http://www.kerismith.com/WishJarTales/Journal.htm
"Everybody is original, if they tell the truth, if they speak from their true self. But it must be from their true self and not from the self they think they should be. So remember these two things: you are talented and you are original." -Brenda Ueland
I was first introduced to the artist's journal while attending my first year of art school. I was taking a very inspiring and free form class taught by a young sculpture and installation artist. On the first day we were given one of the few assignments, which was to keep a visual journal. The journal was to include many aspects of daily living, thoughts, new ideas, criticisms, responses, images, objects, etc., whatever we wanted to include. So on my way home from school I stopped in Chinatown and picked up a black and red lined journal for a dollar. We were told not to get something too fancy, preciousness would create a pressure to make the work good. We were to avoid good in favour of quantity. On the inside of the front cover I wrote this:
This book is divided into two parts. This side is my everyday writings. Starting from the back are excerpts/quotes from the books I've been reading. These are a big part of my life from day to day. I wanted the writings from these books to be continuous and uninterrupted by my daily comments.
The first page has the title "Explorations" underneath which is an engraving of a solitary tree in full blossom.
I struggled through the writing part in the beginning, mostly relying on other people's words since I didn't trust my own voice at that point. Several philosophical arguments (bitter feminist rants) are recorded, some from various teachers or whatever book I was into at the time. A quote "Do I dare disturb the universe?" from a Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock by T.S.Elliot. A map of Judea gleaned from an atlas. In the beginning I worried a lot about how it looked, and what people would think, very aware that someone would be reading it eventually. At the same time there was something about the process that really moved me, I loved the presence of this little world that I carried with me throughout the year, everywhere I went. We developed a relationship, this journal and I. I started to notice that I felt bare if I had mistakenly forgotten it. Because the writing was difficult for me, I just continued to gather things to add to it. Cards from galleries, ticket stubs, random sketches, and quotes. There is a very worn elastic in the middle that originally held many of these items into the book. At the end of the year the instructor noted that he while he enjoyed the collected stuff he would have liked to see more personal insights and feelings. I took note but was really very proud for having actually finished something. Being a chronic "unfinisher" I was used to accumulating many "started" journals, but never any completed ones. The energy going into it was always great, but eventually my attention would waver and I would be on to some other project, a piece of knitting, a watercolour painting, potted plants.
My turning point came when I made a new friend over the Internet; a young, recently published writer named Joanne. We met in a newsgroup on "writing for children", and immediately felt connected to each other. I was doing a lot of caregiving for my mother during that time while she battled cancer (a battle which she lost after two years of hospitalization.) Joanne was older than me and had been through more of the painful jolts that life throws at you than I had. She was the first person I could talk to about my grieving, and always picked me up when I hit the ground flailing. I felt normal when I talked to her, like life was supposed to be this painful. At the time I was travelling back and forth to the hospital every other day, 15 minutes on the streetcar, 35 minutes on the subway, and an hour on the bus. Add to this the waiting in between and you have a lot of time for writing. I started journaling again by writing to my new friend. For some reason this really helped me to get past my writer's block, which was really just a need to write "well". I began by describing my day to her, talking about where I was what I was reading, sharing with her some great quotes or a new tea flavour I has discovered. When I returned home in the evening I would transcribe the letter into an email. Slowly the journal started to take on a life of it's own. As my relationship with Joanne dwindled due to heavy schedules and major life changes my new connection with the journal continued.
The journal provides a safe haven for creation, a place to experiment and push ourselves, to develop new ideas without fear of judgement or the pressure to do things well. In this way it acts much like art school did for me, a place of becoming. In it we can give ourselves permission to vent, spew, complain, and be to ourselves. By adding the visual aspect it becomes a container for our experiences, we can use it to collect, to document, or just be. The journal is an excellent vehicle for seeing what we are responding to, to see our own unique voice. I believe we become more in tune with our inner world when we become our own research projects.
Watching a journal fill up and evolve is like seeing the pieces of a mosaic come together to form a whole. All the pages take on different forms and colours they show different sides of a distinct personality. At first the process seems overwhelming, the blank pages confront you, but slowly pieces get added, new ideas emerge, and it evolves into a beautiful tapestry of your experience. And because it serves as a playground we can allow it to be what it is, not necessarily a precious object, but a thing to be reinvented every day. Start new; start fresh as much as possible. Push yourself into new and strange places. Think of it like being in a large clothing shop; allow yourself to try on something completely outrageous, a bright green sari, a spacesuit, a red satin evening gown, a tiara. Maybe you have a secret passion, a love of medieval paintings, an interest in erotic literature, a vision of a more passionate you, try it on via the journal. No one will see it but you. Just have fun.
What I like about the visual journal is that it records your daily life but includes texture, colour and life. After a while you start to see the world with "journalistic" eyes as a reporter might, taking in the small and colourful details that make up a good story. You become more tuned into your surroundings. When I first started out with the journal I wanted to be like someone else, wishing I was a better writer, a better artist. But after doing it for a few years I notice things have shifted for me and now I just want to be as much of myself as I can. I take joy in being myself. Closer to the truth.
Keri Smith is a free-lance illustrator and native of Toronto. A graduate of O.C.A. she has a wide following of clients in North America and Japan. She currently resides in a “magic” cottage in Flesherton, painting, illustrating, creating, writing, and living out loud. Her first children's books, entitled Story in a Box have just been published by Chronicle Books.
16.9.06
managing chaos
http://www.kerismith.com/WishJarTales/chaos.htm
Managing Chaos
Isn't it funny how we all seem to look at other people's lives and say, "Wow, it must be nice to live like that, they have it all figured out." Last week I received an email from a woman who boldly admitted that she wished her life was more like mine (i.e.. financially well off, successful career, care free days). When I read that I snorted, almost shooting hot coffee out my nose. I must admit that I do it too. I look at people I admire from afar and say, "how nice to live like that." Not that I would trade what I have for anything, I pride myself on having created a life that I wanted (I work hard at it). But I am far from feeling care-free. Sometimes I wake up and say, "When am I going to feel like the adult who has everything under control? Everything organized." Somehow I can never keep up with all that I have to do, I feel like I am playing catch up a lot of the time.
This week I have decided to tackle something I have been avoiding for too long, my finances. When you push something off for a while it turns into a large and hairy ogre whose shadow hangs over everything. I have found that when you actually start to make money it becomes a lot harder to manage it. In my field you have to balance your funds over the times when you have no cash flow, it happens all the time. Last month was particularly tight. And you have to be very careful not to spend everything that comes in, because some of it has to go to pay taxes. That requires a lot of organization, which I struggle with. Actually, I suck at it. To be fair I was never really taught how to manage my finances. And I have never seen a course on "How to Manage a Non Regular Income -(or) Dealing with the Fits and Spurts". (If you have let me know). I seem to have this pattern of being so completely organized and efficient for around 5 months of the year, after that it starts to go downhill, eventually snowballing into a large overwhelming pile. By that time you feel so ashamed, because just a few months ago you were the "Queen of finances", telling everyone how wonderfully organized you were, and giving them tips on how to do the same.
One thing I've noticed is that when I start to avoid something in my life, it manifests into my physical world in some way. Usually in the form of a mess in some corner of my house. For the last six months there have been piles of paper forming in my studio. I didn't notice them at first, sort of pretended they weren't there. But now as I begin to face the books, I find myself needing to clean out everything. Give myself a new fresh breathable space. This is really the basis for Feng Shui, that your emotional world relates directly to your physical one in many ways. I don't think it's a coincidence that I feel the urge to do both things at once. I love the idea of purging months of build up of papers and magazines. I even bought some new brightly colored bins from Ikea for the task. Ever notice how when you are about to start a new creative project you all of the sudden feel this huge urge to clear your workspace? This is apparently because the right brain requires "breathing room" to function. I used to wonder if this was just a form of procrastination, but now I actually embrace it as part of the process of creation.
I am learning that I may never realize that earlier vision of becoming an adult and having everything under control. Like the perception we have of other people's lives being better than our own, it doesn't exist. That is why I love reading about other people who are running their own business. Hearing how they deal with the daily chaos helps me to feel normal. We all have it. I know that at some level I will have to ask for help in certain areas, (I have had a hard time finding an accountant that I feel comfortable with). The goal now is to make things better, more manageable. So I begin my descent into my own chaos one little piece at a time. The deeper I go into it I realize it may not be as scary as I thought. The present moment is a lot less intimidating than a perception of the future that does not actually exist. It all begins with me turning on my laptop and opening the accounting program.
Managing Chaos
Isn't it funny how we all seem to look at other people's lives and say, "Wow, it must be nice to live like that, they have it all figured out." Last week I received an email from a woman who boldly admitted that she wished her life was more like mine (i.e.. financially well off, successful career, care free days). When I read that I snorted, almost shooting hot coffee out my nose. I must admit that I do it too. I look at people I admire from afar and say, "how nice to live like that." Not that I would trade what I have for anything, I pride myself on having created a life that I wanted (I work hard at it). But I am far from feeling care-free. Sometimes I wake up and say, "When am I going to feel like the adult who has everything under control? Everything organized." Somehow I can never keep up with all that I have to do, I feel like I am playing catch up a lot of the time.
This week I have decided to tackle something I have been avoiding for too long, my finances. When you push something off for a while it turns into a large and hairy ogre whose shadow hangs over everything. I have found that when you actually start to make money it becomes a lot harder to manage it. In my field you have to balance your funds over the times when you have no cash flow, it happens all the time. Last month was particularly tight. And you have to be very careful not to spend everything that comes in, because some of it has to go to pay taxes. That requires a lot of organization, which I struggle with. Actually, I suck at it. To be fair I was never really taught how to manage my finances. And I have never seen a course on "How to Manage a Non Regular Income -(or) Dealing with the Fits and Spurts". (If you have let me know). I seem to have this pattern of being so completely organized and efficient for around 5 months of the year, after that it starts to go downhill, eventually snowballing into a large overwhelming pile. By that time you feel so ashamed, because just a few months ago you were the "Queen of finances", telling everyone how wonderfully organized you were, and giving them tips on how to do the same.
One thing I've noticed is that when I start to avoid something in my life, it manifests into my physical world in some way. Usually in the form of a mess in some corner of my house. For the last six months there have been piles of paper forming in my studio. I didn't notice them at first, sort of pretended they weren't there. But now as I begin to face the books, I find myself needing to clean out everything. Give myself a new fresh breathable space. This is really the basis for Feng Shui, that your emotional world relates directly to your physical one in many ways. I don't think it's a coincidence that I feel the urge to do both things at once. I love the idea of purging months of build up of papers and magazines. I even bought some new brightly colored bins from Ikea for the task. Ever notice how when you are about to start a new creative project you all of the sudden feel this huge urge to clear your workspace? This is apparently because the right brain requires "breathing room" to function. I used to wonder if this was just a form of procrastination, but now I actually embrace it as part of the process of creation.
I am learning that I may never realize that earlier vision of becoming an adult and having everything under control. Like the perception we have of other people's lives being better than our own, it doesn't exist. That is why I love reading about other people who are running their own business. Hearing how they deal with the daily chaos helps me to feel normal. We all have it. I know that at some level I will have to ask for help in certain areas, (I have had a hard time finding an accountant that I feel comfortable with). The goal now is to make things better, more manageable. So I begin my descent into my own chaos one little piece at a time. The deeper I go into it I realize it may not be as scary as I thought. The present moment is a lot less intimidating than a perception of the future that does not actually exist. It all begins with me turning on my laptop and opening the accounting program.
wish jar tales
"If you want to work on your art, work on your life"
Chekov
http://www.kerismith.com/WishJarTales/WishJarTales.htm
Chekov
http://www.kerismith.com/WishJarTales/WishJarTales.htm
how to be a guerilla artist
http://www.kerismith.com/funstuff/guerilla.htm
Guerilla art is a fun and insidious way of sharing your vision with the world. It is a method of art making which entails leaving anonymous art pieces in public places. It can be done for a variety of reasons, to make a statement, to share your ideas, to send out good karma, or just for fun. My current fascination with it stems from a belief in the importance of making art without attachment to the outcome. To do something that has nothing to do with making money, or listening to the ego.
My first experience with being a guerilla artist was in my first year of art school in a class taught by conceptual artist Shirley Yanover. One of our assignments was to create some form of graffiti in a public place (we were allowed to choose the were and how). We went out in groups of four, (two lookouts, and two painters), and proceeded to make our mark on various blank walls across the city. The experience made me terrified and exhilarated at the same time. I wrote quotes from various authors along the bottoms of buildings, on phone booths, and on the sidewalks. I remember the feeling of daring as we sprinted away from unsuspecting police officers.
Now I am not necessarily advocating that you do anything illegal or potentially life threatening. But there is something wonderfully sneaky about leaving some form of art in public places. I like knowing that at some point in time someone might receive a little surprise in the form of a random message from a stranger, or a doodle in an unexpected place. I remember there used to be an artist in Toronto who would bolt text books and old phone books to various things. It became a personal quest of mine to find them all, and I always felt so excited when a new one showed up just under my nose. Experiment with your own ideas.
