting such items without regard to their cultural and spiritual significance constitutes appropriation. Countless artifacts have been removed from their communities and now reside in private collections, museums, and galleries. For the Ifugao, these carved wooden figures are sacred guardians of rice, integral to rituals and daily life — not mere decorations or curiosities. The growing demand for these items, driven by collectors, many of whom self-proclaim expertise, raises urgent questions about how to transition from harmful practices to ethical and proactive stewardship.
The history of bulul collecting highlights the need for accountability. During the American colonial period, administrators, missionaries, and ethnographers entered the Cordillera with a fascination for what they considered “exotic” cultures. Colonial structures, framed by a belief in Western superiority, enabled the systematic removal of Indigenous artifacts. Bulul became trophies — artifacts of so-called “untamed” or “unrefined” societies, displayed on mantels and museum shelves to underscore the civilizing mission of the West. This trend escalated as the global art market recognized the monetary value of Indigenous materials. By the mid-20th century, bulul entered the high art world, auctioned in elite houses and exchanged among collectors. Today, thousands of these figures remain in private collections, far from Ifugao and the cultural contexts that imbue them with meaning. Ethical stewardship demands a proactive commitment to reparative actions that address this disconnection.
The commodification of bulul and other Ifugao cultural items like hagabi (prestige benches) exacerbates their appropriation. High-profile auctions often prioritize financial value over cultural significance, with bulul selling for tens (or even hundreds) of thousands of dollars when marketed as rare or “authentic.” The sale of a bulul at Sotheby’s for over P37 million exemplifies the stark disconnect between these objects’ cultural roles and their transformation into high-value commodities. This commodification distorts not just the physical presence of these figures but also the cultural values they embody, often reframed by outsiders under the guise of “authenticity.”
The concept of authenticity frequently drives the collecting of indigenous artifacts, but it is often imposed by outsiders, distorting its meaning. Authenticity should not be limited to external judgments but shaped by the voices of the communities themselves. A bulul carved for ritual use and one created for sale both represent Ifugao artisanry and cultural expression. Collectors and institutions must expand their definitions of authenticity to include community perspectives. By collaborating with Ifugao elders, artisans, and cultural leaders, they can shift away from gatekeeping practices that marginalize Indigenous voices and toward an inclusive approach that respects cultural dynamics and living traditions.
Transforming the ethics of collecting requires rethinking acquisition practices. Collectors must examine how items were acquired: Were they willingly sold, or were they taken during times of economic hardship or upheaval? Even seemingly voluntary transactions exist within systemic inequities. Collectors can take proactive steps by ensuring that acquisitions include transparent provenance records and informed consent documentation. Stewardship must prioritize the cultural and spiritual significance of artifacts, working with communities to keep these materials connected to their living heritage.
In the collecting world, the claim to expertise often reinforces control and marginalization. Collectors who position themselves as authorities on indigenous culture risk perpetuating colonial mindsets that treat communities as subjects rather than partners. Ethical expertise requires collaboration. Collectors and institutions must involve Ifugao communities in decisions about how bulul and other cultural materials are displayed, interpreted, and shared. Genuine partnership amplifies Indigenous voices and avoids replicating historical patterns of exploitation.
The act of collecting carries potential benefits but also significant drawbacks. While collections can preserve physical artifacts and educate broader audiences, removing these items often severs their spiritual and cultural ties, commodifying sacred objects. Moreover, the focus on “authenticity” can distort cultural practices by pressuring artisans to meet external expectations. Addressing these issues requires prioritizing the well-being and sovereignty of the communities whose heritage is being collected.
A proactive, community-centered framework is essential for ethical collecting. This includes transparent provenance standards, meaningful consultation with Indigenous communities, and guidelines for acquisition, display, and interpretation. Supporting living traditions through contemporary Ifugao art and craft can celebrate cultural dynamism without falling into commodification. Repatriation is another critical step, returning significant cultural materials to their rightful stewards as an act of repair and respect.
Stewardship should replace ownership as the guiding principle of collecting. For the Ifugao, bulul are protectors and spiritual entities, not commodities. Collectors must recognize their role in supporting cultural continuity, not gatekeeping heritage. Through ethical practices, collaboration, and repatriation, collections can shift from symbols of appropriation to bridges of respect and partnership.
In the words of an Ifugao elder, “Our bulul are not for display; they are for life.” To honor this wisdom, collectors must act with integrity and humility. Let the bulul return home. Let the communities speak. And let stewardship guide the future of collecting. – Rappler.com
Stephen B. Acabado is professor of anthropology at the University of California-Los Angeles. He directs the Ifugao and Bicol Archaeological Projects, research programs that engage community stakeholders. He grew up in Tinambac, Camarines Sur. Follow him on bluesky @stephenacabado.bsky.social
