If, like myself, you are a neophyte at thinking about prehistory, then I have a proposition for you: Try to imagine 30,000 years of human history. And not abstractly, not by simply saying, "Thirty thousand years. Wow. That's a long time," but by really considering the march of 30,000 years.
In relation to the span of a single human life, a few decades ago seems like a long time. For the more historically-minded, a few centuries or even a millennium might constitute "a long time". The geologist or astronomer, of course, trumps everybody by paying attention to non-human processes that occur over the course of millions and billions of years. But for most of us, the single human life constitutes the basic unit of our reference to time. Given our relatively short life spans, we don't have to imagine very far back and we're already sighing, "That was a long time ago." Think of some commonly referenced "ancient" cultures. Roman civilization developed a little more than 2,500 years ago. The Greek cultures, beginning with the Minoans, arose almost 5,000 years ago; the Egyptians about 500 to 1,000 years before that. The Sumerians sprang up over 7,000 years ago, and while they are commonly attributed with developing the technology of the written word, they did not do so until around 5,500 years ago.
So think about the fact that humans have only been writing and leaving written records for around 6,000 years. Those written records have allowed us to compile a history of what we call civilization -- of human struggle, development, failure, and achievement over millennia. But our reliance on the written record has also allowed us to popularly conceive of people who lived before the development of writing as a bunch of cave-dwelling, stone-throwing, big brow-having brutes…cavemen, right? Writing so constructs our paradigm that even the adjective we use to describe these people, "prehistoric," means "before the written record". But, in fact, our prehistoric ancestors were not Neanderthal-ish brutes. (Side note: Even Neanderthals were not Neanderthal-ish brutes.) Homo sapiens, as in upright-walking, big brain-having, tool-making yous and mes, date to 200,000 years ago according to DNA evidence. So what, precisely, were we doing for all of those 194,000 years that we weren't writing?
Gregory Curtis explores a partial answer to this mammoth question in The Cave Painters. From 40,000 to around 10,000 years ago in southern France and parts of Spain, at least one group of successive generations of humans painted (and engraved) in caves. It is universally observed by those in a position to make the observation, that these paintings are works of great beauty, subtlety and accomplishment, that they were created by highly skilled abstract thinkers, and that they belong to a single tradition. For 30,000 years, a continuous culture found merit and purpose, perhaps even joy, in decorating remote caves in which they did not live. 30,000 years! One culture. Rome, Egypt and China start to look like small potatoes when we think prehistorically.
That's the amazing news. The sad news? Scholars don't know why these folks painted, what purpose the paintings served, or how the artists thought about them. For the layperson, it is perhaps the most frustrating aspect of The Cave Painters to realize that the subject of meaning carries little intellectual weight with scholars of these paintings. They cannot know the meaning of the paintings, and so they prefer to not even ask the question. I suppose pondering meaning in such a situation is as self-indulgent and masturbatory as asking you to imagine 30,000 years, or of pondering the march of human history, or of simply marveling at the length of our stay here on earth. These considerations do not bring us closer to answering anything.
One of my favorite professors would remark that, just as some food tastes good, some thoughts think good. I cannot vouch for the practical utility of wondering why the cave painters painted or of growing overawed at the length of human (pre)history. But holy cow these thoughts think good. And what they lack in practical value, they make up for in psychological and spiritual worth or even in productive value. It does something humbling and yet invigorating to a person to consider how long we've been around and how little we know about ourselves. It provokes thoughts of some distant future where scholars busy themselves studying our cities, now in hopeless ruin, but never ask why we built them. And I can't help but think that considering our evanescence inspires the same kind of drive to memorialize existence that, in some measure, contributes to everything man has ever created, including cave paintings, including cities, including the written word.