Possible Formats
1. Sidewalk chalk
2. Sticker art
3. Flyers/posters (see "make a flyer of your day" at learningtoloveyoumore. Here is mine, page 1, page 2, page 3.
4. Journals (pass it on)
5. Zines
6. Object leave behinds (money, gifts, junk)
7. Notes (slogans)
8. Graffiti
9. Book inserts (library)
10. Book leave behinds (bookcrossing)
11. Letters (possibly love letters to strangers)
12. The age old 'message in a bottle', or a balloon. Or if you are really adventurous you might be drawn to carrier pigeons.
Potential Ideas for subject matter
-any form of artwork (drawings, collage, doodles, paintings)
-recipes
-photos
-good luck charms
-fortunes
-quotes
-variations on a theme
-many guerilla artist are politically motivated and find that being anonymous allows them to be more controversial or extreme with their message. Popular with activists.
Further reading:
guerillart.org
The original guerilla girls
Mysterious figures show up on a campus.
Potato: Guerilla Art
Jeff Claassen
Guerilla art is a fun and insidious way of sharing your vision with the world. It is a method of art making which entails leaving anonymous art pieces in public places. It can be done for a variety of reasons, to make a statement, to share your ideas, to send out good karma, or just for fun. My current fascination with it stems from a belief in the importance of making art without attachment to the outcome. To do something that has nothing to do with making money, or listening to the ego.
My first experience with being a guerilla artist was in my first year of art school in a class taught by conceptual artist Shirley Yanover. One of our assignments was to create some form of graffiti in a public place (we were allowed to choose the were and how). We went out in groups of four, (two lookouts, and two painters), and proceeded to make our mark on various blank walls across the city. The experience made me terrified and exhilarated at the same time. I wrote quotes from various authors along the bottoms of buildings, on phone booths, and on the sidewalks. I remember the feeling of daring as we sprinted away from unsuspecting police officers.
Now I am not necessarily advocating that you do anything illegal or potentially life threatening. But there is something wonderfully sneaky about leaving some form of art in public places. I like knowing that at some point in time someone might receive a little surprise in the form of a random message from a stranger, or a doodle in an unexpected place. I remember there used to be an artist in Toronto who would bolt text books and old phone books to various things. It became a personal quest of mine to find them all, and I always felt so excited when a new one showed up just under my nose. Experiment with your own ideas.
Possible Formats
1. Sidewalk chalk
2. Sticker art
3. Flyers/posters (see "make a flyer of your day" at learningtoloveyoumore. Here is mine, page 1, page 2, page 3.
4. Journals (pass it on)
5. Zines
6. Object leave behinds (money, gifts, junk)
7. Notes (slogans)
8. Graffiti
9. Book inserts (library)
10. Book leave behinds (bookcrossing)
11. Letters (possibly love letters to strangers)
12. The age old 'message in a bottle', or a balloon. Or if you are really adventurous you might be drawn to carrier pigeons.
Potential Ideas for subject matter
-any form of artwork (drawings, collage, doodles, paintings)
-recipes
-photos
-good luck charms
-fortunes
-quotes
-variations on a theme
-many guerilla artist are politically motivated and find that being anonymous allows them to be more controversial or extreme with their message. Popular with activists.
Further reading:
guerillart.org
The original guerilla girls
Mysterious figures show up on a campus.
Potato: Guerilla Art
Jeff Claassen
10 ways to infuse your work with your personality
http://www.kerismith.com/blog/archives/2004_05.html
1. Document what you are responding to regularly. *journal/sketchbook, blog, listmaking, photo journal, bulletin board collage, internet bookmarks, Allow yourself to go deeper into an idea. Find influence outside of your field. Consider that you are ALWAYS working for yourself.
2. Start to challenge yourself on a regular basis to try new things, (not just for work. *i.e. new foods, colors, processes, classes, travel, become a guerilla artist, etc. Your hobbies are your greatest source of play.)
3. Go back to your childhood, (the formative years). What were your favourite things to do? In this lies some clues as to where you want to focus your energy as an adult. What makes you burst with energy?
4. Do something that is not for money. For your own enjoyment. (Your greatest work will come from here!)
*examples…
-newsletter
-zine
-website
-x-mas card
-product concept
-toys
-gifts for friends.
Design for yourself. *See handout on guerilla art.
5. Use sources that are based on your daily life. Your life IS your art. What are the things that are most important in your current life?
6. Become a collector. Collecting allows us to look at one thing in a contemplative & mindful way. Giving you new insights and perceptions. Examples: Maria Kalman -purse contents, Steven Guarnaccia -shoe sole
rubbings, Ian Phillips & Grant Heaps -Lost & Found pet posters, Mark Ulriksen (former art director) -misspellings of his name, Charles & Rae Eames -toys from other countries
7. "Pay no attention to the man behind that curtain." Ignore what other people are doing. It has no bearing on your existence or vision of the world. The times we feel the most discouraged are usually due to the fact we are comparing ourselves to others. Most times reading awards annuals, and industry mags only serves to make us feel inadequate. Try cutting it out entirely. Designer Bruce Mau recommends not entering awards competitions. His reasoning, “Just don’t do it, it’s not good for you.”
8. Don't promote to target your audience. By all means send things out into the world, but don't think in terms of "promoting to get work". Send stuff out because -you're proud of it, -you want to share something with the world, -it's fun to get mail, -to have good karma, -you want to spread your germs, -you like licking stamps. Try sending a postcard of something you made for fun, (i.e. directions on how to make a finger puppet). When thinking of subject matter for promotions look to your current life. If you deal with topics that are important to you a piece will have much more life to it.
9. Take a lighthearted approach (Don't take yourself too seriously). If you feel stuck, you can always reinvent yourself, (re: try something else).
10. Study other artists or creators who followed their own vision. Research.
1. Document what you are responding to regularly. *journal/sketchbook, blog, listmaking, photo journal, bulletin board collage, internet bookmarks, Allow yourself to go deeper into an idea. Find influence outside of your field. Consider that you are ALWAYS working for yourself.
2. Start to challenge yourself on a regular basis to try new things, (not just for work. *i.e. new foods, colors, processes, classes, travel, become a guerilla artist, etc. Your hobbies are your greatest source of play.)
3. Go back to your childhood, (the formative years). What were your favourite things to do? In this lies some clues as to where you want to focus your energy as an adult. What makes you burst with energy?
4. Do something that is not for money. For your own enjoyment. (Your greatest work will come from here!)
*examples…
-newsletter
-zine
-website
-x-mas card
-product concept
-toys
-gifts for friends.
Design for yourself. *See handout on guerilla art.
5. Use sources that are based on your daily life. Your life IS your art. What are the things that are most important in your current life?
6. Become a collector. Collecting allows us to look at one thing in a contemplative & mindful way. Giving you new insights and perceptions. Examples: Maria Kalman -purse contents, Steven Guarnaccia -shoe sole
rubbings, Ian Phillips & Grant Heaps -Lost & Found pet posters, Mark Ulriksen (former art director) -misspellings of his name, Charles & Rae Eames -toys from other countries
7. "Pay no attention to the man behind that curtain." Ignore what other people are doing. It has no bearing on your existence or vision of the world. The times we feel the most discouraged are usually due to the fact we are comparing ourselves to others. Most times reading awards annuals, and industry mags only serves to make us feel inadequate. Try cutting it out entirely. Designer Bruce Mau recommends not entering awards competitions. His reasoning, “Just don’t do it, it’s not good for you.”
8. Don't promote to target your audience. By all means send things out into the world, but don't think in terms of "promoting to get work". Send stuff out because -you're proud of it, -you want to share something with the world, -it's fun to get mail, -to have good karma, -you want to spread your germs, -you like licking stamps. Try sending a postcard of something you made for fun, (i.e. directions on how to make a finger puppet). When thinking of subject matter for promotions look to your current life. If you deal with topics that are important to you a piece will have much more life to it.
9. Take a lighthearted approach (Don't take yourself too seriously). If you feel stuck, you can always reinvent yourself, (re: try something else).
10. Study other artists or creators who followed their own vision. Research.
20.5.06
Rites of joy: 'Galungan' and 'Kuningan'
Features - May 18, 2006
Ritual is part and parcel of the daily life of a Balinese Hindu. Following the solemnity of Nyepi, the Day of Silence, on March 30, when Balinese entered the new year Saka 1928, adults and children burst into joyous celebration on May 3 with Galungan and 10 days later, with Kuningan on May 13.
Galungan and Kuningan were not only marked in the temples, but also in the streets. In Ubud, dozens of youths and teenagers joined the Barong dance -- a kind of mythical lion locally called Ngelawang -- and bystanders made "donations" to the dance troupes as they snaked their way down the streets to the accompaniment of traditional music.
Meanwhile, Balinese women carried meter-high offerings of fruit, flowers and food on their heads and marched in a colorful procession to Hindu temples across the paradise isle.
Another important part of the twin rites is the bathing ceremony of the Barong, which is conducted five days after Galungan and five days before Kuningan.
Galungan -- marking victory of good over evil -- always falls on a Wednesday. Kuningan concludes the rejoicing.
At Tanah Lot, the sacred mask depicting the mythical beast is cleansed in the Pemancekan Agung. The ritual is a joy not only for Balinese, but also for tourists visiting the enchanted, spiritual destination.
-- P.J. Leo
Ritual is part and parcel of the daily life of a Balinese Hindu. Following the solemnity of Nyepi, the Day of Silence, on March 30, when Balinese entered the new year Saka 1928, adults and children burst into joyous celebration on May 3 with Galungan and 10 days later, with Kuningan on May 13.
Galungan and Kuningan were not only marked in the temples, but also in the streets. In Ubud, dozens of youths and teenagers joined the Barong dance -- a kind of mythical lion locally called Ngelawang -- and bystanders made "donations" to the dance troupes as they snaked their way down the streets to the accompaniment of traditional music.
Meanwhile, Balinese women carried meter-high offerings of fruit, flowers and food on their heads and marched in a colorful procession to Hindu temples across the paradise isle.
Another important part of the twin rites is the bathing ceremony of the Barong, which is conducted five days after Galungan and five days before Kuningan.
Galungan -- marking victory of good over evil -- always falls on a Wednesday. Kuningan concludes the rejoicing.
At Tanah Lot, the sacred mask depicting the mythical beast is cleansed in the Pemancekan Agung. The ritual is a joy not only for Balinese, but also for tourists visiting the enchanted, spiritual destination.
-- P.J. Leo
Part I: Dayu Siti's last stand
Features - May 14, 2006
I grew up in Bali terrified of witches and goblins (leyak).
One dark night in 1976, motorcycling home to Sidakarya from the Denpasar Dance Academy where I worked -- as Bali's first one-man, all-male legong -- an invisible "monkey" hopped onto my bike and the back wheel started to shimmy and shammy. I was completely freaked out for two kilometers.
I have never really recovered.
In those days -- the early 1970s -- many a night was whiled away in our neighborhood warung, listening to octogenarian Nini Tap‚'s stories about demon battles in the coconut groves of Mertasari, near Sanur, where I now live, and of the white witch of Intaran (Sanur) Dayu Siti and her legendary powers.
***
Twenty-five years later, I met Dayu Siti for the first time, in a back courtyard of our neighborhood palace: 85 years old, she was ensconced there as the step-grandmother of my work colleague, Gung Nik. We talked a bit, but I never got to know her.
Two weeks ago, Dayu Siti passed away, quietly. On the day she died, my family was having a huge tooth-filing ceremony -- a karya ayu, or beatific event -- and 30 of Dayu Siti's family were present. They didn't tell us of her death, as they didn't want to visit sebel (gloom) on the occasion.
I found out only after observing one old grandmother weeping, unusually and suddenly in the middle of a sea of otherwise jolly celebrants -- the news had spread quickly down the village lane and across the courtyard, and had finally hit her, like a night-bus. She was heart-broken -- she had been Dayu Siti's maid for 80 years.
***
I went to Jero Dalem Tanjung, Kepaon palace that night to pay my respects. The house was packed with nobles -- in batik, floral and black Majapahit funeral wear -- playing cards, singing hymns and gossiping.
I sat down next to the family patriarch and a mourning relative from Pemecutan Palace, the Kepaon family's ancestral home.
"When are you getting married?" they demanded seconds after I sat down.
"No time for love," I replied (it's my standard answer these days).
"But you're so handsome these days (translation: I've put on 30 kilos), I bet those Indian girls with the big tits are all over you."
There was no talk of the deceased.
I gazed around the courtyard of mourners -- the 300 or so relatives' I have grown up with -- and I thought, Really, for the Balinese, things done between ceremonies are just fill. Cremations are everything: between cremations and temple events the Balinese just idle, in neutral.
Everyone was having such a great time over cakes and coffee -- bonding, gambling, smoking -- and it would be like this for the next week at least; by which time someone else in the vast Pemecutan family diaspora will have passed on and it will all start again.
Over the evening, the life of Dayu Siti was discussed only in terms of her complicated and tenuous connection to this family: in fact, she was a brahmani lass from the mighty Brahmin stronghold of Intaran, in Sanur, who had married the old prince's brother. The family mostly talked of how pleased they were that emissaries from Intaran family had started to arrive.
***
The next day, I was double-booked for body-washings: for Dayu Siti, the white witch of Intaran, and the late high-priest, and for Ida Bagawan Putra Kemenuh, the patron saint of my clan of ksatria (princely) Dewa garden commandos. And both at 4 p.m.
Identical ceremonies, back to back: one princely, one priestly.
I did the Kepaon family first.
