thou art my joy

the term “art” has become a grey area that is ripe for the picking, and also poking. since creative expression cannot be measured by a mathematical absolute, how does one define art and its worth? here are eight propositions in search of an argument

text peter stephenson image photolibrary

1 At first it would appear that the only trouble with culture in Bali is that there’s way too much of it. It’s hard to find a single view that hasn’t been embellished, framed by carving or careful cultivation, so that even if after a while you start to take it for granted, and stop consciously looking, the whole experience of Bali remains filtered through a filigree of creative endeavour.

2 Yet a further problem arises when someone asks whether we should classify any of it as “art”. Then there’s that other old chestnut – riddled with borers – about the distinction between craft and art; that is, between an activity adjudged to be primarily concerned with the manipulation of materials and an activity primarily concerned with the task of communication and self-expression for its own sake. Until relatively recently, most cultures had no such distinction.

3 So already, the more astute eavesdroppers in this circular argument will mention the tendency to rely on Western parameters that don’t apply to creativity in cultures in other parts of the world, such as ours. Ideas of creativity in Bali, for example, have not always been so bound up in notions of individualism, or the idea of the artist as the elegant stranger come to teach us how to see, ideas that have at least since the European Renaissance underpinned romantic Western notions of artistic endeavour.

The Art of Profit

art is a very subjective matter, as it is usually created based on inspiration and ideas, which can’t be quantitatively measured. however, these days, it seems there is a monetary value for everything, and enlightenment is simply a price tag away

Do not be misled by art critics, art historians, curators, collectors, gallery owners and auction houses who wax euphoric as they praise artists for their powerful brush strokes, brilliant colour combinations, striking compositions and profound (but often hidden) meanings. While the ultimate judgement of an artist’s importance should be based on his (or her) originality, relevance and ability to forge diverse influences into their own vision of something new, fresh and meaningful – make no mistake the real criteria that drives the art market in Bali and elsewhere is nothing less than MONEY!

Now that the truth is out, let’s consider the playing field. First, let’s exclude dead expatriates, like the legendary Walter Spies, whose small gem-like paintings have sold for over a million dollars for years. Once the topper, his record prices were surpassed a few years ago by Adrian Jean Le Mayeur de Merprés, whose large oils now fetch double. If one considers that if you see one you’ve seen them all, this is a stark testimony to the fact that talent and originality do not necessarily have anything to do with art prices.

Anyway, this is all irrelevant for our quest because these guys were not even Balinese. Furthermore, they have an unfair advantage because deceased artists don’t paint anymore. In the dog eat dog Adam Smith market, this means limited supply and ever-rising prices as long as there are more buyers than sellers.
A naïve person might believe justifiably that the most valuable Balinese artist dead or alive would be one of the greats of the Pitamaha period, such as Gusti Lempad or Ida Bagus Made Poleng who worked at the same time as Spies and Le Mayeur. Sadly, this is not the case.

Even though these masters are represented in international collections like at the MoMA in New York and have long been cremated, their works have rarely fetched more than a low five figures in spite of their outrageous importance – again a sad reflection of the priorities of collectors of Indonesian art.

The next generation of Balinese painters of note were those like Nyoman Gunarsa and Made Wianta who, instead of learning in the villages, attended modern academies in the 1970s and, in Wianta’s case, travelled abroad. Notably, the usual venues for their shows in the still very ethnocentric West were not contemporary art museums, but rather the old ethnological museums looking for a new identity to hide their colonial origins. The irony was not lost on some. Nevertheless, both men would go on to achieve critical and financial success.

In recent years, however, a new phenomenon has gripped the Indonesian art market as several young Indonesian and Balinese artists, like Putu Sutawijaya, gained international attention as established names who have achieved steady high prices in sales rooms and galleries.

Admittedly these artists benefited from the huge wave of interest in Asian artists, which began with Chinese contemporary artists who took the West by storm. As testimony to their own abilities, while Chinese art suffered a major setback after the fall of the Lehmann Brothers and financial crisis in 2008, Indonesian artists have fared far better.

By far the absolute King of the Hill is I Nyoman Masriadi, a young Balinese artist. Much to the shock (and jealousy) of many, his coronation took place in October 2008 when one of his large canvasses titled The Man from Bantul, the Monster sold for the world record price of US$ 1,006,356 in Sotheby’s Hong Kong, setting the record as the highest price ever paid, not only for a Balinese artist alive or dead but for any living artist in South-East Asia. The record, succeeded by more big sales, has left many people kicking themselves as they rue their failure to purchase his work when it was selling for only 20 or 30 million rupiah a painting.

A taciturn introvert, Masriadi, who dropped out of Jogjakarta’s prestigious ISI art academy after his professors labelled him untalented, is definitely an outsider. Ironically, while his reputation continues to soar in the East and West with a major exhibition in Singapore and glowing articles in Newsweek, Time and The New York Times, Masriadi himself seems to have evoked much more jealously than admiration in Indonesia.

An ugly example of this was heard during a symposium sponsored by an Indonesian art magazine to help Indonesian artists prepare for globalisation.

Rather than seeing Masriadi as a knight in shining armour who had knocked down the castle walls thus allowing other Indonesian artists to follow, the participants preferred to speculate that his international success was not based on sheer talent and hard work but rather shady nefarious plots hatched by Chinese and foreign middlemen. One expert even scoffed that nobody would pay so much for an artwork by an Indonesian!

At this point we get into psychology, another subject altogether. That said, it is no wonder so many of Masriadi’s paintings are of fight scenes and invincible super heroes. As his star continues to rise he might want to consider getting into intergalactic travel. •

Lighten up!

anyone hanging around the bali art scene knows that
balloon-like egos and narcissistic strutting are standard fare among artists and gallery owners. in the battle to become king of the hill, the biggest victim is a much-needed sense of levity

Historically, Balinese and Indonesian art were anonymous until westerners brought their ways and began clamouring for signatures. This does not mean that the great masters of Indonesia’s past were not acknowledged – everyone from king to peasant knew who the most talented artists and artisans were.

The same situation existed largely in the west until the early Italian Renaissance, which marks the first appearance of self indulgent artist superstars who would keep the Pope as well as Medici princes waiting for hours.

In Bali, this would begin in the 1930s when tourists and art collectors from the west demanded that the paintings and sculptures they bought be “signed by the artist”. Since the art was not made for local consumption and it was considered rude to refuse a request from a guest, those early artists did as they were bid. In some cases, such as Gusti Lempad who could only write in Balinese, the paintings were signed by other family members. Little did anyone realise that by doing so they opened the floodgates of future artistic megalomania!

