Flowers from Universe. Textiles of Java by LM Publishers

culture of the island of Java. Flowers from Universe. Textiles of Java is first of all based on the memories and associations of Alit Djajasoebrata, who grew up in the bosom of her Western Javanese family and as such frequently came into contact with batik in the form of highly prized batikked hipcloths that her female family members used to indirectly convey their personal sentiments to their environment, and distinguished themselves from other women. Alit learned to associate batik patterns and their colours with social occasions and personal moods and was fascinated by the way women talked about them. The associations between textiles, history, mythology and music in Javanese cultures were natural and self-evident. Later, as a curator of the Rotterdam World Museum in Indonesia – which, due to its unique history, is rich in textiles from Java – she had the opportunity to investigate and elaborate on these youth impressions scientifically. ‘This book is saturated with the colours and nuances of Alit Djajasoebrata’s personal life and is a testament to her compelling professional thoroughness.’ (Toeti Heraty N. Roosseno in her introduction to this book)

Alit Djajasoebrata Flowers from Universe Textiles of Java

Traditional Javanese textile art lends itself perfectly to telling stories about the centuries-old

Alit Djajasoebrata

Flowers from Universe Textiles of Java

ISBN 978-94-6022-447-8

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Alit Djajasoebrata

Flowers from Universe Textiles of Java

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For my mother and her family, who were my first guides into the spiritual aspects of textiles of Java

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Introduction by Toeti Heraty N. Roosseno 1

Textiles in Java

Decorative Processes and Products

The Island of Java in the Sixteenth Century

Weaving Myths of Sunda

Rice-paste Batiks

Colour Categories: Uncoloured, Light and Dark

The Compass Rose as a Direction Finder

Chinese Traders and Immigrants

Textiles in Javan History

23 33

49 55

Cirebon: an Old Town on the North Coast

The Stuff of Village Life

The Principalities i: Introverts and Extroverts of Central Java

The Principalities ii: Elite and Vernacular Patterns

Two Ancient Textiles of Central Java: Tambal and Kain kembangan

Mountains and Forest, Waterplant and Cosmic Tree

Milestones in Human Life

Wives of the Dutch in the Tropics

Tunggak semi: New Shoots from an Old Trunk Bibliography Glossary

Index

99 107

115 125

137

145 155 165

174 180

Chronology

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187

190

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Acknowledgements

Kain panjang – hipcloth for an elderly Javanese woman The motif is semèn (curling plant tendrils and sprouting foliage) on ukel cantel (background pattern of connecting curls). The courtly pattern originally stems from the principalities, but like many other Central Javanese courtly patterns, has been widely adopted in Demak. However, here a darker soga-brown is used instead of the more golden hue we know from the principalities. This use of soga colour is typical of Demak. Here the combination of indigo and soga may even result in black. A narrow border (seret) around the cloth is left blank. Most likely batikked in a private situation, at home. Among the reasons for this opinion is that the material is made of handspun cotton. Batik on cotton, vegetable dyes 270.5 x 98 cm c. 1910 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 26189. Gift: Mrs. G.J. Vink-Hollander, 1925

<< Ladies-in-waiting clothed in kain panjang with sekar jagat motifs: a sampling of patterns Collection author

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The Dutch version of this book – Bloemen van het heelal / De kleurrijke wereld van de textiel op Java – was published in 1984. Time has shown that its contents are still valued by researchers and people interested in the world of Javanese textiles. For that reason we decided to republish it, but now in English. For several years, Robert J. Holmgren in New York, who shares a genuine delight in the subject, and I worked on the translation and revisions. Publishing the book in English allowed us to elaborate on many points with more precision, and Robert’s unceasing scientific and erudite curiosity led to additional insights that have greatly benefited the process. His inspiration and talent for writing have been intrinsically important contributions to this publication. Additions have been made to the content to reflect some of the advances in the field, taking into account other publications on the subject, although the result is in no way meant to be complete and only sparse information has been added since 2001. Hopefully, future generations of scholars will fill in the gaps and continue to expand on this research. My deep-felt appreciation and gratitude goes to the following people, who made this publication possible by sharing their knowledge, advice, and who in some cases provided funding as well: Special thanks to Toeti Heraty N. Roosseno who wrote the Introduction, based on the Dutch text in the original publication. I am equally indebted to Christiaan Baks in St Chamassy for his lucid advice and help. I am grateful to both these friends, not least for the true joy of collaboration I experienced with such enthusiastic scientists. Many friends have supported me with a generous heart. Mochtar Kusumaatmadja and the Nusantara Jaya Foundation have been kind and gracious for a period that exceeded all expectations. Annegret

Haake was ready at all times to offer her guidance when I seemed sometimes to have ‘lost my way’. Harmen C. Veldhuisen – known for having an especially discerning artistic eye – generously contributed photographs of objects from his personal collection as well as information based on his speciality, the field of so-called Indo-European batik. Barney Agerbeek inspired me with his keen sense of language and also introduced us to people who helped to realise this book. My thanks to Ron Smit, my enthusiastic publisher, and last but by no means least Arlette Kouwenhoven, who helped with the editing while being inspiringly supportive at all times. Hedi Hinzler was always there to answer questions. Many other people opened their homes and their thoughts: people in Amsterdam, Bandung, Cirebon, The Hague, Hamburg, Jakarta, Yogya, Leiden, Paris, Solo, Stuttgart, and in village homes scattered across Sunda and Java – you know who you are. Thank you, terima kasih, nuwun sewu, nuhun pisan. Furthermore I express my gratitude to Jeff, Anita, Will and Kate for the warm hospitality and friendship they have shown me through the years. Finally, my sincere thanks and appreciation to the Wereldmuseum Rotterdam, with its – in my possibly biased opinion – unsurpassed collection of early Indonesian textiles. I had the pleasure and honour to serve as Curator Indonesia here for more than 35 years. Even in the final stages of preparing this publication I received so much support from my former colleagues, for which I am very thankful indeed! This publication is also a tribute to an unforgettable colleague and friend, the late René Wassing, who had a lifelong love for all things culturally Indonesian, and who ceaselessly inspired and supported me in my work. Any errors in this publication are my responsibility alone.

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Introduction

Part of a sarung – tubular skirt for women, in particular a North Coast Cirebonese or Indo-Chinese The main motif is a semangka (watermelon plant and fruits). Water is considered to be the source of all life and is a frequent source of inspiration in this region that is regularly stricken by drought. Possibly made in an Indo-Chinese batik workshop Batik on cotton, vegetable dyes 208 x 104 cm Cirebon, West Java c. 1870 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 2054 Gift: Dr. E. van Rijckevorsel, 1884

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A daughter of the Parahyangan1 left Indonesia at the tender age of 13 and moved to the Netherlands, where, after studying sociology and anthropology, she held a position at the Museum voor Land en Volkenkunde (now the Wereldmuseum) in Rotterdam. Not surprisingly, a work in Dutch on Javanese textiles titled Bloemen van het heelal (‘Flowers from Universe’) appeared in 1984, a narrative that unfolds against the backdrop of her traditional childhood with her grandmother in West Java, in the area called the Priangan or Parahyangan. The English edition of this publication, Flowers from Universe, the literal translation of ‘Sekar Jagat’, revises and elaborates upon the Dutch text, and is enriched with the lyrics from myths, legends and narrative history dating back as far as the Neolithic period. Authentic Sundanese culture can be traced to the Galuh kingdom and the later Pajajaran, which collapsed in 1333, after it rejected Islamic influences. The Badui tribe in West Java – a local people with a clear philosophy that manifests in spatial concepts and the meanings of colours – is a continuing source of an authentic indigenous culture laden with animism. A strong theme in this work is the ambivalence towards the dominant Javanese culture, admired for its sophistication yet simultaneously shunned to prevent the Sundanese being affected and subjugated. Consequently, due attention is paid to the mutual history of the Pajajaran and Majapahit kingdoms, when King Hayam Wuruk proposed to a Pajajaran princess by the name of Dyah Pitaloka who then came to Majapahit, but the viceroy Gajah Mada insulted her entourage, treating them as if they were there to pay tribute to Majapahit, and when they defended their dignity had them all executed.