The courtyard was much as the night before -- macho men, robust palace ladies strapped into lacy black bustiers, lots of slouching and smoking and loose talk -- except that the temple section of the palace was alive with activity. An angklung orchestra was parked inside the temple gate.
I had missed the body-washing but was in time for the ngajum ceremony, during which family members put sewing needles into the joints of the astral body effigy -- kajang pengawak -- set up on a bed in a pavilion in the family temple. I caught the prince genuflecting gently to the astral body effigy as he backed out of the pavilion and returned to his post.
The atmosphere was noisy and heavy, but reverent -- black reverent.
***
In Ketewel, 20 kilometers away, the priestly ngajum ceremony was a "white" affair. I had changed, in the parking lot, like Clark Kent, into white and checkered garb. The mood inside the geria palace was incredibly refined and still.
In the extensive ceremonial courtyard, hundreds of devotees of the much-loved begawan priest were all sitting quietly along the bases of the various pavilions.
Six high priests and their wives sat in the biggest, northernmost pavilion, chatting about bell-ringing protocol and such. Next to them, two high priests were incanting Vedic chants in front of a truck-load of offerings, high on a white-and-yellow festooned platform.
The deceased's widows were busy doing a full range of complicated and beautiful ceremonies. Three gamelans played from various courtyards. Fifty choristers in white traditional kebaya blouses were seated in the family temple, from where the soft harmonies of an ancient gambang orchestra drifted through the gaps in the courtyard activity.
The effect of all this ambrosia of the gods and the temple-garden beauty was dizzying.
I sat at the feet of Pedanda Kemenuh, the nabi (guru) of the deceased priest and a former sergeant major in the army. I was served coffee and cakes by Desak, my saintly and long-suffering maid from my years living in Sanur in the 1980s.
"Why did all the ladies unfurl their hair and rub the feet of the corpse?" I enquired politely, as I sipped my coffee.
"Oh them," the pedanda replied, "they were the deceased's daughters and his students, performing a final act of filial piety."
It had been a profound defining moment in the body-washing ritual, you can imagine, but the high priest just dismissed it, as a bit of minor theatrics. They're often glib like that.
***
The difference in the all-black ksatria ceremony and the all-white brahmana (priestly) version of the same ngajum couldn't have been more pronounced. As Miguel Covarrubias famously wrote in his book Island of Bali (1936): "What is a rule in one village, is an exception in the next."
***
The next day I was double-booked again.
I chose the Ketewel cremation, selfishly, because it promised to be more theatrical and gorgeous and I knew the deceased.
***
Later that day, returning home from the incredible Ketewel cremation -- more of that next issue! -- I got news of a miracle at Dayu Siti's cremation.
Her hair hadn't burned on the funeral pyre!
The unburned hair had been taken back to the palace where it is to be enshrined as a pratima (votive object) in the royal chapel this week.
Will holy miracles never cease?
Stay tuned next issue for part two of "Dayu Siti's Last Stand"!
-- [signature - Made Wijaya]
I grew up in Bali terrified of witches and goblins (leyak).
One dark night in 1976, motorcycling home to Sidakarya from the Denpasar Dance Academy where I worked -- as Bali's first one-man, all-male legong -- an invisible "monkey" hopped onto my bike and the back wheel started to shimmy and shammy. I was completely freaked out for two kilometers.
I have never really recovered.
In those days -- the early 1970s -- many a night was whiled away in our neighborhood warung, listening to octogenarian Nini Tap‚'s stories about demon battles in the coconut groves of Mertasari, near Sanur, where I now live, and of the white witch of Intaran (Sanur) Dayu Siti and her legendary powers.
***
Twenty-five years later, I met Dayu Siti for the first time, in a back courtyard of our neighborhood palace: 85 years old, she was ensconced there as the step-grandmother of my work colleague, Gung Nik. We talked a bit, but I never got to know her.
Two weeks ago, Dayu Siti passed away, quietly. On the day she died, my family was having a huge tooth-filing ceremony -- a karya ayu, or beatific event -- and 30 of Dayu Siti's family were present. They didn't tell us of her death, as they didn't want to visit sebel (gloom) on the occasion.
I found out only after observing one old grandmother weeping, unusually and suddenly in the middle of a sea of otherwise jolly celebrants -- the news had spread quickly down the village lane and across the courtyard, and had finally hit her, like a night-bus. She was heart-broken -- she had been Dayu Siti's maid for 80 years.
***
I went to Jero Dalem Tanjung, Kepaon palace that night to pay my respects. The house was packed with nobles -- in batik, floral and black Majapahit funeral wear -- playing cards, singing hymns and gossiping.
I sat down next to the family patriarch and a mourning relative from Pemecutan Palace, the Kepaon family's ancestral home.
"When are you getting married?" they demanded seconds after I sat down.
"No time for love," I replied (it's my standard answer these days).
"But you're so handsome these days (translation: I've put on 30 kilos), I bet those Indian girls with the big tits are all over you."
There was no talk of the deceased.
I gazed around the courtyard of mourners -- the 300 or so relatives' I have grown up with -- and I thought, Really, for the Balinese, things done between ceremonies are just fill. Cremations are everything: between cremations and temple events the Balinese just idle, in neutral.
Everyone was having such a great time over cakes and coffee -- bonding, gambling, smoking -- and it would be like this for the next week at least; by which time someone else in the vast Pemecutan family diaspora will have passed on and it will all start again.
Over the evening, the life of Dayu Siti was discussed only in terms of her complicated and tenuous connection to this family: in fact, she was a brahmani lass from the mighty Brahmin stronghold of Intaran, in Sanur, who had married the old prince's brother. The family mostly talked of how pleased they were that emissaries from Intaran family had started to arrive.
***
The next day, I was double-booked for body-washings: for Dayu Siti, the white witch of Intaran, and the late high-priest, and for Ida Bagawan Putra Kemenuh, the patron saint of my clan of ksatria (princely) Dewa garden commandos. And both at 4 p.m.
Identical ceremonies, back to back: one princely, one priestly.
I did the Kepaon family first.
The courtyard was much as the night before -- macho men, robust palace ladies strapped into lacy black bustiers, lots of slouching and smoking and loose talk -- except that the temple section of the palace was alive with activity. An angklung orchestra was parked inside the temple gate.
I had missed the body-washing but was in time for the ngajum ceremony, during which family members put sewing needles into the joints of the astral body effigy -- kajang pengawak -- set up on a bed in a pavilion in the family temple. I caught the prince genuflecting gently to the astral body effigy as he backed out of the pavilion and returned to his post.
The atmosphere was noisy and heavy, but reverent -- black reverent.
***
In Ketewel, 20 kilometers away, the priestly ngajum ceremony was a "white" affair. I had changed, in the parking lot, like Clark Kent, into white and checkered garb. The mood inside the geria palace was incredibly refined and still.
In the extensive ceremonial courtyard, hundreds of devotees of the much-loved begawan priest were all sitting quietly along the bases of the various pavilions.
Six high priests and their wives sat in the biggest, northernmost pavilion, chatting about bell-ringing protocol and such. Next to them, two high priests were incanting Vedic chants in front of a truck-load of offerings, high on a white-and-yellow festooned platform.
The deceased's widows were busy doing a full range of complicated and beautiful ceremonies. Three gamelans played from various courtyards. Fifty choristers in white traditional kebaya blouses were seated in the family temple, from where the soft harmonies of an ancient gambang orchestra drifted through the gaps in the courtyard activity.
The effect of all this ambrosia of the gods and the temple-garden beauty was dizzying.
I sat at the feet of Pedanda Kemenuh, the nabi (guru) of the deceased priest and a former sergeant major in the army. I was served coffee and cakes by Desak, my saintly and long-suffering maid from my years living in Sanur in the 1980s.
"Why did all the ladies unfurl their hair and rub the feet of the corpse?" I enquired politely, as I sipped my coffee.
"Oh them," the pedanda replied, "they were the deceased's daughters and his students, performing a final act of filial piety."
It had been a profound defining moment in the body-washing ritual, you can imagine, but the high priest just dismissed it, as a bit of minor theatrics. They're often glib like that.
***
The difference in the all-black ksatria ceremony and the all-white brahmana (priestly) version of the same ngajum couldn't have been more pronounced. As Miguel Covarrubias famously wrote in his book Island of Bali (1936): "What is a rule in one village, is an exception in the next."
***
The next day I was double-booked again.
I chose the Ketewel cremation, selfishly, because it promised to be more theatrical and gorgeous and I knew the deceased.
***
Later that day, returning home from the incredible Ketewel cremation -- more of that next issue! -- I got news of a miracle at Dayu Siti's cremation.
Her hair hadn't burned on the funeral pyre!
The unburned hair had been taken back to the palace where it is to be enshrined as a pratima (votive object) in the royal chapel this week.
Will holy miracles never cease?
Stay tuned next issue for part two of "Dayu Siti's Last Stand"!
-- [signature - Made Wijaya]
9.5.06
Hendrik Pali: Working to preserve Sumba culture
Features - May 03, 2006
Emanuel Dapa Loka, Contributor, Bekasi
Something disturbs Hendrik Pali when it comes to the culture of his ancestral land, Sumba, East Nusa Tenggara province.
He has witnessed with his own eyes how the place receives inadequate attention from society in general, the government and the church.
"Owing to extreme poverty, Sumba people choose to gather grass for their horses or to take care of their plantations instead of participating in dancing exercises, for instance," said Hendrik.
The simple logic is that first the stomach has to be satisfied before esthetic matters can be appreciated.
Hendrik compared the situation with his experience when he was a member of the dance troupe of (the late) Bagong Kussudiardjo in Yogyakarta.
There he noticed professional values at work. "Instructors were given a cash reward and trainees had to pay monthly contributions. That reflected public awareness and support," recalled Hendrik, 59, owner of the Ori Angu (Embracing Friends) dance studio he set up in 1980.
It is impossible for his group, with school dropouts as members, to imitate the sophistication of Bagong's management. Consequently, his 30 or so students train in traditional dance and new works free of charge.
Originally concentrating on dancing, his studio later expanded its activities to cover weaving for the supply of dance costumes and scarves.
With his studio already established for 25 years, Hendrik continues to be a lone fighter working without adequate aid. Despite his enormous spirit, bright ideas and lavish energy devoted to the preservation of local culture, he sometimes feels helpless in the absence of financial support.
"Fortunately, some tourists often visit us to help our survival. Once we were almost forced to close down," he said, seriously.
Just as he was about to give up, Hendrik related, the words struck him: "If you close your studio, who else is willing to care about this culture?"
As though in the middle of a dialog, he said to himself, "You're right! Culture is a nation's mirror image, without which it would be uncivilized. Isn't it we ourselves that must do something about it?"
Apart from that, Hendrik has maintained his group because dancing has been a long-time hobby.
Born and brought up in East Sumba with its observance of custom rituals, he has been familiar with dance since childhood. His six children share his talent without the benefit of special training.
"They are instinctively capable of dancing," noted the former primary school teacher now promoted as school supervisor.
In his observation, the government has, for a long time, paid almost no heed to Sumba's art and culture, now left to grow like paddy surviving amid weeds.
The government, he says, should support troupes such as Ori Angu, which is only proper because the local administration has always sought his help when it holds ceremonies with regional dances and songs.
East Sumba has various dances, five of which form the basic part of the local performing art: kabokang, kadingang, haramu, wulumanu and putiliku. From these standard dances, new choreographed works have been created for particular purposes such as welcoming guests, making offerings or conducting religious worship, processions and harvest festivals.
However, his preparedness to fulfill such requests requires sacrifices. With his team and dance equipment sent to celebrate official events, he has frequently received only words of gratitude.
"The authorities should provide aid for our costumes and musical instruments. They don't appreciate our needs yet," he added.
The same is true of the church, which gives less thought to how the traditional art can be preserved, while in fact such dances have become its basic requirement. The church has determined to use local art as a means of religious propagation.
Sadly, no aid and other attention have been given for the continued existence of the performances, which are also performed by teenagers in some families.
In consolation, the government has devoted some attention by deciding to include regional dances and songs in the extracurricular programs of primary and upper school levels.
For weaving art, aid has also been made available to weaving groups at low rates of interest.
Meanwhile, better communications and transportation facilities have made the 11,845-square-kilometer island's culture more accessible to outsiders.
Sumba is also identical with its beautiful woven textiles. These handicrafts incorporate unique processes that involve motif design, choice of color, fabric treatment for storage and washing, as well as marketing.
For the nobility, the fabrics have crocodile and turtle motifs to symbolize magnificence, influence and grandeur, which has been preserved by convention.
With increasing demand, though, many craftsmen try to cut corners by mixing colors with chemicals, which can lower product quality and uniqueness.
"If only they used traditional materials derived from plant roots; the quality of woven Sumba fabric would be maintained," Hendrik concluded in a tone of concern.
Emanuel Dapa Loka, Contributor, Bekasi
Something disturbs Hendrik Pali when it comes to the culture of his ancestral land, Sumba, East Nusa Tenggara province.
He has witnessed with his own eyes how the place receives inadequate attention from society in general, the government and the church.
"Owing to extreme poverty, Sumba people choose to gather grass for their horses or to take care of their plantations instead of participating in dancing exercises, for instance," said Hendrik.
The simple logic is that first the stomach has to be satisfied before esthetic matters can be appreciated.