The bad news for the vast majority of artists is that few among them will ever achieve the status of Picasso or Matisse no matter how much they or their gallery owners rant and rave. The drive for stardom planted in the already-sensitive artistic mind can result in numerous negative effects including narcissism, delusion and even mild forms of schizophrenia. In Bali, this translates to openings that often ooze with gravity reminiscent of state funerals, religious cult meetings or heavy metal concerts.

The British artist Paul Whitehead is the perfect counterpoint to this insanity. This is not to say that Whitehead is sane (in fact he is a certified nut case) but that he long ago realised that he had nothing to prove to anyone, thereby liberating himself from all the ballyhoo. “Who wants to be Van Gogh, anyway?” After all the guy only sold one painting in his lifetime (to his brother), cut off his ear to spite a bully who could not care less (Gauguin) and has been portrayed as a crazy spontaneous artist even though his letters prove that he was completely calculated and lucid about what he was doing.

Although Whitehead might not have been completely lucid when he began designing album covers for the likes of Fats Domino in London’s Swinging Sixties, by the time he created a series of ground breaking designs for the mega-group Genesis, which defined the new music art of post-psychedelic era, he probably had some inkling of who he was and what he was doing. Ironically, exactly like the ancient Balinese artists, while the insiders knew him and sought him out, he was for the general public largely anonymous. The lack of ego stroking probably did him well.

Today, Whitehead has settled in Bali and now specialises in paintings that can be best described as visual puns intended to nudge into contemplating the state of the world. While his work utilises juxtapositions that can be compared to those of Belgium Surrealist, René Margaritte, this is only coincidental. Paul Whitehead does not aspire to be anyone else except himself. This was proven by his December exhibition Questions? at the Ganesha Gallery at the Four Seasons Resort Jimbaran.

Curiously one of the least expected children of his self-effacing humour is occasional and perplexing profundity. This can be seen in the painting, Accident, whereby a cup of spilled milk (don’t cry over it) has created a puddle on the floor in the shape of Bali, which asks many more questions than can ever be answered.

Although its message is clearer, Furniture, the image of a giant tree with a bird and tiny boy reminds us of the multifunctional uses of the tree, as well as deforestation. It could easily be a poster for Bali’s Green School.

The power of less pretentious and more focused work can also be seen in the current exhibition, Intelligent World, which features the latest works of two Balinese graphic artists, I Made Saryana and Mega Sari. Amazingly Saryana and Mega Sari, both whom formally studied in Jogjakarta, have chosen the oldest and most difficult of all the graphic arts – woodcut, which is usually associated with Albrecht Dürer and Katsushika Hokusai.

Their choice of this ancient medium was courageous not only because of the difficulty of the technique, but more so because the lack of understanding and appreciation of all classic graphic arts – woodcut, etching and stone lithography – by Indonesian collectors who have favoured paintings on canvas since the Sukarno Era. Fortunately, a growing number of collectors have come to understand that signed, limited series of art prints are not only modestly priced and attractive but also genuine art, not cheap photocopies. These techniques also have unique qualities as explained by Mega Sari and Saryana who emphasise that their original attraction to woodblock making was the edgy textures that result applying multiple handcut wood blocks to handmade paper.

Saryana shows his mastery of the art in complex, colourful compositions inspired by Balinese mythology and everyday life. In Pura-Pura Baik (Making Believe Everything Is All Right), he makes use of angular lines and the tension of a coiled naga (dragon), the symbol of the Balinese Underworld, to express an ambivalent emotional state of being. Another print, Endless Prayer, is also an absolute masterpiece.

In comparison, the prints of Mega Sari, who has held numerous exhibitions in Japan, is like her gender, decisively more feminine and subtle in colour and form.

In particular she is attracted to flowers seen in A Parade of Dragonflies and still life compositions with vases. Like Saryana, the surfaces of her prints are highly textured and complex but instead mirror a radically different but equally valid perspective. Twenty five years after the publication of E. F. Schumacher’s “Small is Beautiful” and the first year of the 2nd decade of the 21st century (Y2K + 10), it is probably a good moment to remember that Bali is a small island. While large egos are inevitable, lets celebrate smaller victories and accomplishments too. Like the cool clear water of mountain streams, the benefits are many. Artists and megalomaniacs take note of Paul Whitehead, I Made Saryana and Mega Sari – deflate your ambitions and lighten up, at least occasionally.

Dancing on Fine Lines

This month in Bali will see two excellent art exhibitions involving paintings of strictly vertical and horizontal lines, idiosyncratic jewellery pieces, and fine photography of senior Balinese master dancers.

It’s not that we don’t like realism or that paintings of beautiful rice paddies done in meticulous details are naff. It’s just that we like new things. Living in Bali, you can’t help feeling overwhelmed by the amount of arts available. And after a lot of visits to various galleries, you can’t help but notice the ubiquity of certain types of arts. Balinese-style statues are normally good, intricately done and often flawless. But when you see hundreds of the same Garuda Wisnu Kencana statues displayed next to each other and then again at the art shop next door, you stop appreciating their beauty.

Paintings here are going through quite similar treatment too. After looking at too many of them, you wonder if they are actually done by one person and then photocopied around. Standouts are few, which is quite ironic for an island known for its artistic realm. It’s perhaps because a city like Jakarta, for instance, has better and stricter survival control. It’s much harder there to call yourself an artist, let alone getting your works displayed. So, the works you see out are of a higher quality. Whereas probably on this island, everyone is an artist or reckons they should be one. Or maybe because Bali is simply selling the purity of Bali, which has obviously worked for decades, so why change now?

Indeed, a more thorough research should be done to find out why this phenomenon takes place and put an end to the on going debate. But in the mean time, fresh variety is always welcomed. And this month, it’s in the form of paintings of strictly vertical and horizontal lines, idiosyncratic jewellery pieces, and fine photography of senior Balinese master dancers.

Bandung-born Adrian Palar is, to borrow the words of the exhibition curator, Bruce Carpenter, “a mature master not seeking glory or fame but a pure expression of personal joy”. He admits to be fascinated by the horizontal and vertical lines and inevitably his works have strongly been influenced by post-modern Cubism. Imagine vertical and horizontal lines meeting each other, making squares and rectangles, fill the divided spaces with colours and you get highly contemplative paintings.