The author’s exploration of the history of textiles from West Java opens with the arrival of the first Dutch from the Netherlands in the port city of Banten in 1596, referencing travel journals from four merchant ships documenting the difficult one-and-a half-year voyage; on arriving, they were greeted by the harbourmaster of Banten who enquired after the purpose of their visit. The town was reportedly as large as Old Amsterdam. The enormous marketplace was a hive of trading activities between the Portuguese-speaking cosmopolitan population. Traders came from Arabia, Persia, Abyssinia, Malacca, Bengali, Malabar to Gujarati and beyond, Siam, the Moluccas, Banda and China, and many other countries. Merchants and members of the nobility who invested the capital controlled the distribution of the limited quantities of luxury goods for centuries until the Dutch East Indies Company (voc) seized the monopoly. Thus began the colonial regime, infamous for shrewdly exploiting conflicts between the indigenous rulers and aristocracy (see pp. 33-37). After the proclamation of independence in 1945, followed by the war of independence against the Dutch, the Federal States of Indonesia were finally established in 1949. They included the Pasundan State with a prime minister and one minister who happened to be related to my Sundanese husband. The ambivalent relations between the Sundanese and Javanese are still being exploited today. On 15 August 2015 the ‘Ajip Rosidi’ Library was inaugurated by the Rancage Cultural Foundation, Centre for the Study of Sunda in Bandung, which purportedly promotes separatism from the nkri (the Unified Republic of Indonesia), considering it a Javanese ploy to dominate the archipelago. In the meantime, Ajip Rosidi, my friend, writer and poet, read his dissertation entirely in Sundanese at a state university, an

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Flowers from Universe

event worth mentioning because he founded the Rancage Cultural Foundation, which preserves the proud and defiant Sundanese culture. It was, however, at the Toeti Heraty Galeri Museum that his authentic Sundanese wedding was celebrated on 18 May 2017 in a true Bhinneka Tunggal (Unity in Diversity) manifestation. Ajip Rosidi’s second wife is the well-known actress Nani Wijaya, of Cirebon ancestry. Chapter 10 focuses on Cirebon (see pp. 86-98), a port city with remnants of the fifteenth-century Hindu kingdom culture showing a transitional cultural form between the Sundanese and Javanese that was influenced by Islam through the actions of Sunan Gunung Jati, the offspring of a daughter of the Prabu Siliwangi – the Sundanese ruler – and an Egyptian king. In the seventeenth century, the voc began using the influence of the Sultan of Cirebon, causing his authority to wane. To counteract this transition, attention was now centred on maintaining and refining the sultan’s cultural heritage, including batik motifs that incorporate palace patterns. Paramita Abdurahman has carefully documented this. Even here the ‘defensive’ guardians of Sundanese cultural ideas were extremely concerned about the dominance of Java, and that Cirebon was more Sundanese than Javanese in scope. This ambivalence still manifests in the reluctance of Javanese and Sundanese to intermarry. My marriage (in 1957) was an exception: my husband and I met in the Netherlands while studying and I discovered ‘too late’ that he was half-Sundanese. The rich and colourful presentation of this book emphasises the historical background from the author’s own perspective, shedding light on techniques and skills, symbolic meanings in the context of a traditional way of life, the influences from China with its trade orientation, and of the Dutch colonial regime during the post-voc period. Discussing Javanese textiles means primarily focusing on the techniques and art of batik, which is now appreciated around the world. Any mention of textiles begins with ideas around the fabric and its weaving, where mythology says that Shiva or Batara Guru sent Brahma and Visnu to create man, but without shelter and only leaves for clothing and fruit as food. To create order and security on Earth, Vishnu and Sri descended to teach humans how to spin threads and weave cloth.

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Among the Sundanese in West Java, however, the goddess is named Nyi Pohaci instead of Sri. Nyi Pohaci, the patroness of rice planters and woven cloths is associated with rites of passage, especially those relating to sexual maturity. The loom was a metaphor for Nyi Pohaci’s body and the woven fabric symbolised human life. The woven cloth could be dyed or be left pure white; the latter could be used as a funeral shroud. Both woven material and dyes were instrumental in expressing ideas relating to rites of passage. We refer to following lyrics as such: Ulah sok hayang ka gula Tacan bisa ninggur kawung Ulah sok hayang ka kula Tacan bisa ninun sarung

Do not hope for sugar if still cannot tap the arèn; don’t yearn for me if you can’t yet weave a sarong

(see p. 45) Every stage in the weaving process is a manifestation of Nyi Pohaci, as is the arèn palm. Any discussion of the wealth and diversity of batik should include the history of Chinese influence, which since the beginning of the seventeenth century was so prevalent that Governor General Brouwer reported at the voc’s Seventeenth Council that ‘if the ships keep coming, at least 1000 Chinese people will settle in Batavia every year’. The reality was that more Chinese men than women came during that period. They had a reputation for being sophisticated and resilient in trade, and meticulous and orderly in bookkeeping. They married indigenous women who dressed in sarung and kebaya, and a hybrid ‘Peranakan’ culture arose. A coastal ‘Chinese batik industry’ developed, which adhered firmly to the use of traditional Chinese motifs such as dragons, phoenixes (feng huang) and butterflies for decoration. The Chinese, however, were reluctant to integrate with the indigenous environment, often becoming scapegoats in times of socio-political unrest. They lived in Chinatown with their doors closed. Behind these doors, the production of richly decorated batik for export grew rapidly (see pp. 70-78).

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Introduction

The batik that is particularly favoured originates from the palaces in Central Java, the centres of the four principalities, which all originated in sixteenthcentury Mataram. The competition for supremacy on land as well as at sea, political issues and hostilities between this powerful kingdom and the voc intensified due to voc’s ‘divide et impera’ policy, which ultimately led to Mataram being divided into two sultanates: Surakarta and Yogyakarta, in 1755. The Mangkunegaran principality, originally part of Surakarta, was created in 1757 and Yogyakarta established Pakualaman in 1812. As a result, nobility who were closely related – also through their mystical relationship with Nyi Roro Kidul, the queen of the Indian South Sea – but differed in rank effectively controlled the four palaces, the highest being Pakubuwono. With power waning through fragmentation, Javanese princes eventually directed their courts to focus on the preservation and development of their arts and cultural heritage and on maintaining the social hierarchy with its sophisticated rules through various forms of dance, theatre, puppetry, keris (dagger), literature, batik and culinary refinement. In the sophisticated art of batik, comprising about 3000 patterns and decorative motifs, a prohibition restricted their use to the king and his family. The human life cycle began with the special ceremonies tingkeban (7th month of pregnancy), pupak puser (when the umbilical cord fell off ), and continued with tedak siti (a baby’s first step on the ground), circumcision (specific to boys), marriage, and death. Great attention was paid to batik and its uses within etiquette. In the era of the democratic Republic of Indonesia this feudalistic prohibition seems to be increasingly irrelevant, all the more so as President Sukarno declared batik kain panjang and kebaya as official attire for ladies. Batik is now even widely used by President Jokowi at official state occasions, as it is suited to our tropical climate and weather and is of authentic indigenous origin (see pp. 165-173).