Hendrik compared the situation with his experience when he was a member of the dance troupe of (the late) Bagong Kussudiardjo in Yogyakarta.
There he noticed professional values at work. "Instructors were given a cash reward and trainees had to pay monthly contributions. That reflected public awareness and support," recalled Hendrik, 59, owner of the Ori Angu (Embracing Friends) dance studio he set up in 1980.
It is impossible for his group, with school dropouts as members, to imitate the sophistication of Bagong's management. Consequently, his 30 or so students train in traditional dance and new works free of charge.
Originally concentrating on dancing, his studio later expanded its activities to cover weaving for the supply of dance costumes and scarves.
With his studio already established for 25 years, Hendrik continues to be a lone fighter working without adequate aid. Despite his enormous spirit, bright ideas and lavish energy devoted to the preservation of local culture, he sometimes feels helpless in the absence of financial support.
"Fortunately, some tourists often visit us to help our survival. Once we were almost forced to close down," he said, seriously.
Just as he was about to give up, Hendrik related, the words struck him: "If you close your studio, who else is willing to care about this culture?"
As though in the middle of a dialog, he said to himself, "You're right! Culture is a nation's mirror image, without which it would be uncivilized. Isn't it we ourselves that must do something about it?"
Apart from that, Hendrik has maintained his group because dancing has been a long-time hobby.
Born and brought up in East Sumba with its observance of custom rituals, he has been familiar with dance since childhood. His six children share his talent without the benefit of special training.
"They are instinctively capable of dancing," noted the former primary school teacher now promoted as school supervisor.
In his observation, the government has, for a long time, paid almost no heed to Sumba's art and culture, now left to grow like paddy surviving amid weeds.
The government, he says, should support troupes such as Ori Angu, which is only proper because the local administration has always sought his help when it holds ceremonies with regional dances and songs.
East Sumba has various dances, five of which form the basic part of the local performing art: kabokang, kadingang, haramu, wulumanu and putiliku. From these standard dances, new choreographed works have been created for particular purposes such as welcoming guests, making offerings or conducting religious worship, processions and harvest festivals.
However, his preparedness to fulfill such requests requires sacrifices. With his team and dance equipment sent to celebrate official events, he has frequently received only words of gratitude.
"The authorities should provide aid for our costumes and musical instruments. They don't appreciate our needs yet," he added.
The same is true of the church, which gives less thought to how the traditional art can be preserved, while in fact such dances have become its basic requirement. The church has determined to use local art as a means of religious propagation.
Sadly, no aid and other attention have been given for the continued existence of the performances, which are also performed by teenagers in some families.
In consolation, the government has devoted some attention by deciding to include regional dances and songs in the extracurricular programs of primary and upper school levels.
For weaving art, aid has also been made available to weaving groups at low rates of interest.
Meanwhile, better communications and transportation facilities have made the 11,845-square-kilometer island's culture more accessible to outsiders.
Sumba is also identical with its beautiful woven textiles. These handicrafts incorporate unique processes that involve motif design, choice of color, fabric treatment for storage and washing, as well as marketing.
For the nobility, the fabrics have crocodile and turtle motifs to symbolize magnificence, influence and grandeur, which has been preserved by convention.
With increasing demand, though, many craftsmen try to cut corners by mixing colors with chemicals, which can lower product quality and uniqueness.
"If only they used traditional materials derived from plant roots; the quality of woven Sumba fabric would be maintained," Hendrik concluded in a tone of concern.
23.4.06
Mary Northmore-Aziz: The 'Western woman' in Abdul Aziz's art
Kadek Krishna Adidharma, Contributor, Ubud, Bali
Having been burned twice, skepticism is natural when it comes to matters of the heart. Talking to Mary Northmore-Aziz about her three-year journey researching and writing her late husband's biography, however, has led to a rekindling of faith: there is such a thing called love after all -- and some things are just meant to be.
Born on August 5th, 1949, in a small town called Taunton in Somerset, England, appreciation for art and love brought Mary to the artist community of Ubud in Bali, where she founded the Seniwati Gallery of Art by Women.
Visiting Mary at her home in Bali -- a house given to her late husband in exchange for a painting -- a brief tour of the property seems to cover a vast space of gardens, rooms, workshops and idyllic secluded areas.
The interview is conducted in the living room in full view of Hunger Strike, a favorite painting of a Balinese girl, so named because of what Mary did to obtain her.
Mary looks tired. She has just arrived back from a trip to Jakarta presenting the biography of her late husband Abdul Aziz: The Artist and His Art.
The intent is to inquire what it was like to write such a personal biography, but as she talks, an initial sorrow gives way to thoughtfulness and enthusiasm as she talks about Aziz. It seems Mary has her own story to tell.
"I came to Bali against my will," joked Mary.
Back in 1983, when her friends suggested coming to Bali, she retorted, "I don't like surfing or drinking that much, why should I go to Bali?"
The answer still rings in her memory today: "The art, darling, the art! You must visit Ubud!"
She was to take her last holiday from a position as Assistant Director of Studies, in which she organized teaching resources for the British Council in Hong Kong. The organization then had up to 16,000 students studying English as a second language.
Four years in Hong Kong, working a 15-hour day, 7-day week, broken up by extravagant parties and alcohol consumption, was starting to take its toll. Escaping the dense population and lack of green spaces, Mary journeyed two decades ago to a Bali with its green-to-golden terraced paddies, sleepy villages, and thriving artist community.
Little did she know that a dentist friend would introduce her to the simple man who would become her companion, an accomplished artist who had foreseen her in his art.
Like her, this soft-spoken Javanese man had spent several years in Italy, spoke Italian and had a great passion for art and travel. Perhaps Raden Abdulaziz Sumadihardja -- better known as Abdul Aziz -- a 10th-generation descendant of Kangdjeng Susuhunan Prabu Mangkurat Hagung Mataram, was the prince of her dreams, as she was in his.
Mary and Aziz met late in life, she in her 30s and he in his 50s. Neither had married previously. Both enjoyed their privacy, so they took their time getting to know each other. They courted long-distance for five years while Mary studied for her Masters degree in England, and from a closer range after she moved to Indonesia.
"In those days, (a Masters) involved doing three modules and a thesis, so I did the three modules in 20 weeks and came back to Bali to write my thesis. It soon became evident to me that my objective was to hang out in Bali. I had saved enough in Hong Kong for one year in England, but after 5 months I came to Bali with more than enough for a year in Bali -- especially with Aziz buying me lunch all the time," recalled Mary.
She went on to teach English in Bandung, West Java, with frequent weekends in Bali, and the two eventually got married in 1988 -- when Aziz was almost 60 years old.
The newlyweds enjoyed their privacy so much it took years before the people of Ubud, where they settled, realized they were husband and wife.
"It gave Ubud something to talk about," said Mary.
With his support, Mary established the first studio in Southeast Asia to display exclusively the work of women painters, giving space to those who had not been given a chance for exposure.
Of her late husband, Mary admitted, "I knew the result (of xxx)." And having written his biography, "I have a better understanding of the journey."
A year after Aziz died, Mary pulled herself out of an extended period of mourning and decided to write his biography. She spent three years researching his childhood, his life as an Indonesian Independence fighter, and his student years in Europe, as well as his life as an artist in Bali before they met.
"I regret I didn't know the young Aziz. He must have been amazing, full of ideas, not having time to sleep because he had so much inspiration," she said. "These young men of Aziz's generation were the lifeline of Indonesia. The fought for something they truly believed in."
"If you visit the graveyards of the heroes of Indonesia's revolution, you will see that those heroes who fought for Indonesia's freedom were mostly less than 25 years of age."
She was referring to the period of struggle between Indonesia's declaration of independence in 1945 and its acceptance by the Dutch and the United Nations in 1952, during which the nation's fledgling army fought against the Dutch forces trying to reoccupy Indonesia.
"I was surprised to see many Japanese names among those heroes -- Japanese who married locals, who decided to stay in Bali after the Second World War -- many of who also adopted Balinese names.
"Now you just don't see that commitment to nationalism. Aziz's time was a glorious time, when the youth of Indonesia did everything they could so that Indonesia could be free."
This is evident in Aziz's early art. His depiction of the revolution highlights the nurturing character of the men, in the way they comfort the women, cradle babies and play with children as they look out to a brighter future.
Later in life, Aziz hardly ever painted, choosing to make violins instead.
"I sense that Abdul Aziz could have found it disheartening how (heroes of Indonesia's independence and revolution) were let down with the subsequent corruption," said Mary.
"But I think it was more than that. The art buyers were different. A man I met during my research told me how he had begged to buy a painting when he was visiting Bali as a young diplomat. Aziz refused, so he came to visit and talked with Aziz from morning to night, two days in a row. Eventually, he walked away with not just the painting he had begged for, but also two others -- for a mere $40!
"Towards the 'nineties, (Aziz) had very insistent buyers offering exorbitant prices. One in particular struck me as crass -- she wanted to purchase a corner of Aziz's painting because that was the only part she liked."
During her detective work hunting down clues to her husband's past and work, many surprises awaited Mary. One that still sticks in her mind today is the recurring theme of the "Western woman".
As a child in Purwokerto, seeing the local dentist with a Caucasian wife, Aziz had apparently told his brother, "I want one of those when I grow up." Early portraits of Javanese women by Aziz often show his subjects with distinctly "Western" poses or facial features.
After they were married, she was once introduced to an old friend of Aziz's as Mary. "Of course!" the friend replied, and took her to view a 1967 painting of a beauty in a Balinese temple dress. "This must be you," he said.
"I'm still trying to work it out, said Mary. "How come there was a Mary -- before Italy -- and (a presence) even stronger after?"
"Why did he wait for me?"
The answer, perhaps, is written in Italian next to Aziz's signature on a pencil sketch titled Who Am I?: You are intelligent/Your heart is sweet/You seem unaware/Because you are simple/And you are like me.
Having been burned twice, skepticism is natural when it comes to matters of the heart. Talking to Mary Northmore-Aziz about her three-year journey researching and writing her late husband's biography, however, has led to a rekindling of faith: there is such a thing called love after all -- and some things are just meant to be.
Born on August 5th, 1949, in a small town called Taunton in Somerset, England, appreciation for art and love brought Mary to the artist community of Ubud in Bali, where she founded the Seniwati Gallery of Art by Women.
Visiting Mary at her home in Bali -- a house given to her late husband in exchange for a painting -- a brief tour of the property seems to cover a vast space of gardens, rooms, workshops and idyllic secluded areas.
The interview is conducted in the living room in full view of Hunger Strike, a favorite painting of a Balinese girl, so named because of what Mary did to obtain her.
Mary looks tired. She has just arrived back from a trip to Jakarta presenting the biography of her late husband Abdul Aziz: The Artist and His Art.
The intent is to inquire what it was like to write such a personal biography, but as she talks, an initial sorrow gives way to thoughtfulness and enthusiasm as she talks about Aziz. It seems Mary has her own story to tell.
"I came to Bali against my will," joked Mary.
Back in 1983, when her friends suggested coming to Bali, she retorted, "I don't like surfing or drinking that much, why should I go to Bali?"
The answer still rings in her memory today: "The art, darling, the art! You must visit Ubud!"
She was to take her last holiday from a position as Assistant Director of Studies, in which she organized teaching resources for the British Council in Hong Kong. The organization then had up to 16,000 students studying English as a second language.
Four years in Hong Kong, working a 15-hour day, 7-day week, broken up by extravagant parties and alcohol consumption, was starting to take its toll. Escaping the dense population and lack of green spaces, Mary journeyed two decades ago to a Bali with its green-to-golden terraced paddies, sleepy villages, and thriving artist community.
Little did she know that a dentist friend would introduce her to the simple man who would become her companion, an accomplished artist who had foreseen her in his art.
Like her, this soft-spoken Javanese man had spent several years in Italy, spoke Italian and had a great passion for art and travel. Perhaps Raden Abdulaziz Sumadihardja -- better known as Abdul Aziz -- a 10th-generation descendant of Kangdjeng Susuhunan Prabu Mangkurat Hagung Mataram, was the prince of her dreams, as she was in his.
Mary and Aziz met late in life, she in her 30s and he in his 50s. Neither had married previously. Both enjoyed their privacy, so they took their time getting to know each other. They courted long-distance for five years while Mary studied for her Masters degree in England, and from a closer range after she moved to Indonesia.
"In those days, (a Masters) involved doing three modules and a thesis, so I did the three modules in 20 weeks and came back to Bali to write my thesis. It soon became evident to me that my objective was to hang out in Bali. I had saved enough in Hong Kong for one year in England, but after 5 months I came to Bali with more than enough for a year in Bali -- especially with Aziz buying me lunch all the time," recalled Mary.
She went on to teach English in Bandung, West Java, with frequent weekends in Bali, and the two eventually got married in 1988 -- when Aziz was almost 60 years old.
The newlyweds enjoyed their privacy so much it took years before the people of Ubud, where they settled, realized they were husband and wife.
"It gave Ubud something to talk about," said Mary.
With his support, Mary established the first studio in Southeast Asia to display exclusively the work of women painters, giving space to those who had not been given a chance for exposure.
Of her late husband, Mary admitted, "I knew the result (of xxx)." And having written his biography, "I have a better understanding of the journey."