A designer by day, Adrian always manages to find time to paint (this is on top of running his wife’s jewellery line, Runa Jewellery). And for this exhibition, he has invited his wife, Runi (one of Indonesia’s top draw jewellery designers), to put together pieces and complement his thought-provoking canvasses.

The woman who started to venture with silverwork in the early ‘70s was a pioneer because then, such artistry was the exclusive domain of men. However, her radicalism and hard work paid off. By the ‘80s, she was an acknowledged designer who has a distinctively beautiful style in working with silver and gemstones.

The husband and wife’s joint exhibition has been given the title “Timeless Change” and will be held at Ganesha Gallery, Four Seasons Jimbaran from November 5 – December 7. The curator, Bruce, describes the exhibition as “a map of both their individual and shared aesthetics, set against the subtle background of their interpersonal relationship”. Their styles are quite contrasting indeed, but the connection is exactly in the juxtaposition.

In 2001, the couple, years after relocating to Ubud, set up a small, but charming museum. Runa Museum documents Runi’s career throughout the years by storing her masterpieces, but this month, this museum will also be adorned by excellent works of photography of the senior masters of Balinese dancers.

Before “Dancing With Time”, Doddy Obenk has had at least four photography exhibitions since his first one entitled “Movement” in Jakarta, which was also about dance photography. Specialising in portraits, Doddy’s works shown in this exhibition have managed to capture the mysterious mystical energy exudes by each dancers when they are performing, packaged in both black and white and stylised coloured prints. Throughout the exhibition, there will also be dance performances by the Balinese dance masters shown in the photos. And done in an intimate space, you are given the chance to see these masters at work, in close up, which according to Doddy, is how Balinese dances should be enjoyed.

Timeless Change
November 5 – December 7,
Ganesha Gallery,
Four Seasons Resort Bali at Jimbaran Bay,
T: 0361 701 010

Dancing With Time
November 6 – December 7,
Runa Museum Bali,
Banjar Abian Semal, Lodtunduh, Ubud,
T: 0361 981 0710

Oasis of Style

the streets of Legian, Kuta are hardly synonymous with discreet luxury, the grinding traffic, over-zealous hawkers, tasteless bars and ghost-town restaurants immediately dispel any notion of stumbling across even the slightest hint of five star pampering in this part of town

With this Kuta cliché firmly in mind it comes as something of a (very welcome) surprise to discover one of Bali's best spas tucked away off the main drag of Legian. Owners Michelle Tanaja and Jimmy Gunawan (of Villa De Daun fame) and interior designers Zohra Boukhari have painstakingly concocted one of the island's most beautiful beautification havens with DaLa Spa, (Jl Legian, T: 0361 755 728) and on entering the premises you can see the devotion and attention to detail just dripping from the walls.

Each of the seven treatment rooms represent seven different exotic flowers, continuing the theme of DaLa (a literal translation from Sanskrit being 'leaf') and each of the rooms has its own character and ambience, perfectly matched to the nature of your treatment. To try out this 'ambience to therapy' matching theory we chose the Tutti Fruity spa (in the funky Cattlieya room) for one half of the reviewing team whilst the remaining two of us found ourselves ushered into the grandiose Ixora room for the Royal Wedding Ritual, the title being perhaps a little premature considering we are in the early stages of dating but the treatment itself being utterly conducive to some serious romantic indulgence.

Once the privilege of royal brides in the ancient palaces of Central Java in the days building up to the wedding event, this two-and-a-half hour wedding treatment is the last word in romantic spa indulgence. Everything from the dark, subtle red hues and hypnotic background music to the highly experienced and professional therapists make for an unforgettable feast for the senses. After a rose petal foot wash the ritual begins with a sixty minute Balinese massage using essential aromatic oils of your choice before the highlight of the treatment, the Javanese lulur exfoliation. Using a very traditional Javanese paste of turmeric, sandalwood and rice powder the healing nature of the ingredients is left to soak into and replenish the skin before a hydrating natural yoghurt polish removes any trace evidence of the turmeric and brings you back to life.

Next comes the delightful seven-flower milk bath, which handsomely recreates the Javanese passage of rights to marriage as the bride to be is bathed by her parents. With no parents in sight (mercifully) it is left to the suitor to take charge of the cleansing duties and earn some well-deserved brownie points along the way…

Window to The World

'There was a time, not so long ago when most foreign artists visited Bali in search of an exotic side of the tropical island. Now, however, some modern and contemporary artists have also made Bali their permanent home and their creations touch Bali in quite a different way'

One of the most interesting in the matter is Peter Dittmar. His latest exhibition at Tony Raka Gallery (Jl Raya Mas Ubud, T: 0361 781 6785) is a good occasion to ponder about the way Eastern philosophical concepts and meditative approaches have impacted on the 'abstract' conscience of resident artists from the West.

At first sight, Peter Dittmar's paintings might look like yet another kind of geometric abstraction, similar to Malevitch and the Bauhaus masters. But, looking closer one ponders - why are the color windows so regular, so judicially focused on an invisible centre, and why the tonal gradation of hues? This is not conventional abstraction. Or rather, it is of a peculiar kind of 'spiritual abstraction'. Here one should keep in mind that the fact a piece is abstract does not mean that it carries no message. The great pioneers of abstraction of the early 20th century (Kandinsky, Mondrian and Malevitch) were all enthralled by philosophical and mystical concerns, with theosophy as their lead. Abstraction, to those artists, was the visual formulation of a spiritual quest, exactly as it is to Peter Dittmar. Yet Peter Dittmar's spiritual quest is not rooted in theosophy, it is instead rooted in Hindu-Buddhist cosmology, with which the artist came into contact in the 1960s, as part of the Eastern ideology then entering the minds of Western youth in revolt.

In Hindu- Buddhist cosmology, the world or macrocosm is in perpetual motion, and man, as a microcosmic component of this world, can achieve release only by adapting his ethics and deeds to its cosmic rhythm. Art is construed as one of the mediums in which to do so. Two paths have traditionally been followed in this regard. One is to adapt expression of the cosmos, understood as an 'expanding whole', the other is to reduce it to 'a synthetic oneness-cum-void'. The first path, that of India and Southeast Asia, involves the translation of cosmic experience into a multiplicity of gods and symbols, and the second, that of Japanese Zen Buddhism and other similar Chinese and Korean traditions, involves its translation in a minimalist manner.