krt Hardjonegoro (Go Tik Swan), and the late Iwan Tirta, which resulted in these products becoming popular among the fashion-conscious elite. Although it has been assumed that weaving in Java is in decline, except among the traditional Badui and in the general use of lurik on Java, modern designers such as Obin and Baron now work with a diversity of women’s cloths such as songket from Palembang and Mandar. Particularly influences from outside Java can evolve and be revived, especially woven silk with silver and gold thread, also due to the explosion in Islamic dress inspired by the Middle Eastern ‘hijab’ that has become a luxurious fashion statement. On 2 October 2009, Indonesian batik was officially recognised by unesco as important cultural heritage because it meets the criteria, among others, of being rich in the symbolism and life philosophy of the Indonesian people. A diversity of Indonesian batik motifs displays various external influences, ranging from Arabic calligraphy, Chinese phoenixes and Japanese cherry blossoms to peacocks from India or Persia. Earlier, in 2003 and 2005, unesco recognised wayang and keris as masterpieces of humanity’s oral and intangible cultural heritage; both were included in the Intangible Cultural Heritage list in 2008. I would like to express my deepest appreciation to the author Alit Djajasoebrata, who as a true daughter of Sundaland, has been gracious enough to invite me – someone from a liberal Javanese background – to write the introduction to this publication that is saturated with the colours and nuances of her personal life and is a testament to her compelling professional thoroughness. Toeti Heraty N. Roosseno Jakarta, August 2015

1. Residence of the deified ancestors, the name the Sundanese

Today batik production is prolific and widespread, even while it remains heavily weighted with the symbolism of decorations as well as the prohibitions on their use. Pride is taken in its refinement and the philosophical background on which legends and myths are based and woven into an impressive tapestry of life. Also invaluable was the boost given by

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affectionately use to refer to the mountainous area in West Java, the domain of their ancestors.

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Flowers from Universe

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1 Textiles on Java In a living tradition, Art was a means of communication, another kind of language, a way of conveying without words some basic concepts of Philosophy and Religion – to educate or to inspire, to help put the individual in harmony with the universe, or to give him magic protection. Cammann 1972: 6

Kain panjang – hipcloth for a woman or man The cloth shows rujak senté, which belongs to the category ‘forbidden motifs’ and means ‘salad of senté-leaves’, which might allude to the many different motifs, including wide and narrow undulating lines filled with snake scales. This pattern is reserved for the Sultan’s family. A seret, a colourless narrow border, encircles the whole. Batik, vegetable dyes 126 x 105.5 cm Yogyakarta, location of Sultan’s palace Made before 1868 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 27275. Gift: E. Jacobson, 1930

During the hot afternoon a young woman seated on the veranda performs batik diligently on chequered woven cotton material Tuban, North Coast of Java, 1969 Photo: Warno

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The significance of textiles is intrinsically embedded in myth, legend and belief. Traditionally, textiles have played a role closer to the core of Indonesian society than fashion or ornament. By means of colour and pattern, textiles have expressed ideas about relationships between individuals – exalted and mean, young and old – as well as between people and the visible and invisible realms that surround them. Sex, family, work, religion, and nature – the most important parts of human experience – are bound together in textiles. The process of textile making was interwoven with the world of the community. This process was composed of different parts: the production part, to which belonged the spinner, the weaver, the dyer and also the planter of raw materials for weaving and dyeing; and the application or usage of the results of that production by members of local communities in a stratified society, which had a prince at its head. Many Indonesians made their own textiles. The plants needed for dyestuffs and fibres (primarily cotton) could be cultivated on a family’s land. Spinning, weaving and patterning was the woman’s work, to

be performed in a purified and elevated state of mind. Family made cloths made in this way enjoyed a special traditional status. They belonged to the woman and to the family from which she sprang. Usually these textiles reflected deep-running religious currents, either in their patterns or their usage. The parts of the textile making process are: the implements, the materials (for example cotton), looms, dyes, motifs, patterns and colouring. Also of interest are the rules and application of textiles in society, such as the use of prescribed cloths in rituals and the adherence to the rules of forbidden patterns. Textiles in Java can be divided into two categories: Javanese-made and imported. Imported textiles occupied a different cultural niche. They were conveyed to Indonesia as part of a trilateral international seaborne trade, which transported Mediterranean or European gold and manufactured goods to Asia; Indian textiles and Chinese porcelains to Indonesia as well as many other parts of the known world; and spices from Indonesia to the north and west.1 The volume of this trade, although fluctuating with the ebb and flow of politics and trade in general, was often very large and probably sufficient to satisfy the requirements of urban populations and rural elites.2 But in times of disorder, local weaving increased to meet local needs. From very early times (the first millennium ad, if not earlier), imported and local textile productions coexisted and exerted a reciprocal influence, training aesthetic tastes and shaping a long-lasting commercial symbiosis that was severed only in the nineteenth century. Long before Europeans seized command of this commerce, some types of Indian textiles, both cheap cottons and costly silks, had been manufactured specifically for export to the Malay Archipelago, where they were

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Traditional Indonesian rulers from West Java or Sunda in official garb In colonial times descendants of traditional ruling families were restricted to one stratum of government. They often shared centuries-old family ties, a claim also made by their spouses. Characteristic of stratified societies, differences in rank were expressed through clothing: the width and fullness of embroidery on velvet jackets – mostly black – indicates the status of men and their wives, as do the patterns ‘of old’ on their kain panjang consisting of diagonal lined patterns (lereng) of status. All the women here have wrapped their kain panjang ‘from right to left’, the men ‘from left to right’, as Sundanese custom prescribes. Honorific denoting their respective ranks with coloured bands are carried in the background. Photo: L.W.C. van den Berg, 1902

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eagerly consumed. Like all new participants joining the ‘spice trade’, European merchants promptly incorporated those Indian weavings as standard items in their inventory of products for sale or barter in south-east Asia. Each merchant or ‘company’ of merchants, Asian as well as European, manoeuvred for position and favour among many competitors. Special textiles were designed and manufactured in India, assigned phenomenal prices (e.g., half a ton of cloves for a single cloth),3 then presented as ingratiating gifts to powerful Indonesian patrons. Locally made Indonesian textiles played no corresponding part in this old international textile trade. Usually modest and made from ‘plain’ materials, they were probably important only to the people who participated in the culture and locality within which they were used. Outsiders were hardly aware of these cloths. Nonetheless, they were economically important, and are repeatedly and prominently mentioned throughout the pre-colonial Javanese gift lists and charters (ninth to fourteenth centuries ad) as important sources of tax revenue. While the line between production for ‘home use’ and produc-

tion for commerce may have been indistinct, and the balance between the two fluctuating, commerce organised around specialised skills (e.g., spinning, dyeing or drawing) was a factor in Javan textile production from early times. 4 However, virtually nothing is known of the appearance of early Javan textiles, apart from risky inferences based on late Javan textiles. Still more remarkable, the entrance of Europeans into Asian markets casts little additional light on the fundamental characteristics of these cloths, notwithstanding the intimate involvement of Europeans in the textile trade and their deep-rooted habit of detailed record keeping.5 This book deals only with Java. The island of Java (Indonesian: Jawa) is 1000 kilometres long and 200 kilometres wide and situated in the centre of the Malay archipelago, lying on a roughly east–west axis. Although other Indonesian islands – New Guinea, Borneo (former Kalimantan), Sumatra and Celebes (former Sulawesi) – are much larger, Java is the most populous, containing 65 per cent of Indonesia’s 215,000,000 inhabitants. The island is extremely

