With their minimalist geometric forms and blank faces, the Cycladic figurines in the Menil Collection initially appear to be contemporary creations: sleek, streamlined, yet still recognizably human. Often mislabeled as “idols,” these curious marbles originated in the Cyclades Islands of the Aegean Sea during the Bronze Age. They’re ambassadors from millennia past, survivors of wonders and terrors both geographic and manmade. And right now, all it takes is a trip to the Menil for Houstonians to find communion with people across time and space.

It is a wonder of science and circumstance that these veritable time travelers from one of the world’s previous iterations are housed in Houston, a city itself well known for achievements in medical and astronomical sciences. A lot of strategy and even more luck are involved in storing, transporting, and preserving ancient artifacts, and over the past decade, discussions regarding provenance, ownership, and the ethics of displaying culturally significant materials have permeated the museum and gallery industry.

One need only look at the dozens of looted Benin Bronzes that the University of Cambridge will return to Nigeria, and at much of the British Museum’s holdings, to see concerns about colonial theft and decontextualized—if not outright deplorable—displays in action. It’s evident in the case of the Rapa Nui peoples’ stolen Hoa Hakananai’a statue, and in New York, where, since 2017, the Manhattan District Attorney’s office has seized $95 million worth of fraudulently acquired museum pieces from the Metropolitan Museum of Art, sending the objects back to their Egyptian, Turkish, Greek, and Italian homes. For its part, the Met has been fully compliant, with representatives stating that they’d prefer to only display honestly acquired artifacts anyway. As of press time, no Houston museums have been reported to be repatriating any of their holdings. Still, they’re learning that to do things with respect for the original cultures, a significant amount of labor, thought, and communication must undergird the exhibitions that thousands of people visit annually.

“We try to act as the best stewards of the materials that are under our care. That is by preserving, but also presenting, them in a respectful way,” says Paul R. Davis, curator of collections at the Menil. Some of the oldest works in the South, Central, and North American displays date back to 800 BCE, and the museum maintains direct contact with the associated tribes, as well as communities in Africa and the Pacific Islands. Their input provides critical cultural context and ensures that items are shared in ways that conform to the wishes of the peoples from whom they originate.

An increased desire to honor colonized and marginalized communities has been at the heart of recent local museum exhibitions. The Heritage Society hired Indigenous artisans to create replica artifacts for its spotlight on the Karankawa, rather than placing the original pieces under glass. The Museum of Fine Arts, Houston’s Grounded in Clay centered Pueblo voices at the curatorial level. And the Houston Museum of Natural Science (HMNS) established the Office of Indigenous Community Relations, following in the footsteps of the Smithsonian, which, in 2022, launched its Shared Stewardship and Ethical Returns initiative across all its museums. This policy includes full repatriation to countries of origin when pieces are determined to have been stolen or acquired without clear legal documentation.

Before the office’s establishment, Dirk Van Tuerenhout, HMNS’s curator of anthropology and director of collections, had already been working with Indigenous communities represented in the Hall of Americas during the permanent exhibit’s renovation. “We often were making the decisions based on our very limited knowledge, of course, of all of the intricacies of [Indigenous] cultures. So, they have been a vital voice correcting our course, if you will, when we just do not have the information,” says Gabriela Truly, director of the Office of Indigenous Community Relations.

Then, in 2024, the National Park Service updated its Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act guidelines, prompting Van Tuerenhout to consider establishing a department within HMNS to specifically address and act on the new protocols.

One of the major concerns was what to do with human remains in HMNS’s holdings. “When people say, ‘human remains,’ you may think the display of ancestors. That’s not just the case with bones or skeletal remains; it’s also hair,” says Van Tuerenhout. He references a wooden dance mask that incorporated human hair in the beard; it was later removed from public view. Ear ornaments from the Amazon section of the Hall of Americas were found to contain human hair, so they, too, were taken off display. Now, the only human remains viewable at HMNS are part of its mummy collection. The museum hasn’t received any requests to repatriate these preserved bodies yet, but staff says they are willing to send them back to Egypt if asked.