Peter Ditmaar's spiritual leanings took him to Japan, where he immersed himself in the philosophies of Zen Buddhism, but it is in Bali – with its over-flowering of symbols – that he eventually settled, to pursue, in a Zen inspired way, his quest for the 'Oneness-cum-Void'. For many years, Dittmar has produced calligraphic paintings, epitomized by a strong, swift thrust of the brush that withers into a tail. Capturing the abstract essence of the synthetic line that has long characterized Far Eastern calligraphy and painting, they aimed to visualize cosmic motion in its successively expanding and shrinking phases. In his new series of works, spontaneous expression has been replaced by geometric regularity; scarcity of colour by an exploration of tone. Yet, a closer look reveals continuity. The artist still aims to evoke concentration and synthesis, but he now achieves this through the stillness of careful tonal gradations of colour enclosed in regular geometric squares, instead of through the 'thrust and stop' energy that characterized the calligraphic line in his previous works. This stylistic shift corresponds to a new philosophical accent. Whereas his previous calligraphic works symbolized the cosmic energetic process as it surges and then comes to rest, his current abstract geometric paintings symbolize the encounter of the beholder with the absolute stillness of the cosmic Void. The squares, which the artist calls 'colour windows' also consciously evoke Hindu-Buddhist cosmological symbols. Hung individually, with their central points, or in groups of four, they conjure up the notion of the Mandala (world). As diptychs, they call to mind the idea of cosmic dualism and complementarities of opposites, and as triptychs, the same idea with its middle intermediary point included. In all these works, the viewer is led to the central focal point through a very learned application of geometric proportions (Peter Dittmar says he follows the golden section, also known as divine proportions) combined with a sophisticated play of tonal colouration that takes us ever deeper into the ultimate Stillness/Void. Peter Dittmar, a respected artist in his country of origin, Germany, and in Australia as well as in Bali, where he spends half of his time, shows us that abstraction is indeed alive and well. His work - meditative, introspective and evocative, illustrates a latter day meeting point of Eastern philosophies and Western cultural leanings.

Stalking The Wild Barong

Gilded and groomed, worshipped and revered, the sacred Balinese barong may appear well-kept. But truth be told, this wild and wily icon may never be properly house-trained.

The barong—that bushy-tailed, bulging-eyed beast—is one of Bali's greatest cultural hits. As a jet-set visitor to the "Island of the Gods", you know the creature as the winsome hero of the barong dance or as the confounded cause of some interminable traffic snarl. Indeed, you'd be most carefully cloistered in nightclubs, surf breaks, spas or resorts were you not at least once overrun by a boisterous barong procession. Lay aside, for a moment, all plans of beach or bar, and simply succumb to his splendor.

Gong! Gong! Gong! You hear it long before you see it—the throng of barong devotees is headed up by a traveling gamelan orchestra, a crew who thinks nothing of toting half a ton of bronze from one banjar to the next. The scintillating, hypnotic tones build on the approach, captivating all onlookers with a lively solo progression—drums clap, cymbals crash, massive gongs mark the downbeats. Bobbing along with the band are brightly colored umbul-umbul, long bamboo-pole flags sported by boys who can just barely manage them. And behind those, a canopy of satiny umbrellas shades the focus of the mayhem—the mythical, mystical barong.

The barong mask—perhaps a fanciful take on the lion form—features giant, all-seeing eyes, fearsome teeth, wagging tongue and clapping jaw. The beast is crowned in gold filigree and cloaked in a flowing mane of real hair and tinkling bells. More gold and mirrors adorn his shoulders and rump, each supported by a pair of bare shins and the latest in faux-Teva fashion. Every so often, a heated human bearer is relieved of his task as another disappears into the shag. And so goes noble barong, loping along with all the aplomb of the classic clown horse.

As the last of the followers trail off—men young and old, kebaya-clad women bearing offerings and babes, kids awestruck, exhausted and up to no good—a tide of trucks and motorbikes pulls in close behind. Back to Bali, business as usual. All of which leaves you wondering: "What on earth was that?"

The Barong: A Crash Course

A thumb through Lonely Planet informs you that the barong is the ever-watchful guardian of good over evil. To learn more, you shell out Rp50.000 for the local barong dance and watch the drama play out in abridged form.Night falls, guests settle in, gamelan chimes away. And there through the hallowed temple gate pounces Barong. Like an over-sized puppy, he frolics about to the delight of his human followers. All is well and good until—aduh!—enter Rangda, fangs flaring, claws clawing, entrails trailing. After a kidnapping, a grave robbing and lots of good vs. evil dance dueling—just as the Rangda witch surely has the better of our beloved, beleaguered Barong—men dash in with kris daggers. A priest anoints the warriors with water sanctified in Barong's beard. Some glaring lights, some words of thanks and you're off with the bright hope that Barong lives happily ever after. But nothing, of course, is so simple. Most especially not in Bali.

The Many Faces of Barong

Most villages host barongs—sometimes a dozen
or more—hidden away in their temples' inner sanctums. Unlike the secular barongs that work for hire (the Balinese consider these nothing more than fancy theater costumes) temple barongs are sacred, sentient beings. By all reports, sacred barongs live and die, love and lose, and generally protect their village, though it may be in odd and unpredictable ways.Every barong is unique. Sure, there are lots of lions, but no two lions are the same. And then there are tigers, pigs, elephants, eagles, monkeys, dragons and various demons. In point of fact, the rangda witch you saw at the dance is a sort of barong, too

Each barong has its own name, its own family tree, its own endearing foibles. There are young, playful barongs that bound about with abandon, and old, weary barongs that trundle along in their own sweet time. All barongs are wise and magical, but none of them are perfect. Barongs can be rash and rambunctious and a few are known for the odd tantrum. It may be these very imperfections—these nearly human frailties—that make barongs so beloved.

Indeed, barongs are bona fide crowd-pleasers. Kids love them as much as Teletubbies or Power Rangers and will promptly throw a fit if parents don't pack up in pursuit of every passing procession. For grown-ups, barongs are not only holy beings—they may be the most tangible embodiment of niskala, the unseen essence that in today's world is even better obscured by motorbikes and mobile phones. Surely people put as much love and devotion into their barongs as their barongs put into them.

On special occasions, for temple ceremonies or holy days (especially the ten days on the Balinese calendar between Galungan and Kuningan) sacred barongs are let out for a romp. The barong's temple den is opened and aromatic woods are burned before the beast. The smoke, it is said, guides spirits back into the body of barong. As the barong wakes up, he or she is presented with water for bathing, and coffee, before being anointed with incense and frangipani blossoms. If there is a long journey ahead, the barong will be fed his or her favorite food—fried chicken is popular fare. Villagers then file before the barong, make offerings and kneel in prayer.