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Textiles in Java

crowded and generally poor (although living standards have risen steadily since 1965). Most inhabitants are farmers, but Java also has many cities, an emerging urban middle class, and the biggest concentration of Indonesian industry. The seat of Indonesian national government is Jakarta (Batavia during Dutch colonial times) in western Java. The language of national unity, in a country that embraces one-quarter of the languages of the world, is Malay (nationally known as Indonesian). It was originally spoken only in eastern Sumatra, but was used for centuries as a lingua franca within and beyond the archipelago. Today Indonesian is universally understood. Parts of Indonesia were, for several hundred years, a colony of the Netherlands; it won its independence through a combination of armed struggle, strategy and negotiation during the period 1945–49. From most important standpoints (historical, cultural and political), Java is the heartland of Indonesia, and has been so acknowledged by islanders and foreigners alike since the thirteenth century, if not earlier. Like most other peoples, Indonesian or otherwise, the Javanese tend to favour their own, and possess the numerical strength to perpetuate their own pre-eminence. At the same time, even-handedness and fairness in the centre’s distribution of power and

wealth is of vital concern to all Indonesian peoples, and as Indonesia has matured as a nation, so the political and economic share of non-Javanese groups has increased proportionately. ‘Javanese’ is not synonymous with the inhabitants of Java. The island is shared by several ethno-linguistic groups, the largest of who are the Javanese, who traditionally practised wet-rice agriculture on bountifully watered, low-lying riverine plains. The Javanese inhabit the eastern two-thirds of Java (i.e., the modern provinces of Central Java and East Java). The western third, a mountainous region, is called Sunda (the modern province of West Java). Sunda is more sparsely populated than Java. The Sundanese grow crops in hillside gardens; this being one of several habits that pre-date their considerable cultural debt to the Javanese and affiliate them with people outside Java. Sundanese and Javanese consider their languages to be mutually unintelligible. The culture of Sunda includes many archaic elements to which we refer later. Court culture is not as highly developed in Sunda as in Java; indeed, until recently wherever refined courts existed within the ancient perimeters claimed by the Majapahit kingdom (an area stretching from central Sumatra to the Molucca

Celebration of the 25th wedding anniversary of one of the author’s uncles, Abu Sadikin (1927-2008), and his wife, with their sons and daughter-in-law The bridal couple wears textiles from Garut, West Java Jakarta, 1979 Collection author

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Flowers from Universe

My aunts Jené and Ani A light-coloured cloth lends lustre to the evening; a dark cloth softens the light of day. All in accordance with contemporary etiquette. Jakarta, 1969 Photos: author

(former Maluku) islands), court custom, language and literature was usually Javanese. The kingdom of Banten, on the north-west coast of the island very near the strait that borders Sumatra, was one such Javanised court, albeit in the heart of Sunda. Sunda was once a much larger country, occupying roughly the western half of Java, and the Sundanese more a co-equal of the Javanese than a minority people on the island.6 Javanese kingdoms situated in Central and Eastern Java relentlessly annexed Sundanese lands, spreading Javanese language and culture in their trail. Even today, the linguistic boundary between Java and Sunda lies far to the east of the political (provincial) boundary, especially in the less accessible mountain interior; and there is evidence that in ancient times the border passed through the Dieng-Sundoro-Sumbing highlands to the Bagawanta River, about 35 kilometres west of Yogyakarta.7 To avoid confusion, hereafter in this book the old term ‘Javan’ is used when referring to peoples and customs of the entire island. The term ‘Java’ will refer to Central and East Java only, and ‘Javanese’ will likewise refer only to Javanese-speakers or to the language itself. Sunda and Sundanese will be separately identified.

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Besides the Sundanese and Javanese (and several subgroups, e.g., the Badui of West Sunda and the Tenggerese of East Java), there were in urban areas large numbers of immigrants from other parts of Indonesia, and from China, Arabia and India, as well as a shrinking group of mixed-blood Europeans. The largest and oldest immigrant community is Chinese; this group has resided in Indonesia for at least 1000 and perhaps 2000 or more years.8 During Dutch times, increasing numbers of Chinese arrived in Indonesia, mainly from the southern border provinces of Guangdong and Fujian, but immigration peaked at the end of the nineteenth century.9 At other times, however, notably during the radical Islamisation of Java in the sixteenth century, Chinese and Indonesians have experienced a commonality of interest and worked together in apparent harmony. This relationship is crucial to an appreciation of north-coast Java batik, because many of its unique features are attributable to increasing Chinese dominance of batik workshops during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. Acknowledging this importance, a special chapter is dedicated to the Chinese. Arabs and Indians, mainly followers of Muslim co-religions in recent centuries but presumably also Hindus and Buddhists in the first and early second

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This kain panjang is an heirloom of the Wiranatakoesoemah family, regents of Bandung It belonged to an ancestor and still serves a function during circumcision or nuptial rituals. The cloth is reverently kept by the Association of Founders of Bandung. Batik on cotton. Bandung, West Java 1981 Photo: author

millennia ad, arrived in pursuit of trade opportunities. Prior to World War II, Indians operated many Javan textile shops; they specialised in imported cloth, a reminder of the long-standing Indonesian taste for Indian fabric. Arabs remain the dominant textile producers in north-coast cities such as Gresik, once famous for its exquisite silks. Families from the Persian Gulf own Gresik’s numerous semi-mechanised workshops where block-printed or silk-screen waistcloths are manufactured and distributed throughout the archipelago. West Java (Sunda) is treated more thoroughly than in previous textile books because Sundanese

culture is closely linked to mainstream pan-Indonesian textile traditions. Thus it throws light on the more cosmopolitan textile traditions of Central and East Java, which have developed in idiosyncratic directions that are quite different to mainstream traditions: many Javanese traditions are found nowhere else. It is important to realise that beyond Java, weaving retained a profoundly religious inspiration and character, often up to the present day. Javanese traditional textiles, on the other hand, although presumably originating in similar ways, either disappeared or became mainly commercial items, and at an earlier date. This was because Java was the spearhead of Indian civilisation, of Islamisation, of Westernisation, and of economic and social ‘modernism’. The sacral motivation of non-Javanese weaving accounts for the power and conviction those textiles transmit to the observer, be they local or ‘foreign’, learned or casual. Eventually one realises that apparent iconographic differences with Java are often superficial and misleading, because many non-Javanese textiles have similar roots, or relate precisely to the ‘Javan’ religious–cultural–magical functions described later in this book. Administratively, the island of Java is composed of three provinces, each divided into regencies or counties (Ind. kabupaten; Du. Regentschap). Formerly, the Dutch created an intermediate level of government – a large district called a ‘residency’. (In 1937 there were, in the Dutch Midden-Java Province or Central Java Province, five residencies and 24 regencies.) Most residencies bore the name of a large city, usually the administrative seat. Thus, in Central Java, the residencies were Pekalongan, Semarang, Rembang-Japara and Banyumas; the exception being Kedu, named after a plateau. Although no longer administratively functional, the old residencies or areas are useful and of an appropriate size for making broad geographicalcultural distinctions, and they are referred to in the course of this book (see the map on page 31). The Dutch excluded two special districts in the Central Javanese interior from provincial organisation. These seats were Yogyakarta (popularly styled Jogjakarta) and Surakarta (Solo), each of which contained two traditional courts with titular and customary, but not real, power. Their princes descended from the ancient kings of Java. Together, these seats were called the Vorstenlanden, or ‘principalities’ and they incorporated surrounding rural regions, rep-