A year after Aziz died, Mary pulled herself out of an extended period of mourning and decided to write his biography. She spent three years researching his childhood, his life as an Indonesian Independence fighter, and his student years in Europe, as well as his life as an artist in Bali before they met.
"I regret I didn't know the young Aziz. He must have been amazing, full of ideas, not having time to sleep because he had so much inspiration," she said. "These young men of Aziz's generation were the lifeline of Indonesia. The fought for something they truly believed in."
"If you visit the graveyards of the heroes of Indonesia's revolution, you will see that those heroes who fought for Indonesia's freedom were mostly less than 25 years of age."
She was referring to the period of struggle between Indonesia's declaration of independence in 1945 and its acceptance by the Dutch and the United Nations in 1952, during which the nation's fledgling army fought against the Dutch forces trying to reoccupy Indonesia.
"I was surprised to see many Japanese names among those heroes -- Japanese who married locals, who decided to stay in Bali after the Second World War -- many of who also adopted Balinese names.
"Now you just don't see that commitment to nationalism. Aziz's time was a glorious time, when the youth of Indonesia did everything they could so that Indonesia could be free."
This is evident in Aziz's early art. His depiction of the revolution highlights the nurturing character of the men, in the way they comfort the women, cradle babies and play with children as they look out to a brighter future.
Later in life, Aziz hardly ever painted, choosing to make violins instead.
"I sense that Abdul Aziz could have found it disheartening how (heroes of Indonesia's independence and revolution) were let down with the subsequent corruption," said Mary.
"But I think it was more than that. The art buyers were different. A man I met during my research told me how he had begged to buy a painting when he was visiting Bali as a young diplomat. Aziz refused, so he came to visit and talked with Aziz from morning to night, two days in a row. Eventually, he walked away with not just the painting he had begged for, but also two others -- for a mere $40!
"Towards the 'nineties, (Aziz) had very insistent buyers offering exorbitant prices. One in particular struck me as crass -- she wanted to purchase a corner of Aziz's painting because that was the only part she liked."
During her detective work hunting down clues to her husband's past and work, many surprises awaited Mary. One that still sticks in her mind today is the recurring theme of the "Western woman".
As a child in Purwokerto, seeing the local dentist with a Caucasian wife, Aziz had apparently told his brother, "I want one of those when I grow up." Early portraits of Javanese women by Aziz often show his subjects with distinctly "Western" poses or facial features.
After they were married, she was once introduced to an old friend of Aziz's as Mary. "Of course!" the friend replied, and took her to view a 1967 painting of a beauty in a Balinese temple dress. "This must be you," he said.
"I'm still trying to work it out, said Mary. "How come there was a Mary -- before Italy -- and (a presence) even stronger after?"
"Why did he wait for me?"
The answer, perhaps, is written in Italian next to Aziz's signature on a pencil sketch titled Who Am I?: You are intelligent/Your heart is sweet/You seem unaware/Because you are simple/And you are like me.
10.4.06
Blending cultures begets child of tomorrow
Evi Mariani
Diversity is a challenge faced by everyone. But for this young couple and their 18-month-old offspring, diversity is a way of life as they navigate the trepidations of accommodating three different cultural backgrounds and three faiths.
Minutes after Nayanda was taken from her mother's womb and put in a crib, her uncle whispered "Allahu akbar, ashaduanna Muhammadarrasullullah" into the right ear of the happy father, who in turn spoke the words into the baby girl's right ear.
Behind the uncle and the father, a group of eager relatives waited for their first peek of the baby.
There was Nayanda's Balinese grandmother and Chinese-Indonesian grandmother, her Muslim, Hindu and Catholic relatives, who had been waiting for her to be delivered for hours that night at a hospital in South Jakarta.
Nayanda Amarasriwasiti, who was given the Chinese name Zhu Hui Li, was born into a colorful family 18 months ago.
Though still a toddler, Naya has been exposed to a wider range of cultural and religious traditions than most adults.
When she was six months old, Balinese prays were recited by Hindu priests to ensure she would have a bright future.
Six months later, on Chinese New Year earlier this year, she donned a cute red cheongsam to receive hugs, kisses and the traditional ang pau (money in red envelope for health and fortune) from her grandparents in Bandung.
Occasionally, with her parents, she takes part in a religious gathering with her mother's Minangkabau (West Sumatra) Muslim side of the family.
Every day she is taught basic courtesy on being a good Muslim. With persistent patience her mother teaches her, little by little, to say alhamdullilah (praise be to God) and assalamualaikum (may God be with you) as well as how to conducts prays (shalat).
Her mother, Fifi Luckita, 31, is the third child of a mixed marriage of a Minang father, who died when she was only six, and Balinese mother, who died this year. Meanwhile, Naya's father, Rudy "Dodo" Sofian, 34, is the first child of a Catholic Chinese-Indonesian family.
The couple met in 1999, when the company where Fifi worked built an office building in Central Jakarta. Dodo was the interior designer for the office.
It took them only months to decide to marry.
"I was a Muslim and he was a Catholic. I myself did not see it as a problem because I was born into a colorful family. My mother was a Hindu who converted to Islam when she married my father," Fifi said.
However, Fifi's extended family from her father's side hails from Minangkabau and is known for their strictness in religion. So she told Dodo it could be a problem that he was Catholic.
The Minang family, it was said, had once rejected a marriage proposal because of religious differences.
"But he (Dodo) told me he would convert to Islam," Fifi said.
Dodo has never been staunchly religious -- a man with the kind of spiritual confidence who regards all religions as having equally beneficial objectives. Therefore, converting to Islam was no big deal for him.
Nevertheless, he was gripped with anxiousness when it came time to inform his parents in Bandung, West Java, and reveal not only his intention to marry a woman of a different ethnic background, but also convert to her religion.
Would his father, a deacon at a local Catholic church, be understanding?
At his parents' house Dodo sat in silence in the living-cum-dining room, gathering the courage to break the news.
"Pa, what if I convert to Islam?"
His father remained silent, his face not betraying whatever emotion may have flared inside.
As if trying to delay the inevitable, the father did not look at Dodo and instead continued going about his business in the same room until, at last he rose and disappeared into the kitchen.
One can only imagine the quiet emotional flurry erupting between the pots, pans and dishes.
For Dodo it was a painstaking endless wait. Eventually eternity ended and Dodo's father emerged from the kitchen, his manner foreboding, still not looking at Dodo.
What came from his mouth was wise in its simplicity: "You're an adult. You decide what's best for you."
That was the only reply Dodo got.
"All at once it felt like a heavy burden had been lifted," Dodo remembered.
Once he had received his father's consent, Dodo knew he would not encounter resistance from his mother. Later, without too much difficulty, his parents agreed to go to Jakarta to as party of the proposal party visiting Fifi parents.
Meet the family
In Indonesia, a wedding and the time leading up to it is often a nightmare for couples. Weddings are not a simple case of the bride and groom exchanging vows, but rather a social event involving the whole extended family.
Weddings of the same culture-ethnic background are often a headache, so one can imagine the trepidations of a ceremony involving widely differing cultures.
Dodo and Fifi's wedding was the first for their respective parents, thus experience was not something they could count upon.
Dodo's family -- which included aunts and uncles -- drove all the way from Bandung to Jakarta for the proposal ceremony.
On the drive to Fifi's house, one of Dodo's aunts who rode in the same vehicle repeatedly played Christian hymns on the car stereo.
"She did not say anything, but I knew she disapproved of my decision to leave behind Christianity," Dodo said.
Despite the silent disapproval of some, the whole family displayed unity and was nevertheless as supportive as they could be. Bringing fruit and Chinese fortune cakes, they could only guess at how this cross-cultural proposal would be conducted.
However, no one really knew what to expect from the future in-laws. Although some of the aunts had witnessed other proposal ceremonies, they had not encountered a cross-cultural nuance to one before.
At the same time, Fifi's Balinese family, having waited in her house in South Jakarta, was also a bit confused about the process of proposal ceremony.
The elderly family members had instructed one of the uncles acting as host to let Dodo's family speak first, so it would give the impression that Fifi's family were intent on the marriage.
What transpired has for Fifi and Dodo become an amusing memory, albeit a little regretful.
"For half an hour they spoke in circles. Full of pleasantries without really getting to the point," Fifi recollected.
"Meanwhile, my father, who was supposed to talk, was awkwardly silent," Dodo added.
Finally, Dodo's eldest aunt took the initiative by saying that they had come a long way from Bandung to ask for Fifi's hand in marriage.
After the aunt finished her speech, Dodo's father at last uttered his first words, a direct and brisk sentence: "So, do you accept the proposal?"
"I felt like lurching to the floor upon hearing such a curt sentence," Dodo remarked with a smile.
Later, Fifi was brought out and seated in the middle of the room full of guests.
From her "hot seat", she could hear Dodo's aunts whispering the Sundanese word for white, "bodas, bodas", referring to the color of Fifi's skin. Although she is not Sundanese, Fifi understands a bit of Sundanese.
Dodo's mother and the aunties are kind and amiable people. However, most of them had limited experience in closely relating to those of non-Chinese ethnicity. Hence their views are often painted by typical racial profiling, views formed not due to hostility, but because of ignorance and habit.
White-skin obsessed -- just like many people in this country -- they were reluctant to have a relative with darker skin, which they considered less beautiful than their own Chinese fair skin.
It was somewhat a relief to Fifi that she had gained initial approval from Dodo's mother and aunts, even if it was because of her fair skin. It also helped that several relatives remarked on the distinctive shape of her nose, which Chinese called 'hoki' (bringing fortune). The fact that Fifi's family house was a well maintained modern dwelling only solidified perceptions that she came from a well-off family.
With the proposal out of the way, next came all the challenges of preparing the wedding, which was set for three months later.
Because Dodo and Fifi had long been financially independent from their parents, they had the luxury of being able to plan the February 2000 wedding themselves without too much interference from the families.
Being an admirer of Balinese culture, Dodo agreed for it to be carried out in line with Balinese custom, and to dress up in Balinese costume.
But nothing would be simple in this marriage.
To respect the Minangkabau side of Fifi's family, they also agreed to dress in traditional West Sumatra wedding costumes in the morning during the actual marriage ceremony in front of a penghulu (religious leader).
But Dodo's family eventually also insisted that some cultural Chinese rituals be included.
"Days before the wedding, my mother insisted on having a Chinese ritual. After examining the schedule we agreed to hold the te pai ritual in the afternoon," Dodo said.
Te pai is a ritual where the bride and groom serve Chinese tea to elderly relatives, who give ang pau to bless the couple.
Dressed in Balinese wedding attire, Fifi and Dodo stood, served tea and bowed to the seated elderly relatives.
"We actually wanted to wear a Chinese wedding costume for te pai. But my Balinese costume was so complicated and heavy on the head. It would have been really difficult for me to change three times," Fifi said.
Despite all the differences, and some glitches, everybody left happy that night.
The Minangkabau family even gave Dodo the honorary title of Sutan Pandeka Mudo (Young Knight).
"I don't know why they chose that title. Perhaps it was because I dauntlessly overcame all the obstacles in marrying Fifi," a grinning Dodo remarked.
"The marriage was the first mixed marriage among my generation in the family. I think it somehow set a good precedent in my extended family because two other mixed marriages followed," Fifi added.
Through it all the cross-cultural experience somehow helped shed ethnic prejudices among the Chinese-Indonesian family. They learned to see that good and bad exist irrespective of ethnicity.
Building a family
Uncles, aunts and cousins may have had a lot to say in the run-up to the wedding, but when all the ceremonies were over Dodo and Fifi were left with just each other to face the daily tribulations of making a "mixed marriage" work.
Despite coming from different cultural and religious backgrounds, the two have much in common. They both grew up in a middle-income family living in a multicultural urban environment. Moreover, both are educated professionals.
The first year of their marriage was filled with common problems faced by any other newlyweds getting over the honeymoon hangover.
"I went through the first years of the marriage not expecting anything too ambitious," Fifi said, referring to their financial state at the beginning.
For the first two years the couple lived in a room in a boardinghouse in West Jakarta.
Fifi had a secure job with a steady income, while Dodo was starting his own interior design consultancy firm.
Armed with a facsimile machine, drawing tools and a pile of name cards and contacts, Dodo and Fifi decided to pool their resources to build up the consultancy.
Their company has grown from originally employing just three people to more than 15.
Four years after the wedding, they had Naya, who has become the central preoccupation of the couple.
With material needs taken care of, the couple inevitably faced the awkward decision on the issue of their child's faith.
"I never force Dodo to pray. If he does, I want it to be truly from his heart," Fifi said.
Dodo admits that he really only prays during major religious events -- Idul Fitri, Idul Adha etc. During Ramadhan he fasts. But he does no more than that, such as learn to read the Koran.
He quietly keeps issues of religion to himself, rising up as a Muslim primarily during social occasions.
Fifi, because of her colorful background, is also not the most devout of religious practitioners. However, she admits to being eager to learn more about her religion.
"I have a lot of questions about Islam. I was taught about sin and punishment, and told about how non-Muslims wouldn't gain a place in heaven," Fifi said.
"I could never understand that because I grew up among Hindu relatives. They are all kind and good people. I could not understand why they would not go to heaven," she added.
Fifi began Koran lessons with neighbors, who invited an ustadz (religious teacher) to instruct them.
"Each time Dodo would ask what I'd learned from the ustadz, and we would discuss it at length," she said.