Before long the barong is moved by the attention and by the stirring tones of gamelan. Suddenly he's ambling out the door, supported by two villagers who have ducked beneath his mane. The villagers march blindly—or are blindly marched?—out the temple gate, down the temple stairs, into the open street and off to who-knows-where.

Good and Evil: A Delicate Balance

So what else, really, is the purpose of the neighborhood barong? Does the barong actually protect his or her village? Perhaps. But beyond the simple perception that barongs wield forces of good over forces of evil is the fuller Balinese understanding that barongs are complex entanglements of the two. Like people, barongs are bottled-up brews of opposing passions: right and wrong, black and white, yin and yang. It just so happens that barongs, who romp freely between seen and unseen worlds, are more potent potions.The key, as with everything Balinese, is to maintain balance. The barong embodies just that, and with a certain flair for drama.

I don't know what to believe. But clearly life is more than meets the eye, and even more so, perhaps, in Bali. Meanwhile, stories of wild and woolly barongs continue to captivate me just as much as the people who live by them.

www.indonesiawild.com

Italian Orientations

One of Italy's most highly regarded photo artists, Matteo Basilé, recently held an exhibition in Bali which brought about a new sense of excitement and hope to the island's art scene. But what exactly are his works like?

The long time impact and important role of the Italian expatriate community in Bali is undeniable, especially in the realms of art and design. One of the more cohesive national groups on the island, I was honoured although unsurprised when no less than three of the Italian community's premiere godfathers called me in succession in September. 'You must attend THISORIENTED II,' I was told, 'the opening of the exhibition by young award-winning Roman artist Matteo Basilé at the Italian owned Biasa Artspace in Legian'. 'It will be opened and curated by Achilles Bonito,' I was further informed, 'a legendary art critic whose many kudos include the 40th Venice Biennale'.

The opening left no doubt that the Italians truly know how to put on an event, dress well and enjoy the good life. I myself was impressed by Basilé's art and the towering presence of Achilles. In a nutshell, it was a great event that shone brightly in a Bali gallery scene often dominated by the mediocre and eminently forgettable.

Simply described, Basilé's show consisted of a series of fine art prints created by digital manipulation and collage of photos. As my Italian friends foretold most are distinctly surrealistic and incorporate exotic elements from eastern lands, in particular Japan and Bali. Basilé has a distinct flair for drama seen in his moody self-portrait (on the website) and in his impressive artworks. Now in his mid-thirties, Basilé enigmatically describes himself as an heir 'from a well-known dynasty of artists' and a 'forerunner of digital art' who 'uses avant-garde technology as a research prosthesis'. I am not sure how that sounds in Italian but in English it has a definitely vague and rather pretentious tone that makes me suggest he considers finding a better translator. For the sake of us ignorant non-Italians, it would be appreciated if information on his dynasty was either clarified or dropped.

Curiously for an artist who emphasises his avant-garde credentials, his images seem to be more anchored in classical European painting than anything approaching 21st century cutting edge design and technology. This does not detract from their impact but his reliance on perspective, the horizon, dramatic clouds and a single central figure in his landscape compositions is pure Renaissance. He also plays with other classical genres including nudes, theatrical portraits and the de Chirico-like ruins based on worthy but by no means radically new ideas or concepts. Even the injection of surrealism (now close to a century old!) is by no means startling and in two images – the girl before the temple gate (pure Hofker) and the borderline saccharin sentimentality of two make believe farmers tenderly embracing in a rice field – could lead to accusations of pandering to nostalgic neo-colonial tastes of the Balinese expatriate community.

Make no mistake, these observations do not diminish the art or the artist, who is obviously very talented and belongs to a new class of international artists who have been visiting or living in Bali. The issue here is not the art but rather a question of the packaging. In an art market in which photos are often viewed with suspicion as far as value is concerned, it is easy to voice the opinion that Basilé's chief aim is to promote a new and very valid art form through a form of shock and awe and unnecessary hype. His long-term success and dedication to the island will be proven by future exhibitions to which we look eagerly forward.

Rites of Passage

a once in a lifetime experience that transformed Ubud into the biggest ceremonial procession ever witnessed in Bali

On the 15th of July, the royal house of Ubud held the climax of its biggest cremation ever. It was by all accounts an exceptional event, which made the nightly news throughout the world. At last Bali was advertised – as it used to be, for its culture, instead of its bomb makers.

For those who did not attend what is to westerners merely a show, one simply has to imagine the pageantry: a huge, colourful 28.5 metre cremation tower, including one for the Ubud prince Cokorde a Sutyasa, carried by hundreds of cheering local youths as the devilish rhythms of a bleganjur gamelan orchestra set the scene. Ahead of the cremation towers, gigantic gilded bulls with golden horns and a long golden dragon (a symbol of wordly attachment) are paraded down the streets carried by shouting villagers and accompanied by no less than sixty eight smaller sarcophagi for villagers intent on following their prince to his journey to the abode of the gods. Add dozens of priests and thousands of spectating tourists and you have a once in a lifetime experience that transformed Ubud into the biggest ceremonial procession ever witnessed in Bali. Yet, if the particulars of this cremation are known, little is usually said of the philosophical background and symbolic purpose of the ceremony.

At the root of the event is the fact that humans are, to the Balinese, considered 'microcosmic' duplicates of the 'macrocosmic world'. The aim of life is for the person involved to blend back upon death into this macrocosm. The rite of cremation in this context very literally and symbolically enacts the process of final release. The body is treated in such a way so as to rejoin the material body of the world, the Panca Maha Bhuta five elementials. Whereas the soul is is taken in parallel with the physical body through a succession of ritual steps, to a journey 'back home' to the 'old country' of the deified ancestors (tanah ane wayah).