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Detail of a kain panjang – hipcloth The motif is Satrya (‘hero’) Dananjaya, designed by the wife of the regent of Banyumas in c. 1930. Her daughter now owns the kain. In the shadow theatre the hero Dananjaya (=Arjuna) also wears this pattern, which is cut out of the thin leather with painstaking precision. Batik on cotton Banyumas, Central Java c. 1930 Collection Ratmini Soedjatmoko

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resenting the shrunken but still sizeable traditional domains of the four princes. The principalities are a vital source of Javanese custom and philosophy. Generally we adopt contemporary Indonesian (Sundanese) transliteration, but in a few cases we revert to English conventions (e.g., Java instead of Indonesian Jawa, Buddha instead of Buda). In Indonesian words, the emphasis is nearly always on the penultimate syllable, In-do-nee-sia, Ja-kar-ta. The current Indonesian alphabet is Romanised. Indonesian letter c always corresponds to the English sound English ‘ch’, and Indonesian letters sy to the English sound ‘sh’. Indonesian orthography follows strict rules and never admits two pronunciations for a single letter or combination of letters. Thus g is

always sounded as in ‘get’ and never as in ‘genus’ (which in Indonesian is spelled jenis). Similarly, the English word ‘classic’, with its hard English c, transforms into the Indonesian loanword klassik, but the English ‘chop’ becomes the Indonesian cap. Javanese pronunciation differs from Indonesian; to outsiders, it possesses an extraordinarily musical rhythm and character. We attempt to convey some of this quality with old-fashioned orthographical devices: å d e t

long ‘or’, as in ‘saw’ and ‘tore’ deeply resonant, non-dental ‘d’, as in ‘dodo’ short ‘e’, as in ‘system’ non-dental ‘t’, as in ‘later’

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Older Dutch forms are rigorously respected in the spelling of some proper names; once bestowed, an individual’s name may change only by personal choice (in Java people frequently change their name). Basic Dutch-Indonesian spelling transformations are: tj = c dj = j j=y oe = u sj = sh Thus one might have Sindoeredjo, instead of the modern Sindurejo. Geographical names are written according to modern Indonesian spelling, so no orthographic characters are used. The names of Hindu–Buddhist deities, perhaps better known to English readers in their Indian forms, are here spelled or named in the Indonesian fashion, Indian Siva (older English ‘Shiva’) = Indonesian Siwa; Indian Visnu (English ‘Vishnu’) = Indonesian Wisnu. Some Indonesian deities have Indian origins and identities never explicitly recognised in our text, for example Dewi Uma, the female consort of Siva/Siwa, who is actually the Indian goddess Parvati. The findings in this book are shaped only by recent textiles (200 years old or less), selected by Westerners rather than Indonesians, that are accompanied by little else and housed in sterile northern museums and collections.10 The findings, moreover, are essentially intellectual reconstructions of the old truths – reasoned speculations – derived from highly knowledgeable intimates (both Indonesian and foreign, nineteenth and twentieth century) of the cultural life. These intimates would probably readily admit, however, that they were severed in crucial respects from the wisdom of the elders by some generations by a period of loss and, moreover, that their mentalities may no longer be, or never were, compatible with or fully comprehending the ancient mind that brought these textiles into being. An endeavour is made to rediscover older, more knowledgeable voices and to let them speak directly, in their own words. Commercial textile manufacturing was insignificant in eighteenth-century Indonesia; it resumed only with the decline of the Indian textile industry at the

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end of the eighteenth century and the birth of Java’s north-coast batik industry in the first decades of the nineteenth. At this time, batik cloths gained prominence. As well as ‘personal’ batik – home-produced on a small scale for personal or family use – there were new products generated in a workshop-like environment for sale in the commercial marketplace.11 It seems likely that before the nineteenth century, ‘personal’ batik traditions existed all along the North Coast both in cities and the countryside, espousing several distinct styles – the various seeds from which commercial colour and pattern schools later sprouted. This book picks up the north-coast thread at about 1830 and addresses the general history and background of the commercial industry. It does not explore specific local schools, except for Cirebon, a unique batik hybrid that remained ‘personal’ until the early twentieth century. The widening of the commercial impact on the local community has disintegrated the meaning of textiles, weakening the religious content of symbols and motifs. Trade and commerce have contributed to the dilution of the spiritual in the local community context in which textiles function. In the present day, many Indonesians wear cloths adorned with traditional Javanese batik motifs and they know that the material was printed in large factories. Motifs, patterns and colours are frequently inspired by the textiles of old, but their meaning and spiritual impact has become as thin as the garments they make. In Indonesia nowadays, the term ‘batik’ is used for textiles across the whole nation and is no longer restricted to Java. All dates are reckoned by the Christian era.

Notes 1

In Europe, spices were deemed indispensable as medicines, as food preservatives, as pungent seasonings that disguised the foul taste of decaying food and as perfumes that concealed body odours. These spices – black pepper, cloves, nutmeg, saffron, cinnamon, ginger, etc. – grew in south and south-east Asia and, prior to the fifteenth century ad, were carried to the gates of Europe by Asian traders via a far-flung ocean and caravan network (Abu-Lughod, 1989, p. 68). After passing through many hands, the ultimate price of these spices on European markets was far beyond the means of common people. The first deliberate European contact with Indonesia occurred as a result of European initiatives to obtain these precious commodities directly at source, thereby

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to cut costs, enlarge the market and garner a much larger

to 1800 ad or thereabouts, is crippled. However, Javanese

portion of total profits. The Portuguese found the direct sea

babad, written in this period, may contain interesting infor-

route around Africa first, pursued by the Spanish, the Dutch,

mation about textiles even though they may not be taken

the English, the Danes and other European nations. European

seriously as historical sources.

penetration succeeded because China, long the political and

There is a tendency in Indonesian textile studies to emphasise

economic power to which south-east Asian fortunes were

the influence of Indian and Chinese textiles on Indonesian

tied, had recently withdrawn from foreign trade, leaving

weavings. This is simply because the similarities are manifest

their overseas trade partners enfeebled. By the middle of the

and because there are numerous surviving ancient textiles

seventeenth century, a bitter European struggle for influence

from India and especially China, and none from Indonesia.

and power in south and south-east Asia had narrowed to

It is easier to talk about the evidence that exists than the

a contest between England and Holland. English attention

evidence that is lost – and in south-eastern Asia’s hot, humid

gradually focused on India, while on Java and other profit-

climate, there is scant prospect of finding a trove of ancient

able Indonesian territories, the Dutch East India Company

Indonesian weavings in a cave or buried in a jar. (Java lacks

emerged with a strategic advantage that Holland consoli-

dry sand dunes and hermetically sealed tombs.) Therefore, to

dated during the next 350 years. The Dutch wrestled political

cast light on small parts of an undoubtedly involved and very

power from Indonesian rulers and progressively incorpo-

prolonged evolutionary process (lasting at least 2000 years),

rated into their East Indies crown colony most of the Malay

the main tool used by most scholars is hypothetical recon-

Archipelago, from Sumatra to the border of the Spanish

struction based upon relatively recent Indonesian textile

(American) Philippines (excluding British North Borneo and East Timor), as well as half of Melanesian New Guinea. 2 Reid, 1988, pp. 4-5.

7 Pigeaud, 1938, pp. 95-96.

3 Reid, 1988, p. 95.

8 Because some ancient ‘Indonesian’ population groups

4 Christie, 1993, pp. 11ff.

themselves originated or sojourned within the south Chinese

5 From the beginning, the European perception of Indonesia

borderlands before migrating to the archipelago, the original

was shaped by rich, first-hand accounts such as ‘The First

distinction between ‘Indonesian’ and ‘Chinese’ in the very

Voyage of the Dutch to the East Indies under Cornelis de

earliest Indonesian communities may be almost academic.