Eventually they decided some of the teachings were bizarre, so Dodo suggested she find another teacher.
Later, Fifi read a newspaper article written by an Islamic teacher from Nurcholis Majid's Paramadina Foundation.
"The title was Inclusive Islam. I liked the article so I dialed 108 to find Paramadina's number," she said.
She got information that Paramadina offered Islamic classes on various topics like fiqih (Islamic jurisprudence), and religion and violence.
When she told her husband, Dodo also showed interested and they eventually ended up taking classes together.
"Some of the teachings are controversial for conservative Muslims," Dodo said. "The teachers said that all religions have the same objective. I know that some Muslims find that mind-boggling."
"Some of my neighbors reprimanded me for taking the course at Paramadina. They said they were wrongful teachings," Fifi said.
By then the couple had already decided to raise their daughter as a Muslim.
"I'm not worried even if her father does not know how to recite the Koran. She can learn these things from Islamic teachers. And besides, compared to myself, Dodo has more extensive knowledge about the history of Islam," Fifi said.
"What is important to me is for Naya to grow up to be a tolerant Muslim," she said. "I don't know what my reaction would be if she married a hard-liner when she grows up, a man with a beard and all. I don't think I'd mind as long as he respected Naya's colorful family," Fifi surmised.
No one knows for certain what kind of challenges Naya will face when she grows up and starts to question her identity.
Given her parents' background, it would not be surprising if she becomes yet another Indonesian respectful of this great country's pluralism: respect for other's differences without necessarily changing their identities and beliefs.
Four decades from now, when Indonesia commemorates its first centenary, Naya will have grown up and made something of herself, hopefully one of her generation's vanguards in building a true multicultural nation.
Diversity is a challenge faced by everyone. But for this young couple and their 18-month-old offspring, diversity is a way of life as they navigate the trepidations of accommodating three different cultural backgrounds and three faiths.
Minutes after Nayanda was taken from her mother's womb and put in a crib, her uncle whispered "Allahu akbar, ashaduanna Muhammadarrasullullah" into the right ear of the happy father, who in turn spoke the words into the baby girl's right ear.
Behind the uncle and the father, a group of eager relatives waited for their first peek of the baby.
There was Nayanda's Balinese grandmother and Chinese-Indonesian grandmother, her Muslim, Hindu and Catholic relatives, who had been waiting for her to be delivered for hours that night at a hospital in South Jakarta.
Nayanda Amarasriwasiti, who was given the Chinese name Zhu Hui Li, was born into a colorful family 18 months ago.
Though still a toddler, Naya has been exposed to a wider range of cultural and religious traditions than most adults.
When she was six months old, Balinese prays were recited by Hindu priests to ensure she would have a bright future.
Six months later, on Chinese New Year earlier this year, she donned a cute red cheongsam to receive hugs, kisses and the traditional ang pau (money in red envelope for health and fortune) from her grandparents in Bandung.
Occasionally, with her parents, she takes part in a religious gathering with her mother's Minangkabau (West Sumatra) Muslim side of the family.
Every day she is taught basic courtesy on being a good Muslim. With persistent patience her mother teaches her, little by little, to say alhamdullilah (praise be to God) and assalamualaikum (may God be with you) as well as how to conducts prays (shalat).
Her mother, Fifi Luckita, 31, is the third child of a mixed marriage of a Minang father, who died when she was only six, and Balinese mother, who died this year. Meanwhile, Naya's father, Rudy "Dodo" Sofian, 34, is the first child of a Catholic Chinese-Indonesian family.
The couple met in 1999, when the company where Fifi worked built an office building in Central Jakarta. Dodo was the interior designer for the office.
It took them only months to decide to marry.
"I was a Muslim and he was a Catholic. I myself did not see it as a problem because I was born into a colorful family. My mother was a Hindu who converted to Islam when she married my father," Fifi said.
However, Fifi's extended family from her father's side hails from Minangkabau and is known for their strictness in religion. So she told Dodo it could be a problem that he was Catholic.
The Minang family, it was said, had once rejected a marriage proposal because of religious differences.
"But he (Dodo) told me he would convert to Islam," Fifi said.
Dodo has never been staunchly religious -- a man with the kind of spiritual confidence who regards all religions as having equally beneficial objectives. Therefore, converting to Islam was no big deal for him.
Nevertheless, he was gripped with anxiousness when it came time to inform his parents in Bandung, West Java, and reveal not only his intention to marry a woman of a different ethnic background, but also convert to her religion.
Would his father, a deacon at a local Catholic church, be understanding?
At his parents' house Dodo sat in silence in the living-cum-dining room, gathering the courage to break the news.
"Pa, what if I convert to Islam?"
His father remained silent, his face not betraying whatever emotion may have flared inside.
As if trying to delay the inevitable, the father did not look at Dodo and instead continued going about his business in the same room until, at last he rose and disappeared into the kitchen.
One can only imagine the quiet emotional flurry erupting between the pots, pans and dishes.
For Dodo it was a painstaking endless wait. Eventually eternity ended and Dodo's father emerged from the kitchen, his manner foreboding, still not looking at Dodo.
What came from his mouth was wise in its simplicity: "You're an adult. You decide what's best for you."
That was the only reply Dodo got.
"All at once it felt like a heavy burden had been lifted," Dodo remembered.
Once he had received his father's consent, Dodo knew he would not encounter resistance from his mother. Later, without too much difficulty, his parents agreed to go to Jakarta to as party of the proposal party visiting Fifi parents.
Meet the family
In Indonesia, a wedding and the time leading up to it is often a nightmare for couples. Weddings are not a simple case of the bride and groom exchanging vows, but rather a social event involving the whole extended family.
Weddings of the same culture-ethnic background are often a headache, so one can imagine the trepidations of a ceremony involving widely differing cultures.
Dodo and Fifi's wedding was the first for their respective parents, thus experience was not something they could count upon.
Dodo's family -- which included aunts and uncles -- drove all the way from Bandung to Jakarta for the proposal ceremony.
On the drive to Fifi's house, one of Dodo's aunts who rode in the same vehicle repeatedly played Christian hymns on the car stereo.
"She did not say anything, but I knew she disapproved of my decision to leave behind Christianity," Dodo said.
Despite the silent disapproval of some, the whole family displayed unity and was nevertheless as supportive as they could be. Bringing fruit and Chinese fortune cakes, they could only guess at how this cross-cultural proposal would be conducted.
However, no one really knew what to expect from the future in-laws. Although some of the aunts had witnessed other proposal ceremonies, they had not encountered a cross-cultural nuance to one before.
At the same time, Fifi's Balinese family, having waited in her house in South Jakarta, was also a bit confused about the process of proposal ceremony.
The elderly family members had instructed one of the uncles acting as host to let Dodo's family speak first, so it would give the impression that Fifi's family were intent on the marriage.
What transpired has for Fifi and Dodo become an amusing memory, albeit a little regretful.
"For half an hour they spoke in circles. Full of pleasantries without really getting to the point," Fifi recollected.
"Meanwhile, my father, who was supposed to talk, was awkwardly silent," Dodo added.
Finally, Dodo's eldest aunt took the initiative by saying that they had come a long way from Bandung to ask for Fifi's hand in marriage.
After the aunt finished her speech, Dodo's father at last uttered his first words, a direct and brisk sentence: "So, do you accept the proposal?"
"I felt like lurching to the floor upon hearing such a curt sentence," Dodo remarked with a smile.
Later, Fifi was brought out and seated in the middle of the room full of guests.
From her "hot seat", she could hear Dodo's aunts whispering the Sundanese word for white, "bodas, bodas", referring to the color of Fifi's skin. Although she is not Sundanese, Fifi understands a bit of Sundanese.
Dodo's mother and the aunties are kind and amiable people. However, most of them had limited experience in closely relating to those of non-Chinese ethnicity. Hence their views are often painted by typical racial profiling, views formed not due to hostility, but because of ignorance and habit.
White-skin obsessed -- just like many people in this country -- they were reluctant to have a relative with darker skin, which they considered less beautiful than their own Chinese fair skin.
It was somewhat a relief to Fifi that she had gained initial approval from Dodo's mother and aunts, even if it was because of her fair skin. It also helped that several relatives remarked on the distinctive shape of her nose, which Chinese called 'hoki' (bringing fortune). The fact that Fifi's family house was a well maintained modern dwelling only solidified perceptions that she came from a well-off family.
With the proposal out of the way, next came all the challenges of preparing the wedding, which was set for three months later.
Because Dodo and Fifi had long been financially independent from their parents, they had the luxury of being able to plan the February 2000 wedding themselves without too much interference from the families.
Being an admirer of Balinese culture, Dodo agreed for it to be carried out in line with Balinese custom, and to dress up in Balinese costume.
But nothing would be simple in this marriage.
To respect the Minangkabau side of Fifi's family, they also agreed to dress in traditional West Sumatra wedding costumes in the morning during the actual marriage ceremony in front of a penghulu (religious leader).
But Dodo's family eventually also insisted that some cultural Chinese rituals be included.
"Days before the wedding, my mother insisted on having a Chinese ritual. After examining the schedule we agreed to hold the te pai ritual in the afternoon," Dodo said.
Te pai is a ritual where the bride and groom serve Chinese tea to elderly relatives, who give ang pau to bless the couple.
Dressed in Balinese wedding attire, Fifi and Dodo stood, served tea and bowed to the seated elderly relatives.
"We actually wanted to wear a Chinese wedding costume for te pai. But my Balinese costume was so complicated and heavy on the head. It would have been really difficult for me to change three times," Fifi said.
Despite all the differences, and some glitches, everybody left happy that night.
The Minangkabau family even gave Dodo the honorary title of Sutan Pandeka Mudo (Young Knight).
"I don't know why they chose that title. Perhaps it was because I dauntlessly overcame all the obstacles in marrying Fifi," a grinning Dodo remarked.
"The marriage was the first mixed marriage among my generation in the family. I think it somehow set a good precedent in my extended family because two other mixed marriages followed," Fifi added.
Through it all the cross-cultural experience somehow helped shed ethnic prejudices among the Chinese-Indonesian family. They learned to see that good and bad exist irrespective of ethnicity.
Building a family
Uncles, aunts and cousins may have had a lot to say in the run-up to the wedding, but when all the ceremonies were over Dodo and Fifi were left with just each other to face the daily tribulations of making a "mixed marriage" work.
Despite coming from different cultural and religious backgrounds, the two have much in common. They both grew up in a middle-income family living in a multicultural urban environment. Moreover, both are educated professionals.
The first year of their marriage was filled with common problems faced by any other newlyweds getting over the honeymoon hangover.
"I went through the first years of the marriage not expecting anything too ambitious," Fifi said, referring to their financial state at the beginning.
For the first two years the couple lived in a room in a boardinghouse in West Jakarta.
Fifi had a secure job with a steady income, while Dodo was starting his own interior design consultancy firm.
Armed with a facsimile machine, drawing tools and a pile of name cards and contacts, Dodo and Fifi decided to pool their resources to build up the consultancy.
Their company has grown from originally employing just three people to more than 15.
Four years after the wedding, they had Naya, who has become the central preoccupation of the couple.
With material needs taken care of, the couple inevitably faced the awkward decision on the issue of their child's faith.
"I never force Dodo to pray. If he does, I want it to be truly from his heart," Fifi said.
Dodo admits that he really only prays during major religious events -- Idul Fitri, Idul Adha etc. During Ramadhan he fasts. But he does no more than that, such as learn to read the Koran.
He quietly keeps issues of religion to himself, rising up as a Muslim primarily during social occasions.
Fifi, because of her colorful background, is also not the most devout of religious practitioners. However, she admits to being eager to learn more about her religion.
"I have a lot of questions about Islam. I was taught about sin and punishment, and told about how non-Muslims wouldn't gain a place in heaven," Fifi said.
"I could never understand that because I grew up among Hindu relatives. They are all kind and good people. I could not understand why they would not go to heaven," she added.
Fifi began Koran lessons with neighbors, who invited an ustadz (religious teacher) to instruct them.
"Each time Dodo would ask what I'd learned from the ustadz, and we would discuss it at length," she said.
Eventually they decided some of the teachings were bizarre, so Dodo suggested she find another teacher.
Later, Fifi read a newspaper article written by an Islamic teacher from Nurcholis Majid's Paramadina Foundation.
"The title was Inclusive Islam. I liked the article so I dialed 108 to find Paramadina's number," she said.
She got information that Paramadina offered Islamic classes on various topics like fiqih (Islamic jurisprudence), and religion and violence.
When she told her husband, Dodo also showed interested and they eventually ended up taking classes together.
"Some of the teachings are controversial for conservative Muslims," Dodo said. "The teachers said that all religions have the same objective. I know that some Muslims find that mind-boggling."
"Some of my neighbors reprimanded me for taking the course at Paramadina. They said they were wrongful teachings," Fifi said.
By then the couple had already decided to raise their daughter as a Muslim.
"I'm not worried even if her father does not know how to recite the Koran. She can learn these things from Islamic teachers. And besides, compared to myself, Dodo has more extensive knowledge about the history of Islam," Fifi said.
"What is important to me is for Naya to grow up to be a tolerant Muslim," she said. "I don't know what my reaction would be if she married a hard-liner when she grows up, a man with a beard and all. I don't think I'd mind as long as he respected Naya's colorful family," Fifi surmised.