The cremation's purpose (be it the big cremation of the prince laying in state at the palace, or that of the corpses of commoners freshly exhumed on the morning of the event) is to symbolically set off the long process of the separation of the soul from the body. First the corpse is transferred from the 'low' part of the palace (semanggen) or the house, to the 'low' part of the village, (the setra or cemetery). After the corpse is burned, the bones are collected, made into an effigy and released into the sea, the 'lowest' part of the world. In other words the bodily elements blend into the physical world. When the ashes are thrown away into the sea the soul is provisionally entrusted to the god of the sea - Baruna. The body is sent to sea on a miniature boat. This cleansing into the sea is often associated in popular lore with the sojourn into hell, which is said to be located on the east of the ocean horizon. But the separation of body and soul is not yet deemed complete at this stage. After twelve days (referred to as ngorasin) or a variable length of time decided by calendar computations, the soul will be called back (ngulapin) through a small ceremony on the beach. Then will come the big 'post-cremation' or 'purification' ceremony of meligia (a sort of repeat, minus the body, of the cremation) at the end of which the soul will be definitively separated from all earthly bonds. It is precisely this ceremony, meligia punggal, that took place in Ubud on the 27th July. The soul then takes the path to the mountain, through a succession of ceremonies (nyegara gunung and meajar-ajar), which eventually takes it to the temple of origin of the clan (pedharman), located in the temple complex of Besakih, at the foot of Mount Agung - the mythical abode of The Gods. The soul of the dead, is sent to the 'old country' to become a deified ancestor (batara), but the ritual process is not over. The dead soul is prepared a place back home among its living descendants.

Therefore an effigy is prepared, and an ultimate ceremony, the 'ngenteg linggih' enshrines the soul as the newly deified ancestors of the family temple (merajan). From now on, the soul of the deceased has its place among the other ancestors in one of the thatched shrines of the family temple. The ancestor will now be ready to come back to visit during temple festivals, and to protect his/her kin.

They are also ready to come back to Bali in a new eventual human guise: the reincarnation. This makes clear that the cremation (or pengabenen) is but one particular moment in a long succession of rites that aim at liberating the soul.

The cremation tower (bade) is the symbol of the macrocosm (Bhwana Agung). Its upper part, with eleven merus, symbolizes the heavenly world (swah), its lower part the earthly/chthonian while the middle part represents the human middle world (bhwah). The corpse is laid to rest in the middle part, because humans are dwellers of the middle world. During the procession, a 'sentana' (heir, usually a son) climbs next to the corpse accompanied by a brahmin holding in his hands a manuk dewata - a bird of paradise, which symbolizes the soon to be delivered soul. The lower part of the cremation tower is decorated with figures from the Hindu-Balinese mythology. At the lowest level is the cosmic tortoise, Bedawang Nala, who is the support of the world. Entwined around her are the two cosmic dragons Anantaboga (the symbol of earth), and Basuki, the symbol of water: they also symbolize the physical needs of Man. Just above is Bhoma's head. Bhoma, who is also represented on temple lintels, is Wisnu's son from his rape of the goddess of earth Pertiwi, and he symbolizes vegetation. The tiered merus, (eleven for royal families) symbolize the level of heaven the deceased's soul is expected to reach. The four wooden pillars on which the meru rest symbolizes the deceased's cosmic brothers (kanda pat), with whom he is going to unite in the after world. On their outer side are leaves symbolizing the human world (bhwah).

The bull (lembu) or other sarcophagi for the non aristocratic dead is the vehicle of the deceased to her heavenly abode. The corpse is burned inside this bull. Under the cow is drawn a representation of Balinese hell/purgatory, where the deceased soul may be tortured and cleansed before an eventual reincarnation. A Naga Banda symbolizes the earthly bonds. It is symbolically killed by an arrow from the bow of a pedanda high-priest, symbolizing, again, the process of release.

The social aspects of the cremation are no less important than the philosophical and religious ones. Thousands of people have been involved for months, including relatives, banjar members and members of related or dependant clans. Fifteen villages are called upon to assist with the preparations and implementation of the puri Ubud cremation. Some prepare offerings while others help with building the implements, such as the cremation towers for carrying the corpse to the cemetery, or the sarcophagi where the body will be burned. Others play ritual music or recite holy manuscripts, each following a tightly defined division of labour and scheduling of activities. A big question hangs over this participation.

Why do they do it? The feudal system has disappeared, and the royals have no power over their former subjects. Two sets of reason can be invoked here. First the princely families still have control over many local temples, in the temple festivals of which commoners are also participating. This gives them a strong, indirect power over the people. And many local people owe their land to a 'gift' made to them by the ancient princes. They got their land against the promise they could be called to contribute to ritual events.

What we, as western observers see, is the vibrant culture of the Balinese brought to life in such ceremonies, the delight of the Hindu religion in the theory of re-incarnation and the rites of passage to the next world.

Two Worlds

"Art is the permanent and sublime expression of the creative power inherent in a nation's character."
–Rudolf Bonnet, 1936

August 2009 witnessed the opening of two important exhibitions - 'Archetypes' by I Made Wianta, the doyen of contemporary Balinese art, and a retrospective of the work of I Nyoman Mandra, the greatest living proponent of Balinese classical painting of the Kamasan School. While at first glance their work may appear diametrically opposed both artists are in fact bound by intriguing threads that question the meaning and direction of Balinese art and culture, albeit from opposite directions.

As implied in the rhetorical question "Who is Made Wianta?", posed during the boisterous opening at Ganesha Gallery, Four Seasons Resort Bali, no introduction is necessary for this prolific artist. It is interesting to note that at this point in his 30 year career, Wianta felt the need "to return to my roots" in a series of canvasses featuring mature variations of the cubic, linear and rectangular compositions that propelled him to fame in the 1980s. "These forms" he proclaims, "are the elemental building blocks that distinguish man from nature." His success can be measured by the glowing praise lavished by the well-known German abstract artist Peter Dittmar (who is also currently exhibiting his newest work at Gaya Fusion of Senses, Sayan) who feigned jealousy as he remarked that the recent work of both artists unwittingly appears in many ways to be moving in the same creative direction. In particular he declared the small but elegant black on black acrylic, 'Intersecting', a masterpiece.

One of the most iconic of Wianta's new works is 'Four Monuments' featuring four cubic shapes floating about against a mottled green pastel background that looks like an organic farmer's vision of fun in outer space. The cubic forms, unlike the enigmatic and opaque black monolith of Stanley Kubrick's 1968 film, Space Odyssey: 2001, are neither solid (rather their sides seem to be windows into Mondrian paintings or oil on water light shows from the Fillmore West) nor prove of the existence of intelligent life beyond earth. Instead they exude Wianta's characteristic mirth. Bordering the mysterious, they mirror the mischievous inner workings of the post-Industrial Balinese mind.