Houtman’. In this writing, a picture of a part of old Java is

Textiel_p001_192_HT.indd 20

evidence. 6 Atlas van Tropisch Nederland, 1938, p. 10 B.

9 During the ‘old order’ period (1951–65), the relationship

sketched by an awe-struck sixteenth-century Dutch seaman–

between Indonesia and China was close, even ‘warm’. But

journalist confronting a fantastic and scarcely comprehen-

the G30S/PKI affair, considered to have been orchestrated by

sible world. His minutely detailed, comprehensive efforts at

Indonesia’s communist party (PKI), made it the target of the

reportage depict the entrepôt Banten (Bantam) in western

politicised vengeful population to the effect of traumatising

Java as a cosmopolitan centre with vast commercial potential

the ethnic Chinese in Indonesia for quite a long time.

(Rouffaer and IJzerman, 1925). However, until the nineteenth

Wide-ranging political changes took place under the ‘new

century – at least in the official reports and memoranda

order’ (1965–98). Everything Chinese was looked on with

prepared by Dutch officials on the scene – East–West interac-

mistrust, as they were considered to maintain strong ties with

tion was narrowly focused on business and profit. Sympathy,

their country of origin, and their loyalty to Indonesia was

curiosity and basic insight concerning the life and culture of

questioned.

Indonesian peoples are absent from those records except

They were politically and culturally discriminated, the use of

where human feeling chances to intersect commercial or

the Chinese language forbidden, they were forced to take

political interests. Thus, a superabundance of old archival

indigenous Indonesian names, and although cultural expres-

data in fact reveals remarkably little about conditions of

sions such as barongsai and the Chinese New Year (Imlek) were

Indonesian life and culture during the first 250 years of Dutch

repressed, they did survive. Although mainly traders, they

occupation. It tells us almost nothing, for example, about

were nonetheless regarded as having communist sympathies.

textiles – about what, why, or how people made and used

On the other hand special privileges provided to a select

them, and even less about their appearance. Apart from legal

group resulted in some of them becoming quite wealthy, mak-

and religious documents, a few quasi-histories (hikayat), and

ing them the envy of the underprivileged masses.

recensions of medieval texts, there are no records gener-

The ‘Era of Reformation’ after 1998 began with anti-Chinese

ated by Indonesians themselves during the ‘Dutch period’.

riots that reminded many of the trauma of the 1965 upheav-

Consequently, the capacity of modern Indonesian scholarship

als. Scores of refugees fled to neighbouring countries. But

to penetrate and analyse indigenous Indonesian society prior

before long their lives were changed for the better by the

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However, in spite of the good tidings, not all of the old sentiments against this minority group have vanished. At the time of writing (2018) this resentment still comes to the boil from time to time, and is misused by political interest groups. The process towards peaceful coexistence in Indonesian society, supposedly free of prejudices towards its many different ethnic groups and beliefs, takes time. 10 Indonesians tend to appreciate most the local cultures from which they spring. As an Indonesian myself, I feel that Sundanese and Javanese studies represent the contribution I am best positioned to make – to know one’s limits; to keep to sure ground; to be narrow but deep, is often the best way. Yet that inwardness and ethnocentricity can blind us to rich nuances and to cross-cultural comments from one end of Indonesia to the other (and beyond) that may add profound flavour. Raised by my mother’s West Javanese family, and furnished by my grandmother with a traditional upbringing during my youth (from 6 to 13 years of age), I acquired – like all Indonesian girls raised in adat surroundings – a feeling for the role textiles play in Sunda. Later, as I served for almost four decades as curator of the Indonesian section at the Wereldmuseum Rotterdam (the World Arts Museum Rotterdam: one of the finest repositories of Indonesian ethnography, including textiles, in the world) with responsibility for the material culture of all Indonesia, my interest evolved. I became aware of the textile traditions of many other Indonesian peoples outside Java; an eye-opening experience. As for the Wereldmuseum Rotterdam collection, this includes textiles donated by nineteenth-century Rotterdam patron Elie van Rijckevorsel and by the passionate connoisseur G.P. Rouffaer, as well as donations by many others. The collection has often provided study material (for Rouffaer, Loebèr, Van Nouhuys, Hurwitz, Tirtaamidjaja, Gittinger) and merits attenDetail of a sarung – tubular skirt for women, North Coast of Java On the badan are ce ̆plokan patterns (large compass rose motifs amid plant tendrils with rosette-shaped blossoms). The kapala has narrow papan (borders) with orchid flowers. The badan has figures in several shades of blue on a red base colour; the large compass rose motifs are very dark. c. 1860 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam (inv. no. unknown)

Reformation-minded policies of successive new governments.

tion for its wide variety, high quality, and documentation (the

Indonesian-Chinese were allowed to enter areas forbidden to

provision of specific dates and places, manufacture or origin,

them for the previous 32 years.

information not always supplied with museum acquisitions).

Their cultural expressions were no longer frowned upon and

Former Rotterdam director Van Nouhuys, who knew and

the wider population even participated in them. The notion

loved Indonesian textiles, emphasised weaving during his

of ‘unity in diversity’ became more and more accepted

tenure (1915-35) and considerably augmented the museum’s

in Indonesia. Many people of Indo-Chinese descent now

holdings. Many Rotterdam textiles are illustrated in this book.

entered non-commercial fields such as knowledge, education,

11 All genuine ‘spirituality’ inherent in Javanese textiles arose in

public administration, health, culture, journalism; some even

the former, ‘personal’ context. Commercial products repro-

founded and led new political parties.

duce some of the visual qualities manifest in those ‘personal’

Their older generation has become more inclined to adopt the

batiks, but minus the surrounding ritual, religious atmos-

habits and customs of their surroundings; mixed marriages

phere. Anyone sensitised to the nuances of Java observes the

between indigenous people and those of Indo-Chinese origin

dichotomy of ‘personal’ versus ‘commercial’.

are more frequent; they convert to Islam, and the younger generation of this group seem to have little affinity with their ancestral country of origin.

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2 Decorative Processes and Products After the Lord Jagatpramana [or ‘Batårå Guru’, names of Siwa] had performed yoga for some while (on the island of Java), He sent Brahma and Wisnu out to create men. Brahma and Wisnu obeyed and made men, kneading earth into clods and fashioning men therefrom, pure and perfect, in appearance like gods ... But there were no houses. Men and women went naked into the forest and cracked sticks, for their life was without labour, and there was nothing to guide them. They had no loincloths, no sampur [dancer’s shawls], no basahan [formal attire, dodot], no kendit [girdle], no coif, and no scissors. They jabbered but they knew neither words nor meanings; leaves and fruit served as their food ... Thereupon the Lord Guru instructed the gods to create order and stability in the Javanese archipelago ... Lord Wisnu and His Lady Sri descended ... They educated the people, so that they might spin and weave, and have loincloths, dodot, tapih [skirts], and sampur. Tantu Panggelaran, Pigeaud 1924: 57-60, 129-132

Detail of a sarung – tubular skirt for women, worn by the close relative of an Indo-Chinese bride The badan is decorated with garis miring (diagonal parallel narrow lines on which buketan [‘bouquet’] and bird motifs are evenly spaced). A substantial zigzagging lace-like line offsets the badan and kapala. On the kapala and along both long borders are rows of buketan, birds, blossoms and flowering and fruiting branches. The badan is bright blue. The kapala and borders are bright red, with lace-like zigzag lines in gold and white. All the motifs are embellished with gold leaf. Cotton, gold leaf 205 x 108 cm Batikked in Semarang, North Coast of Java, exported to Palembang, South Sumatra Gold leaf possibly applied in Palembang c. 1875 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 26934. Bequest: Dr. P.G. Rouffaer, 1928