No one knows for certain what kind of challenges Naya will face when she grows up and starts to question her identity.
Given her parents' background, it would not be surprising if she becomes yet another Indonesian respectful of this great country's pluralism: respect for other's differences without necessarily changing their identities and beliefs.
Four decades from now, when Indonesia commemorates its first centenary, Naya will have grown up and made something of herself, hopefully one of her generation's vanguards in building a true multicultural nation.
Who are the Indonesians?
Meidyatama Suryodiningrat
Since early childhood, Indonesians have been, and continue to be, taught that their country is a huge archipelago comprised of thousands of islands and hundreds of ethnic groups. It is also common knowledge that the Javanese are the largest ethnic group in the country and, not surprisingly, that the island of Java is the most populated in the country.
Beyond these facts few actually know the exact ethnic composition and distribution of these groups.
The 2000 Population Census conducted by the Central Statistics Bureau provided much insight into the make up of the Indonesian population. Further invaluable analysis was provided by Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) when in 2003 it published Indonesia's Population: Ethnicity and Religion in a Changing Political Landscape, which was planned as the first in a series of publications on the Indonesian population.
The findings of these two reports, both of which complement each other, has provided some striking knowledge about the people who inhabit the world's biggest archipelago.
What is interesting about the methodology of the BPS census is that ethnicity is defined by the respondents themselves. That it is people themselves actually choosing which ethnicity they self-identify with. Those who do not respond or cannot make up their mind are classified according to their father's bloodline.
The diversity of this country was confirmed with the finding of about 1,000 ethnic and sub-ethnic groups in the country. However most are very small. In fact only 15 of the ethnic groups have a population of over 1 million.
Omnipresent
There is no surprise that the Javanese continue to be the predominant ethnic group (Graph. 1). Combined with the Sundanese, these two ethnicities make up over 57 percent of the Indonesian population.
Such is the preponderance of the Javanese that they have a high concentration in almost all provinces. Javanese comprised of at least 15 percent of local populations in 13 of the 30 provinces surveyed by BPS in 2000.
Even outside of the island of Java, Javanese make up the largest single ethnic group in the provinces of Bengkulu, Lampung and East Kalimantan. In many other provinces they are usually only second or third to the local indigenous population in terms of size. For example, they are the second biggest ethnic group in North Sumatra comprising 32 percent of the provincial population, in Riau with 25 percent, Jambi with 27 percent, Central and South Kalimantan with 18 and 13 percent respectively.
The demographic shifts can be attributed to several factors such as transmigration, greater mobility as a result of intensified transportation infrastructure and the search for economic opportunities.
The high concentration of Javanese in many provinces supports the increased diversification of the Indonesian population. It would be a simplification nowadays to say that a particular province simply belongs to a certain ethnic group. The facts simply do not support it.
In only six provinces did the perceived indigenous population comprise more than three-quarters of the total provincial population: West Sumatra (Minangkabau); South Kalimantan (Banjarese); Yogyakarta along with Central and East Java (Javanese); and Bali (Balinese).
In other words, there is greater diversity within the peoples of any given province.
In terms of religion the numbers have generally remained consistent over the last three decades with the Muslim population accounting for 87 to 88 percent of the population. In the 2000 census over 88 percent of Indonesians chose Islam as their declared faith, followed by Christians with 8.9 percent, Hindus 1.8 percent and Buddhists with just under 1 percent.
The caveat however, is that the government only formally recorded and recognized five religions: Islam, Protestanism, Catholicism, Hinduism and Buddhism.
There little room for deviation if one prescribes to an alternative faith. Up until 1971, Confucianism was still listed in the census with a record of 0.82 percent. Since then consequent censuses have not officially recorded the numbers of those following Confucianism. In the 2000 census, those who did not prescribe to the five recognized religions were categorized as 'others' and accounted for 0.8 percent of the population.
Ethnic Chinese
Despite being so prevalent on the economic stage, repeated surveys have consistently shown that ethnic Chinese constitute a tiny minority of the population, in fact less than 1 percent.
In Indonesia's Population... by Leo Suryadinata et al, it is suggested that because the survey was based on self-identification by the respondents, many second and third generation ethnic Chinese (peranakan) considered themselves to be part the local indigenous population. Furthermore, despite the era of greater openness, some may continue to fear the stigma of being considered Chinese.
In the mid-1960s the government launched a campaign to 'indigenize' the ethnic Chinese by encouraging -- or forcing -- them to shed their Chinese names and adopt more locally sounding ones. Under President Soeharto's three-decade rule, Chinese cultural and ethnic symbols, including their celebrations, were completely forbidden. It was not until the presidency of Abdurrahman Wahid could this rich cultural heritage resurface.
Suryadinata in his study nevertheless suggests that even if the number of ethnic Chinese in the 2000 Census was inflated further to account for those who refused to identify themselves with this ethnic group, their composition would only range between 1.45 to 2.04 percent of the population.
Based on data compiled from the statistics bureau, nearly half of all ethnic Chinese are concentrated in two provinces: Jakarta and West Kalimantan. (Graph 2)
This statistical information helps show two things:
First, it confirms the diversity of the nation and illustrates the intensity of pluralism pervading all corners of the archipelago.
Second, it also exposes the fallacy of accepted 'prejudices' when talking ethnicities. People, for example, are wrong when they say that "the Chinese are everywhere" when in fact the group as a whole comprises no more than three percent of the population.
Furthermore, due to increased mobility, mixed marriages, and economic activity, it becomes increasingly difficult to make simplistic categorizations of the Bataks only living in North Sumatra, or the Dani tribe in Papua. Respective 'indigenous' populations may have historical and cultural ties born out of a particular venue, but what Indonesians are realizing is that no one group has particular exclusivity as a consequence of it.
This is the challenge of the evolving new Indonesia.
Since early childhood, Indonesians have been, and continue to be, taught that their country is a huge archipelago comprised of thousands of islands and hundreds of ethnic groups. It is also common knowledge that the Javanese are the largest ethnic group in the country and, not surprisingly, that the island of Java is the most populated in the country.
Beyond these facts few actually know the exact ethnic composition and distribution of these groups.
The 2000 Population Census conducted by the Central Statistics Bureau provided much insight into the make up of the Indonesian population. Further invaluable analysis was provided by Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) when in 2003 it published Indonesia's Population: Ethnicity and Religion in a Changing Political Landscape, which was planned as the first in a series of publications on the Indonesian population.
The findings of these two reports, both of which complement each other, has provided some striking knowledge about the people who inhabit the world's biggest archipelago.
What is interesting about the methodology of the BPS census is that ethnicity is defined by the respondents themselves. That it is people themselves actually choosing which ethnicity they self-identify with. Those who do not respond or cannot make up their mind are classified according to their father's bloodline.
The diversity of this country was confirmed with the finding of about 1,000 ethnic and sub-ethnic groups in the country. However most are very small. In fact only 15 of the ethnic groups have a population of over 1 million.
Omnipresent
There is no surprise that the Javanese continue to be the predominant ethnic group (Graph. 1). Combined with the Sundanese, these two ethnicities make up over 57 percent of the Indonesian population.
Such is the preponderance of the Javanese that they have a high concentration in almost all provinces. Javanese comprised of at least 15 percent of local populations in 13 of the 30 provinces surveyed by BPS in 2000.
Even outside of the island of Java, Javanese make up the largest single ethnic group in the provinces of Bengkulu, Lampung and East Kalimantan. In many other provinces they are usually only second or third to the local indigenous population in terms of size. For example, they are the second biggest ethnic group in North Sumatra comprising 32 percent of the provincial population, in Riau with 25 percent, Jambi with 27 percent, Central and South Kalimantan with 18 and 13 percent respectively.
The demographic shifts can be attributed to several factors such as transmigration, greater mobility as a result of intensified transportation infrastructure and the search for economic opportunities.
The high concentration of Javanese in many provinces supports the increased diversification of the Indonesian population. It would be a simplification nowadays to say that a particular province simply belongs to a certain ethnic group. The facts simply do not support it.
In only six provinces did the perceived indigenous population comprise more than three-quarters of the total provincial population: West Sumatra (Minangkabau); South Kalimantan (Banjarese); Yogyakarta along with Central and East Java (Javanese); and Bali (Balinese).
In other words, there is greater diversity within the peoples of any given province.
In terms of religion the numbers have generally remained consistent over the last three decades with the Muslim population accounting for 87 to 88 percent of the population. In the 2000 census over 88 percent of Indonesians chose Islam as their declared faith, followed by Christians with 8.9 percent, Hindus 1.8 percent and Buddhists with just under 1 percent.
The caveat however, is that the government only formally recorded and recognized five religions: Islam, Protestanism, Catholicism, Hinduism and Buddhism.
There little room for deviation if one prescribes to an alternative faith. Up until 1971, Confucianism was still listed in the census with a record of 0.82 percent. Since then consequent censuses have not officially recorded the numbers of those following Confucianism. In the 2000 census, those who did not prescribe to the five recognized religions were categorized as 'others' and accounted for 0.8 percent of the population.
Ethnic Chinese
Despite being so prevalent on the economic stage, repeated surveys have consistently shown that ethnic Chinese constitute a tiny minority of the population, in fact less than 1 percent.
In Indonesia's Population... by Leo Suryadinata et al, it is suggested that because the survey was based on self-identification by the respondents, many second and third generation ethnic Chinese (peranakan) considered themselves to be part the local indigenous population. Furthermore, despite the era of greater openness, some may continue to fear the stigma of being considered Chinese.
In the mid-1960s the government launched a campaign to 'indigenize' the ethnic Chinese by encouraging -- or forcing -- them to shed their Chinese names and adopt more locally sounding ones. Under President Soeharto's three-decade rule, Chinese cultural and ethnic symbols, including their celebrations, were completely forbidden. It was not until the presidency of Abdurrahman Wahid could this rich cultural heritage resurface.
Suryadinata in his study nevertheless suggests that even if the number of ethnic Chinese in the 2000 Census was inflated further to account for those who refused to identify themselves with this ethnic group, their composition would only range between 1.45 to 2.04 percent of the population.
Based on data compiled from the statistics bureau, nearly half of all ethnic Chinese are concentrated in two provinces: Jakarta and West Kalimantan. (Graph 2)
This statistical information helps show two things:
First, it confirms the diversity of the nation and illustrates the intensity of pluralism pervading all corners of the archipelago.
Second, it also exposes the fallacy of accepted 'prejudices' when talking ethnicities. People, for example, are wrong when they say that "the Chinese are everywhere" when in fact the group as a whole comprises no more than three percent of the population.
Furthermore, due to increased mobility, mixed marriages, and economic activity, it becomes increasingly difficult to make simplistic categorizations of the Bataks only living in North Sumatra, or the Dani tribe in Papua. Respective 'indigenous' populations may have historical and cultural ties born out of a particular venue, but what Indonesians are realizing is that no one group has particular exclusivity as a consequence of it.
This is the challenge of the evolving new Indonesia.
Pluralism -- Beyond Unity in Diversity
Editor
The Sanskrit words in the state motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, which has been loosely translated as Unity in Diversity, will no doubt be invoked as Indonesia marks the 60th anniversary of the proclamation of independence this week. Six decades is a long journey for a nation whose main trait, ever since its inception in 1945, is its diversity.
That we have stayed as one nation through all this time, in spite of forces that constantly threaten to tear us apart, is certainly worth celebrating.
But let us not forget that it has taken a lot of efforts by people with such diverse backgrounds -- from culture, ethnicity and religion to language, tradition and custom -- to make Indonesia what it is today. Most of us probably do it subconsciously. Others, because they are more exposed to diversity for one reason or another know that they have had to work extra hard to make unity in diversity work.
In this special Independence Anniversary supplement, we look into pluralism, an issue that has long been neglected but, as we shall find out from the stories in the following pages, is probably the one thing that has kept people of diverse backgrounds united.
These stories, which are written from the perspective of the characters rather than of the writers, illustrate the challenges of diversity at the grassroots level, and of the ways they overcome them.
We are gratified that they consented to take part in this mini project on pluralism, to be interviewed at length and for days, and for allowing our writers at times to intrude in their private lives, so that we get the materials from them that tell their story as honestly and effectively as possible.
One thread that runs through these stories is the message that we should not take our unity for granted. Peaceful coexistence between people of diverse backgrounds, whether they are bound together in marriage, in family, in community, in village, or town can only come if everyone strives to make things work. We all need to build the bridges that somehow connect us in spite of our differences. It may sound like a simple message, but it is an important one.
We have deliberately kept the academic discourse on pluralism to the minimum, and we thank the contributors for their part in explaining the term and its importance to Indonesia. The main part of this project on pluralism is the stories told of firsthand experiences of ordinary people coming to terms with their differences. They know of the immense challenges, and they have learned, through trial and error, to deal with them.
And what is true at the grassroots level is also true at the national level. If pluralism keeps together a marriage, a family, or a community, then it can also keep a nation united, especially one that is as diverse as Indonesia.
Indonesia has miraculously remained intact as one nation, but if it is to survive for six decades or more, merely accepting our differences will not be sufficient. We need to go further to turn every corner of this country, from Sabang to Merauke, into a better place to live for everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, culture, language, religion, gender, generation, social and economic status.
If we want to go one step beyond unity in diversity, pluralism is the way forward.