HMNS is over 100 years old; Van Tuerenhout notes they have a lot of catching up to do in modernizing their practices and doing right by the original creators. It maintains strict provenance records from other museums and private donors, though it doesn’t always know exactly where or how the objects first came into its possession. Houstonians have been traveling all over the world for a century, bringing back pieces that are now in HMNS’s collections—pottery and ceramics are popular “souvenirs,” for example. They can often arrive divorced, in whole or in part, from their true culture and context.

“Our collection policies have definitely grown,” Van Tuerenhout says. “Now, [donors] have to answer questions,” such as “Where did you collect this?” From whom did you collect this? Where did the people who initially perhaps find [or] excavate, maybe not legally?” If these questions aren’t fully answered with the required documentation, HMNS will refuse the donation.

One of the most storied ancient artifacts in Houston isn’t housed in a museum. Lanier Theological Library, an educational institution specializing in the study of and dialogue between the Abrahamic religions, though via a predominantly Christian perspective, owns a fragment of the Dead Sea Scrolls containing Amos 7:17–8:1 in Hebrew. According to the library’s website, these documents contain “the earliest known surviving manuscripts of works included in the Hebrew Bible canon,” written by Amos, a minor prophet in Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. Museum-quality care is required to preserve the fragment for future generations of curious minds. Appointments are required to see both the scrolls and the rest of the library’s collection, which includes Iron Age pottery, Roman coins, 60 first editions of C.S. Lewis books, and a Qumran Scrolls jar—one of only four in private hands. Estimated to have been crafted between 50 BCE and 50 CE, these vessels were found alongside the Dead Sea Scrolls, some even containing the scripts themselves, though reportedly unrelated to the Amos fragment the library owns.

Similar to HMNS, the library’s director emeritus, Charles Mickey, says the institution hasn’t received any requests to repatriate the artifacts in its care, but if he were asked, his response would be different. “We would, I think, be firm in saying, ‘This does not belong to you, and people who owned it before we bought it were very anxious to sell it to us,’” he says. He places his trust and faith in the library’s founder, trial lawyer Mark Lanier of Lanier Law Firm, calling him “a man of high integrity” who “is convinced that there is nothing that is fraudulent” or otherwise “connected to crime or thievery” in their collections. How much Lanier originally paid for these works remains confidential, but Mickey says the library maintains stringent records of the financial transactions that brought some of the most priceless religious artifacts to their current Houston home. If pressed, library personnel are willing to show proof that nothing untoward occurred in the acquisition process.

“If someone were to come over and say, ‘There’s a jar. There’s a candle, or a vase, or another artifact of any kind that came from Hebron or Israel or Palestine, and we want it back,’” Mickey says, the question becomes: “‘Why did you sell it to us in the first place?’”

Regardless of their stances on provenance and repatriation, all local institutions tasked with sharing ancient objects use the most up-to-date preservation protocols. In addition to being a private, reservation-only space, Lanier Theological Library keeps its Amos fragment inside a bulletproof display case with four locks. Proper humidity levels are maintained, and photography is prohibited to prevent bright lights from fading the scroll.

It’s the same over at the Menil. Davis praises the museum’s conservation team for how well it manages “the unique challenges” of handling organic materials from which many ancient artifacts (not to mention contemporary works) are constructed—namely, wood, leather, parchment, and plant and animal fibers. In addition to being vulnerable to light and humidity, these objects are at risk of insect infestations, making pest control a priority for any organization entrusted with cultural and historic preservation.

The sad fact is all materials decompose. Everything housed in Houston’s museums, regardless of their importance, will eventually become naught but nearly microscopic motes of dust. Until such time—long after we, ourselves, have broken down into our own base atoms—the hope is that future generations can continue to enjoy lessons from the past, and that museums put as much respect and thought into cultural sensitivity and responsible acquisition as they do artifact preservation.