The story of Javanese textiles nowadays is primarily a story about batik, a technique highly regarded and widely imitated in other countries due to its eminence among the material achievements of Javanese culture. Formerly, however, Javanese textiles utilised a much wider range of methods of decoration to produce a broader range of textile products. Although most of these old textile techniques have now lapsed into disuse, the world-wide adoption of Javanese or Indonesian terms for the methodologies involved reflects the high level of development they once reached, their importance within local cultures and their role in providing models for foreigners. Most Indonesian modes of decoration with dye baths involve resist dyeing (sometimes called reserve dyeing), either of threads before weaving or of finished (woven) pieces of cloth. In general, resist dyeing uses tight bindings to prevent liquid dyes from penetrating particular fibres when the whole material is immersed in the dye bath. Unprotected yarns or material absorb colour; protected areas ‘resist’ the dye colour. These resist techniques may be classified as follows: • Ikat (Indonesian, ‘to bind’): The term was first used in 1901 by G.P. Rouffaer in his introduction to the catalogue of the exhibition of weavings and

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batiks organised by ‘Oost en West’ in The Hague.1 It is a resist technique wherein the patterning is determined, prior to dyeing and weaving, by binding particular parts of the warp and/or weft threads so that dye cannot penetrate them when the yarns are subsequently immersed in the colour bath. After dyeing, the binding fibres are removed. Warp ikat appeared on Sundanese magical protective cloths called kasang, gubah, and geber, but these have not been made for 50 years or more. Weft ikat is still produced in a few Javanese locales. Double ikat (of both warps and wefts) is unknown, at least in the recent historical period. In modern Indonesia, double ikat occurs only in Bali; a rudimentary ‘two directional’ ikat, lacking pattern, is found on a few old pieces from south and central Sumatra. Notwithstanding its modern rarity, double ikat may once have been produced by other Indonesian cultures, pre-eminently Javan. • Tritik (from Indonesian/Javanese, titik meaning ‘drop’ and tritik meaning ‘sprinkled’, both of which convey something of the visual effect): This is a resist technique wherein the motifs are applied to undyed cloth by needlework, with the tacking thread pulled so tightly that the cloth is pinched to such a degree that it becomes impermeable. Colour cannot penetrate the areas of cloth along

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Selendang – formal shouldercloth for women The warp is purple, red, green, yellow and black; the weft is gold-coloured. Both short sides with stripes. The centre has a somewhat faded ceplokan (regular geometric motifs based on the compass rose). Woven ikat on cotton, silk, gold thread 223 x 56 cm Gresik, East Java c. 1900 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 6965. Purchased from Driessen, 1903

> Selendang – formal shouldercloth for women Tritik decoration. Diagonal zigzag lines enclosed by other zigzag lines and tumpal (triangular) patterns on both short sides. The motifs are named tapak dara, ‘(foot) prints of a pigeon’; the lines are named kelak-keling (zigzag lines). Reddish orange and yellowish white colours where tritik was applied. Cotton, dyed with mengkudu 143 x 75 cm Surakarta, Central Java c. 1900 Collection Wereldmuseum, Rotterdam 25193. Purchased at Veilinghuis Mak van Waay, 1921

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Selendang – formal shouldercloth for women Colourful in accordance with the tastes of those living along the North Coast of Java, but might also have been intended for export to Bali, Sumatra, and even Thailand. The centre panel in dark pink contains small oblong globules, named kolang-kaling, the skinned kernels of the arèn or sugar palm (Arenga pinnata), from which a sweet syrup is made that is consumed as a popular drink. Batik and pelangi on silk 52 x 219 x fringe 10 cm Kampong Koblin, Surabaya, East Java, c. 1900 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 20476

> Selendang – formal shouldercloth for women The bright colours are typical of the North Coast. Falls into the same category as 20476. Pelangi (Indon. ‘rainbow’) or plangi (Javanese for selendang, ‘shouldercloth’), a ceremonial belt decorated by tritik and batik, on silk. 169 x 56 cm Surabaya, East Java c. 1920 Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 27847

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A cap maker These stamps were cut by hand from thin copper sheet, then folded and soldered. Kalitengah, Central Java 1981 Photo: author

Batik manufactory of Oey Soe Tjoen The first lines are being applied. Another woman using a different kind of canting will apply wax to those areas of the cloth that are meant to remain uncoloured when dipped in dye. Colour has already been applied here and there, in this case by hand (colet), possibly with a small brush. Kedungwuni, North Coast of Java 1981 Photo: author

Textiel_p001_192_HT.indd 26

these pinched threads when the cloth is subsequently saturated with dye. • Pelangi (Indonesian, ‘many-coloured’, thus the Javanese plangi, meaning ‘rainbow’): This is a resist technique whereby greater or smaller parts of the cloth, prior to dyeing, are gathered in puckers and tightly bound with threads or fibres. The resultant pattern elements generally assume distinctive square or round shapes with softly defined edges. Tritik (see above) and pelangi frequently occur together. An important category of cloth in which this combination is found is the kain kembangan, ‘flowered cloths’, which fulfil a ritual function (see Chapter 14). Small cloths made for offerings are nowadays called letrek (meaning ‘spread out flat, like porridge on a plate’), alluding to their appearance (porridge, bubur, is a frequent food offering). • Batik: This is a resist technique in which portions of the cloth foundation are ‘drawn’ (tulis) with warm liquid wax, applied by painting with wax pens (canting). Commercial products in which large patterns are hand stamped with waxed blocks for expediency are called cap, as distinct from tulis. Dye subsequently stains only unwaxed areas of the cloth. Then the wax is scraped or boiled away. • Weaving: Apart from these resist (or reserve) dyeing techniques, striped and square ornament was also obtained by weaving with yarns of varied colours.

Particular visual results had to be realised with the specific decorative method deemed ‘proper’ (i.e., customary) within a given locality. In 1878, Van Musschenbroek pointedly illustrated this traditionalism when he observed (apparently as advice to aspiring Dutch textile merchants) that printed cloth bearing striped or square patterns would be unsellable, because tradition insisted that they be woven. Each region was characterised by preferences for specific patterns, formats and colours: strangers stood out from the crowd and people knew where they came from. Thus, Javanese usually wore striped plain weaves (lurik); Sundanese, from between Cirebon residency and the Jakarta region, preferred square (poleng) patterns; while in Banten residency (western Sunda) lurik again predominated.2 Alongside weavings that serve to indicate the wealth, social status or age of the wearer, Java and Sunda also produce textiles that play religiousceremonial or magical roles. On special occasions, for example, certain cloths are hung on the inner walls of a house to avert evil (kain kasang or gubah).3 Coverlets or blankets (simbut) function during childbirth, circumcision, tooth filing and so forth. Some textiles are made exclusively as offering gifts, particularly for the goddess of the South Seas, Kangjeng Ratu Kidul. Some cloths were manufactured using locally produced raw materials; other textiles were woven with imported yarns. A few Javan techniques are still

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Small pattern drawing of the kind in use on batik at the North Coast Translation of the names on the paper: Owal-awil: actually ‘hanging loose’; Sawud: fine lines; Cecek: stip; Sisik: schub > Drawing explaining plangi, tritik and ikat techniques In: A. Veldhuisen-Djajasoebrata, 1988, p. 11