The Sanskrit words in the state motto Bhinneka Tunggal Ika, which has been loosely translated as Unity in Diversity, will no doubt be invoked as Indonesia marks the 60th anniversary of the proclamation of independence this week. Six decades is a long journey for a nation whose main trait, ever since its inception in 1945, is its diversity.
That we have stayed as one nation through all this time, in spite of forces that constantly threaten to tear us apart, is certainly worth celebrating.
But let us not forget that it has taken a lot of efforts by people with such diverse backgrounds -- from culture, ethnicity and religion to language, tradition and custom -- to make Indonesia what it is today. Most of us probably do it subconsciously. Others, because they are more exposed to diversity for one reason or another know that they have had to work extra hard to make unity in diversity work.
In this special Independence Anniversary supplement, we look into pluralism, an issue that has long been neglected but, as we shall find out from the stories in the following pages, is probably the one thing that has kept people of diverse backgrounds united.
These stories, which are written from the perspective of the characters rather than of the writers, illustrate the challenges of diversity at the grassroots level, and of the ways they overcome them.
We are gratified that they consented to take part in this mini project on pluralism, to be interviewed at length and for days, and for allowing our writers at times to intrude in their private lives, so that we get the materials from them that tell their story as honestly and effectively as possible.
One thread that runs through these stories is the message that we should not take our unity for granted. Peaceful coexistence between people of diverse backgrounds, whether they are bound together in marriage, in family, in community, in village, or town can only come if everyone strives to make things work. We all need to build the bridges that somehow connect us in spite of our differences. It may sound like a simple message, but it is an important one.
We have deliberately kept the academic discourse on pluralism to the minimum, and we thank the contributors for their part in explaining the term and its importance to Indonesia. The main part of this project on pluralism is the stories told of firsthand experiences of ordinary people coming to terms with their differences. They know of the immense challenges, and they have learned, through trial and error, to deal with them.
And what is true at the grassroots level is also true at the national level. If pluralism keeps together a marriage, a family, or a community, then it can also keep a nation united, especially one that is as diverse as Indonesia.
Indonesia has miraculously remained intact as one nation, but if it is to survive for six decades or more, merely accepting our differences will not be sufficient. We need to go further to turn every corner of this country, from Sabang to Merauke, into a better place to live for everyone, regardless of race, ethnicity, culture, language, religion, gender, generation, social and economic status.
If we want to go one step beyond unity in diversity, pluralism is the way forward.
9.4.06
Coloring the Day of Silence
Hindus in Bali and other regions across the archipelago
celebrated the Day of Silence on Thursday. Locally known as
Nyepi, the celebration also marked the new Saka year.
During Nyepi, Hindus are obliged to refrain from lighting
any fire or turning on lights (amati geni), from working
(amati karya), from traveling outside their family compound
(amati lelungan) and from pursuing leisure activities or entertainment (amati lelanguan).
The ritual in Bali -- home for the majority of Indonesian
Hindus -- was preceded by a noisy and colorful parade on
Wednesday night. Hundreds of ogoh-ogoh (papier-mache effigies)
representing evil spirits were carried on the shoulders of young
Balinese to the main streets of the capital, Denpasar.
This religious parade, Ngerupuk, is held to scare away demons
and other malicious forces, so as to usher in the forces of good.
-- JP/Kurniawan Hari
celebrated the Day of Silence on Thursday. Locally known as
Nyepi, the celebration also marked the new Saka year.
During Nyepi, Hindus are obliged to refrain from lighting
any fire or turning on lights (amati geni), from working
(amati karya), from traveling outside their family compound
(amati lelungan) and from pursuing leisure activities or entertainment (amati lelanguan).
The ritual in Bali -- home for the majority of Indonesian
Hindus -- was preceded by a noisy and colorful parade on
Wednesday night. Hundreds of ogoh-ogoh (papier-mache effigies)
representing evil spirits were carried on the shoulders of young
Balinese to the main streets of the capital, Denpasar.
This religious parade, Ngerupuk, is held to scare away demons
and other malicious forces, so as to usher in the forces of good.
-- JP/Kurniawan Hari
21.3.06
Balawan: Guitar gets recognition at home
Features - February 11, 2006
M.Taufiqurrahman, The Jakarta Post, Jakarta
Like many other geniuses who came before him, Balinese jazz guitarist I Wayan Balawan has been misunderstood by most -- in his case the uninformed public in his home country.
If well-read critics abroad consider his histrionic guitar-playing technique as an extension of the style adopted by guitar god Eddie Van Halen or renowned fusion guitarist Stanley Jordan, local people consider him a freak of nature.
Recently, the Indonesian Record Museum, the local equivalent of the Guinness Book of World Records, gave Balawan due recognition as the first person in the country to be able to simultaneously play two guitars, a veritable feat of acrobatics if nothing else.
Unbeknown to most, double guitar playing is just one of the many vehicles that Balawan uses to channel his extraordinary talent. If a regular guitarist uses one hand to press down a guitar string to prepare the note while the other hand plucks or strums a string to hit the note, Balawan has developed an uncanny method of his own. The native of Gianyar has the ability to play a special and difficult form of tapping which involves chord and bass work with the left hand and a tapped melody with the right hand, resembling piano-playing. That unique craft has won Balawan wide recognition abroad, much more than he has received in his home country.
The 33-year-old guitarist has traveled extensively in Europe, performing in some of the best music festivals on the continent. Together with Japanese guitarist Isato Nakagawa, Balawan represented Asia at the East Meets West Guitar Festival in Edenkoben, Germany, in May 2000. Later in the year, he performed with Australian guitarist Tommy Emanuel at the Open Strings Festival in Osnabrueck, Germany. In September 2001, Balawan once again represented Asia, this time at the Hell Blues Festival in Norway, where he shared the bill with Steve Morse, an axman from the Britain's legendary hard rock band Deep Purple.
At the festival, Balawan displayed his craft on a double-neck guitar so impressively that Morse asked the Balinese to give him a crash course on speed-tapping.
Acquired taste
Indeed, Balawan's technique was so outlandish that it took Sony BMG seven long years to make up its mind before finally signing the guitarist for a mainstream release. Sony BMG senior artist and repertoire director Jan Nurdjaja Djuhana said his label had a hard time finding a way to sell Balawan to the masses.
"Seven years ago, when Balawan first came to me with a demo recording, I said that his music would not sell. But later on, when he handed over a demo of pop-oriented songs, we considered it disrespectful to his talent," Djuhana said.
The recording giant finally worked out how to contain Balawan's exuberant craft and its appetite for appealing to the masses in the guitarist's first mainstream release, Magic Fingers.
Cut in six months, Magic Fingers managed to contain Balawan's extravagant craft to the point where it does not fall into the category, "experimental album". At Sony BMG's request, Balawan has even rehashed adult-oriented pop songs from the 1970s as part of an effort to boost sales.
The seemingly watered-down album, however, still gives room for Balawan to show off his craft in the shape of Eddie Van Halen-inspired riffs and licks that could turn even a seasoned guitarist green with envy. Above all, the album is a vehicle through which Balawan can achieve his ultimate objective, preserving traditional Balinese music. On the album, Balawan displays a heavy dose of Balinese gamelan-flavored chops, if not full-fledged traditional Balinese music.
"No matter how well I play jazz, I will never be 'black' enough to play the musical genre. So rather than laboring to produce jazz authenticity that I will never achieve, I decided to play music in which I feel at home," Balawan said during the launch of Magic Fingers recently.
Despite the influence of rock guitar heroes Joe Satriani and Van Halen in his later days, Balawan first trained as a traditional Balinese musician. Before he took up guitar and amps, and later drums and piano, he had mastered the skill of playing Balinese organ. In fact, it was this mastery of the traditional organ that helped Balawan develop his tapping style.
Learning to play guitar at eight, Balawan started his own band at 14. The band first played rock music in cafes and pubs on the resort island before Balawan told them to give up rock music. "I think jazz is the best musical genre, because in jazz a musician is required to compose songs on the spot, in the shape of potent improvisation," said Balawan, who still plays rock music once in a while.
After pondering a new musical direction, Balawan left for Australia to learn jazz guitar and vocals at the Australian Institute of Music in Sydney in 1992. He lived in Sydney for five years and became a familiar name on the local jazz scene before returning to Indonesia in 1997.
Upon his return, Balawan founded Batuan Ethnic Fusion, a jazz outfit that attempted to blend traditional Balinese pentatonic music and modern, diatonic jazz music. Together with the band, Balawan released two albums, GloBALIsm on Los Angeles-based independent jazz label Chico & Ira Productions, and Balawan on German label Acoustic Music Records.
In spite of these three studio creations, high critical acclaim and relentless touring overseas, Balawan is still not satisfied. "Tapping is a very difficult craft to master. I'm still learning about it," he said modestly.
M.Taufiqurrahman, The Jakarta Post, Jakarta
Like many other geniuses who came before him, Balinese jazz guitarist I Wayan Balawan has been misunderstood by most -- in his case the uninformed public in his home country.
If well-read critics abroad consider his histrionic guitar-playing technique as an extension of the style adopted by guitar god Eddie Van Halen or renowned fusion guitarist Stanley Jordan, local people consider him a freak of nature.
Recently, the Indonesian Record Museum, the local equivalent of the Guinness Book of World Records, gave Balawan due recognition as the first person in the country to be able to simultaneously play two guitars, a veritable feat of acrobatics if nothing else.
Unbeknown to most, double guitar playing is just one of the many vehicles that Balawan uses to channel his extraordinary talent. If a regular guitarist uses one hand to press down a guitar string to prepare the note while the other hand plucks or strums a string to hit the note, Balawan has developed an uncanny method of his own. The native of Gianyar has the ability to play a special and difficult form of tapping which involves chord and bass work with the left hand and a tapped melody with the right hand, resembling piano-playing. That unique craft has won Balawan wide recognition abroad, much more than he has received in his home country.
The 33-year-old guitarist has traveled extensively in Europe, performing in some of the best music festivals on the continent. Together with Japanese guitarist Isato Nakagawa, Balawan represented Asia at the East Meets West Guitar Festival in Edenkoben, Germany, in May 2000. Later in the year, he performed with Australian guitarist Tommy Emanuel at the Open Strings Festival in Osnabrueck, Germany. In September 2001, Balawan once again represented Asia, this time at the Hell Blues Festival in Norway, where he shared the bill with Steve Morse, an axman from the Britain's legendary hard rock band Deep Purple.
At the festival, Balawan displayed his craft on a double-neck guitar so impressively that Morse asked the Balinese to give him a crash course on speed-tapping.
Acquired taste
Indeed, Balawan's technique was so outlandish that it took Sony BMG seven long years to make up its mind before finally signing the guitarist for a mainstream release. Sony BMG senior artist and repertoire director Jan Nurdjaja Djuhana said his label had a hard time finding a way to sell Balawan to the masses.
"Seven years ago, when Balawan first came to me with a demo recording, I said that his music would not sell. But later on, when he handed over a demo of pop-oriented songs, we considered it disrespectful to his talent," Djuhana said.
The recording giant finally worked out how to contain Balawan's exuberant craft and its appetite for appealing to the masses in the guitarist's first mainstream release, Magic Fingers.
Cut in six months, Magic Fingers managed to contain Balawan's extravagant craft to the point where it does not fall into the category, "experimental album". At Sony BMG's request, Balawan has even rehashed adult-oriented pop songs from the 1970s as part of an effort to boost sales.
The seemingly watered-down album, however, still gives room for Balawan to show off his craft in the shape of Eddie Van Halen-inspired riffs and licks that could turn even a seasoned guitarist green with envy. Above all, the album is a vehicle through which Balawan can achieve his ultimate objective, preserving traditional Balinese music. On the album, Balawan displays a heavy dose of Balinese gamelan-flavored chops, if not full-fledged traditional Balinese music.
"No matter how well I play jazz, I will never be 'black' enough to play the musical genre. So rather than laboring to produce jazz authenticity that I will never achieve, I decided to play music in which I feel at home," Balawan said during the launch of Magic Fingers recently.
Despite the influence of rock guitar heroes Joe Satriani and Van Halen in his later days, Balawan first trained as a traditional Balinese musician. Before he took up guitar and amps, and later drums and piano, he had mastered the skill of playing Balinese organ. In fact, it was this mastery of the traditional organ that helped Balawan develop his tapping style.
Learning to play guitar at eight, Balawan started his own band at 14. The band first played rock music in cafes and pubs on the resort island before Balawan told them to give up rock music. "I think jazz is the best musical genre, because in jazz a musician is required to compose songs on the spot, in the shape of potent improvisation," said Balawan, who still plays rock music once in a while.
After pondering a new musical direction, Balawan left for Australia to learn jazz guitar and vocals at the Australian Institute of Music in Sydney in 1992. He lived in Sydney for five years and became a familiar name on the local jazz scene before returning to Indonesia in 1997.
Upon his return, Balawan founded Batuan Ethnic Fusion, a jazz outfit that attempted to blend traditional Balinese pentatonic music and modern, diatonic jazz music. Together with the band, Balawan released two albums, GloBALIsm on Los Angeles-based independent jazz label Chico & Ira Productions, and Balawan on German label Acoustic Music Records.
In spite of these three studio creations, high critical acclaim and relentless touring overseas, Balawan is still not satisfied. "Tapping is a very difficult craft to master. I'm still learning about it," he said modestly.
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