In contrast the work of Nyoman Mandra at the Griya Santrian Gallery in Sanur, is decidedly archaic. As described by Australian scholar and author, Adrian Vickers, who expertly curated the show (with the aid of mounting übermensch Thomas U. Freitag), Mandra is the greatest living adherent to a school of painting that traces its roots back to the 16th century Gelgel Dynasty. In comparison to the Wianta opening, attendees included a high percentage of antique, scholarly types normally only seen in Ubud. Wianta came, too, in deference to his main adversary for the crown of Bali's premier senior artist, Nyoman Gunarsa, who opened the show. The best dressed among an otherwise scruffy crowd goes to Bali's one and only smoking Legong, Made Wijaya who engaged in polite chitchat with fellow dancer Wayan Dibia. The evening was pleasant although elegies mourning Bali's lost legacies and the whispers of cultural philistines who dissed Kamasan paintings as passé added a schizophrenic air to the whole. Obviously they have not yet realized that by definition all art belongs to the age in which it was made.

If they had looked closer they would have noticed that although Mandra's art is a direct descendent of an old tradition, it is distinct and imbued with his own modern aesthetic. This is immediately evident by comparing his softer pastel palette and facial expressions of the mythological heroes with the dense energy of a 19th century work, painted by his grandfather, Kaki Rambug in a large work from the Malat Cycle (Langse Detail1). Other highlights include the Pelindon calendar (Pelindon) and magical black white paintings.

At a time when everyone gives lip service to the preservation of Balinese culture with little knowledge of what it is they want to protect, it is ironic to note the general lack of knowledge and appreciation of the traditional arts and their modern heirs. One of the best examples is the erroneous but often repeated claim that the Ubud painting school is traditional when it was in fact directly stimulated by tourism in the 1930s. This type of garbage is the creation of the same addled minds that often liken Galungan to Christmas. Cultural disinformation has a long history in Bali with no end in sight. Ironically the first foreign artist who came to Bali (W.O.J. Nieuwenkamp in 1904) did so to study traditional Balinese painting because he felt it offered a model of freedom that had been lost in European art. More than a century later Balinese artists both traditional and modern still continue to inspire western minds and souls.

Ganesha Gallery , Four Seasons Resort Jimbaran
T: 0361 701 010
Kamasan School
Near Kamasan Village, KlungKung

Modern Indonesian Masters Exhibition at The Museum Rudana

The role of a Museum of Art is to inform and educate! This is a common enough objective and one that could be expected of any museum. But Nyoman Rudana, the owner of the eponymous Museum Rudana, has purposely given this objective a supplementary function: his museum aims to be at the service of the image of the nation. And what service. Beautiful paintings by many of the country's masters.

Nyoman Rudana wishes to create an image of Indonesia, and Bali, that goes beyond tradition. He wants to affirm that they are contenders on the scene of both cutting edge modern and post-modern.

Since the creation of the Museum Rudana, the aim has been to present Indonesian artists and their contribution to international modernism – with the inclusion of an Indonesian ethnic symbolism within a modernist form.

Eight artists are exhibiting at the present show, among them, the greatest names of Indonesian and Balinese modern art. These eight selected artists represent the two modernist traditions of Hindu Bali and Islamized Java as well as the two schools of Bandung and Yogyakarta. In Bandung modernism was taught in the institutions while in Yogya, it infiltrated through the consiousness thus leading, in the latter case, to a larger share being given over to the ethnic component.

All the Balinese artists included in the show were educated in Yogya, thus adding a supplementary layer to their adoption of the modernist principles of art. As the exhibition hopes to make clear, it is by its modern symbolic expression, derived from the traditional local cultures, that Indonesian modern art makes a significant contribution to international art.

The eight selected artists, two from Bandung, Srihadi Soedarsono and Sunaryo, while the rest consist of Yogya - educated Balinese artists, Nyoman Gunarsa and Made Wianta, as well as the younger Nyoman Erawan, Made Djirna, Made Budhiana and Wayan Darmika, all of whom, with the exception of Darmika, are already well-established names in the Indonesian art world. The only newcomer is Darmika, whose star has risen only in recent years.

Of the eight participating artists the name of Srihadi Soedarsono comes first. At 76 he is already an important name in Indonesian art history and he spans much of this history beginning his career in the late forties as an illustrator of the national liberation struggle.

The eight painters above, who are amongst Indonesia's most famous, illustrate the encounter of modernity and tradition. Yet, all are aloof from reality. Their world is that of symbols, dreams or ethereality. The real world is absent. There lies for artists, and for the museum, the challenge of the future.
Excerpt from Jean Couteau

Cengondewah- kendra gallery

Even the most superficial survey of contemporary Indonesian art will reveal a schism between artists who produce beautiful images that can vary from the trite to the sublime, and those who dwell in the darker regions of human nature and sexuality. Visitors to the current solo exhibition of the Sundanese artist, Tisna Sanjaya, at Kendra Gallery will have no trouble identifying the artist’s allegiance. These paintings and mixed media works are not for the faint of heart. It is also unlikely that you will see many of them hanging on the walls of Bali’s ‘happy’ villas any time soon.

“When I was a boy, Cengondewah was an idyllic country paradise where I played barefoot in the rice paddies”, the artist laments. Today the area is a bitter example of the fruits of progress – in this case the growth of Bandung’s textile industry. Chaotic, dirty and polluted, in Sanjaya’s eyes, its once happy villagers have been reduced to victims eking out subsistence living in a cultureless wasteland. For those who have visited the ramshackle backstreets of Denpasar, the lesson in hopelessness is not lost.

Sanjaya’s lost world of innocence and youth is symbolized in the only idyllic painting in the show, that of the artist riding upon the back of a water buffalo playing a flute like a latter day Pied Piper of Hamlin. The image is also a tongue in cheek reference to colonial nostalgia - photos and paintings of buffalo riders were very popular among the colonial elite and epitomized their stereotypes of happy natives. The rebellion of Indonesian artists against pretty pictures can be traced to the struggle for Indonesian independence and the founding of the island nation’s first modern art school, Persagi, in 1938. Later egalitarian principles and revolutionary ideals would also lead to the rise of a school that believed that a fundamental purpose of art was to denounce injustice. This would all end after the alleged Communist coup attempt in 1965 when Suharto’s New Order government ushered in a return to saccharin and vacuity.

The private war of Tisna Sanjaya and his minion was only made possible by the fall of Suharto. In its aftermath 30 years of pent up frustrations, political and private, exploded once again on the art scene. As one of Indonesia’s most talented graphic artists, Sanjaya understood well the ancient connection between this medium and mass communication. The new freedom gave him the chance to produce a series of compelling but challenging images such as “Nie Wiederkrieg” (Never Again War) painted with asphalt. Unlike those who prefer only to blame others, Sanjaya sought to better the lives of the people of Cengondewah by buying a small plot and building a small cultural centre to enrich their lives.

While angry at the failures of capitalism, Sanjaya can also display a self-effacing humour, seen in the image of him buried beneath a pile of canvasses with his head resting on a soccer ball with a man hiking into the distance. The exhibition also includes what appears to be a series of contorted self-portraits and body prints from his Amnesia Cultura series. In “Pulang Kandung” (return to the stable) we see a tree inside a balloon shaped head with a large black bird on top surrounded by the iron bars of a cage. Surrealistic, the asymmetric imagery is reminiscent of the best of Marc Chagall.

“Perhaps I can effect change, and perhaps I cannot”, he murmurs, “but it is better to try than surrender to what is wrong, especially when those behind it tell you you should be happy with progress.” Ironically those who buy the most vapid pretty pictures often vilify such artistic idealism. It remains to be seen if their makers are cynics or not. As for Sanjaya, although some might feel his pictures remind them of Hell, his soul is that of a saint. Coincidentally his Sanskrit based name, Sanjaya, translates to ‘Ever Victorious’. Asmudjo J. Irianto, the talented curator of the show deserves special mention for his hard work.

Kendra Gallery, Uma Sapna Villa Seminyak
T: 0361 736 628

Ketut Budiana: Maestro of The Fantastic

When it comes to high art, little attention is today paid in Bali to the type of painting that issues directly from the Hindu-Balinese symbolic world. Abstraction, objective realism, installations and performances are the prevailing hype. Anything that has a stylistic Balinese flavour is deemed passe. Yet, in one of the gangways of Ubud-Padangtegal lives and works a lonely artist who can withstand the comparison with the likes of Fuchs and Odilon Redon: Ketut Budiana, the Balinese "Fantastic" master.

To Ketut Budiana, art is philosophical. His paintings speak of the swirling, churning and whistling of energetic cosmic forces that are at the root of Hindu-Balinese understanding of the world and Man's place in it. Those forces are represented by demonic characters derived from Balinese classical iconography.

Unlike classical paintings though, Ketu Budiana's works do not represent stories such as the Mahabharatta and Ramayana. They illustrate the polar – positive and negative- forces at work both at the level of the Macrocosm (Bhwana Agung) and at that of the microcosm (Bhwana Alit) or human being. The cosmos is in the self, he tells us, and the self has to adapt to the whirling rhythm of the larger cosmos, its long-term aim, after an unknown number of incarnations, being to melt and disappear into the cosmic void through Moksa. And the way to achieve Moksa is for the human being to fulfil his/her swadharma, i.e to perform the ritual and social duties that correspond to his/her incarnated status as a man or woman with specific talents and abilities.

Born in 1950 in Padangtegal, Peliatan, in the Ubud district of the Gianyar regency, he was twenty when tourism began, in the 1970s, its fast and uninterrupted growth. So his life has accompanied all the irresistible changes his island has been subject to. He was born on an island without cars or electricity, ethnically and linguistically homogenous, and where knowledge was mainly transmitted through the magic of a religion-imbued theatre. He grew into adulthood as this same island was becoming richer, yet its culture shrinking under the dual onslaught of the national state—carrying a different language and a different symbolic world—and of Western-inspired modernity. So Ketut Budiana stands as a witness of a changing society, and his art is a distinct, unique attempt at revitalizing old Balinese values and symbols while remaining as close as possible to the original techniques and meanings.

Appreciating Ketut Budiana's painting is accepting the validity or legitimacy of a different kind of aesthetics. The works are made to be appreciated not from a distance, as a visual whole, but rather to be "read" from close up; the space is never open, but usually dark and at times full of coded characters that may seem obscure to the non-Balinese. But once one accepts the legitimacy of such different aesthetics and let the eye roam freely over the surface of the works, then gazes at a patterned detail, visually digging into it, before dancing again on the surface to follow the lines of identification of a drawing, then the "monsters" magically come to life before being taken into a maelstrom of throbbing forms, while the onlooker feels falling upon himself the heavy rhythm of the primal cosmic world.

The Secret of Wayang Kulit

A fire burns behind a see-through screen as the melodic music of gamelan is played. The light dims but the small fire continues to burn, a loud clanking of wood signals the start of the show. Something flutters against the screen – a blurred image moving in time to the music. The image suddenly becomes clear as all the other puppets appear. This is Wayang Kulit. 'Wayang' means shadow and 'Kulit' means leather. There are 140 characters in 'Mahabarata,' which is one of the Hindu epics and is the most popular story portrayed with Wayang Kulit. There are four types of Wayang shows: 1.Wayang Calonarang, which tells the story about the witch and the queen of witches.

The Balinese believe that when the Dalang (puppet master) calls the Leyak which is like an evil spirit or demon that he must be mentally and spiritually strong enough to confront the spirit or it may harm him: 2. Tantri uses animal characters that act like humans and deal with political or moral issues: 3. Gambuh is about the ancient kingdom of Java around the 11th century: 4. Cupak, who was the son of Brahma.

I watched a retelling of the popular show, "The Sacrifice of Bima" and afterwards sought out Mr. Wayan Deres, who is the puppet master or Dalang. In addition to being the performer, Wayan also makes puppets and is a wood carver; a true artist. He is quite humble, as in truth it is very difficult to be a Dalang, because a Dalang must be able to do many voices. He is the only person who controls the puppets' actions. He must also remember the story and be able to play the music. Before every show, they are required to carry out a ceremony to ask permission from God who will guide them so they can do things in the right way; blessings are also made for the puppets.
'Wayang Kulit' puppets are made by scraping the hide until it is thin and even, and then it is cured so it won't warp. The puppet maker uses a template or guide and scratches the outline and details into the hide. He cuts the body out along with separate pieces for the arms. The details are then punched with a wooden mallet and sets of metal punches and chisels. In a fine puppet this can take weeks.

Of course Wayang Kulit is not complete without Gamelan music. In Balinese Gamelan there are mostly metallophones and gongs. The sound is very bright. They also use cymbals, which create fast, rattling sounds that are not typical in Javanese Gamelan. It is believed that each instrument is guided by spirits. Thus, musicians must remove their shoes when they play Gamelan. It is also forbidden to step over any Gamelan instrument, because it may offend the spirits. In Indonesian traditional thinking, Gamelan is sacred and is believed to have super-natural powers. Incense and flowers are usually offered to the Gamelan. Some Gamelan instruments are believed to have so much power that playing them may exert power over nature. It is the blending of Wayang Kulit, which dates back to 1019 and Gamelan that creates a rich cultural experience that is truly unforgettable.