Four types of canting The spouts of the canting determine how thin the wax line on the cloth will be; sometimes a single application results in a miniature compass rose motif. Collection Stichting Nationaal Museum van Wereldculturen tm-3401

Textiel_p001_192_HT.indd 27

widely practised; others survive only in remote hamlets; but the largest part of the Javan textile heritage, as testified in ancient Javan literature, seems to have vanished altogether. Java and Sunda both produce batik textiles. However, the only type of batik that appears to be native to Sunda utilised manufacturing procedures and produced visual results wholly different from those of Java. Javanese batiks are executed with a hot-wax ‘pen’ (canting), an apparently Javanese invention admirably suited to produce simulations of Indian chintz. But the native Sundanese rice-paste

batik, batik simbut (now extinct), was painted with a stick or finger dipped in rice gruel. Although scant in technique, simbut could be visually stunning. Stark, archaic patterns, similar to those seen on simbut, have survived throughout south-east Asia and are generally attributed to prehistoric times; their tenacious persistence is a measure of their importance to Austronesian peoples. 4 As far as we know, batik simbut were used only as ritual blankets or partitions, not as clothing or offerings. Because these batiks come from a different cultural atmosphere, they are discussed in the separate chapter Rice-paste Batiks. Pen-drawn (canting) batik and the stamped (cap)

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is broad, but frequently canting with an even thicker spout are used to wax areas already dyed, to prevent contact with dyestuffs in the next dye bath. To wax very large areas, a wad of cotton may be tied over the spout or saturated with wax for direct application like a brush. • Parallel lines and clusters of dots. Other canting have two, three, four or five spouts aligned in a row to draw parallel stripes; four clustered spouts will make four square or rectangular dots at once; seven spouts, arranged with six encircling one in the middle, form a flower from dots. There are many other variations.

A man applies a pattern to the cloth with a copper cap. Before this he had pressed the stamp into a special cushion saturated with hot wax; its wax imprint shows the motif that continues to the next border where a new pattern has to start, for which different stamps will be deployed. Batik manufactory North Coast of Java, c. 1972 Collection author

version derived from it constitute the main forms of the tradition. The canting is a small hand-held reservoir, made of thin, red or yellow copperplate, and which contains liquid wax scooped in small amounts from a larger melting pan heated by a steady flame. A tiny spout funnels the wax onto the cloth with precision. The reservoir of the canting wax-ladle is called awak-awak (meaning ‘body’); the curved spout cucuk (‘thorn’); and the opening mulut (‘mouth’). A light, pithy piece of glagah reed (Saccharum spontaneum) serves as a handle that remains cool. Manufacture of canting is the work of specialists. Different canting are used for:

Early canting cap from the south of Central Java In: L.Th. Mayer, 1897, p. 527

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• Drawing the initial contour lines, first on one side of the cloth (rengrengan), and then exactly copied on the other side (terusan). Throughout almost all Java these canting are called klowongan or gladagan (‘to batik the contours’). In the northcoast area of Pekalongan, known for its sizeable batik industry, these canting are called rengreng or terusan. Rengreng means ‘design, concept’; terusan means ‘continuation’. • Elaborating tiny patterns within large contours. These isèn (‘filler’) canting require a minute spout. • Filling larger areas that must remain white during their first immersion in the dye bath. This spout

The cap or stamp, also called canting cap, was used for the production of cheaper batiks. Most cap stamps are fashioned of copper. Except for selfcontained symmetrical motifs, cap batik always employs at least two stamps, which are either bilaterally complementary, or positive and negative. Like canting batik, stamped patterns are almost always applied on both sides of the cloth. For this reason, the stamps must be manufactured with great precision. In the case of cap designed to be used in conjunction with other cap to create large-scale patterns – or single cap applied repeatedly to make a continuous pattern – the manufacturer of the stamps must ensure that all perimeters of the cap, where the patterns break off, will exactly match the edge of the next cap applied, to disguise the interstice between them (otherwise there will be a visible break in continuity). Separate stamps are required along the margins of patterns. Thus, a complete stamped sarong (tubular skirt-cloth) might require a set of thirteen or fifteen different stamps, large and small. Positioned between coarse stamped (cap) and fine hand-drawn (tulis) batik products are the so-called kombinasi batiks, in which canting tulis work mingles on the same cloth with cap. The best kombinasi pieces are almost (but never completely) indistinguishable from pure hand-drawn, tulis batiks. At the beginning of this century, G.P. Rouffaer wrote a cultivated, pioneering study of Javanese batik. He distinguishes between the palettes of the Central Javanese principalities and those of north-coastal districts. He describes the first as ‘the triumph of the tingling brown, set against the deep blue; the concentration of all the dignified warmth, the glowing nobility of the inner Javanese’. He calls the

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Decorative Processes and Products

Two caps, copper stamps used to apply a motif in wax on woven material, front and back In: G.P. Rouffaer & H.H. Juynboll, 1914, plate 35

coastal batik a ‘testimony to the genuine Malay love for gaudy colours, attracted first to red, next to yellow, to green, and only then to blue and brown’.5 Rouffaer’s views reflect a heartfelt preference for the restrained, hierarchical atmosphere of Central Java – a contrast to the extroverted, trade- and profitoriented climate of north-coastal districts. Traditional textiles manufactured for personal use on the North Coast comprise a separate category, represented for example by those that still emerge in a ‘basic’ blue, red, and white palette from the vicinity of Tuban.

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Colour represents an important classifying tool. Not only does it disclose at a glance the ‘school’ to which a cloth belongs, but to a practised eye colour can reveal a cloth’s age, the region or even the batik workshop from whence it came, and the pigments from which the dyes were derived. Nevertheless, cloths utilising a palette characteristic of one region can be made, or imitated, in other regions. Such subtleties may elude the layman, or even the expert. Almost all dyestuffs today are synthesised from chemicals rather than derived from plants. An exception is soga brown (from the bark of Peltophorum fer-

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A woman applying background motifs in wax with her canting Batik workshop Moh. Masina in Trusmi, near Cirebon Photo: J. de Jonge, 1986

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riguneum) in Central Java, because opinion decrees that really beautiful Central Javanese batiks with classic patterns, which ‘surpass all others’, must be soga-dyed in the old laborious manner. As recently as 1978 there were also a few places in the vicinity of Yogyakarta and Surakarta that still utilised organic blue dyes derived from indigo plants (Indigofera), but that practice is dying out. In some villages near Tuban, cloths are still traditionally spun, woven, batikked, and dyed with reds obtained from mengkudu (Morinda citrifolia) trees and with real indigo, for ‘personal’ use. When chemical dyes appeared towards the end of the nineteenth century, new dye recipes dramatically abbreviated the dyeing process, altered the resultant colour values and added many new hues. The first of these new dyes were experimental mixtures of vegetable and aniline substances, but gradually they became purely synthetic. However, the importance of natural dyestuffs in top-quality prestige batiks and in the magical operation ascribed to ritual cloths, did delay the shift to chemicals. Vegetable dyes persisted mainly among ‘personal-use’ producers. Modern imported dyes from Japan, Switzerland and Germany are brighter and much more colourfast

than older Western chemical dyes or, indeed, than most of the original Javanese vegetable dyes. Weft ikats from Gresik, traditionally believed to have been introduced by an Arab from India, were using imported chemical dyes by 1910. Pelangi and tritik cloths, which include kain kembangan, have utilised chemical as well as organic dyestuffs since about 1870. Another discrete typology is pattern. Certain designs are specifically recognisable as either Central Javanese or north-coastal, called pasisir (meaning ‘coast’), but both absorbed external influences from abroad as well as from each other. ‘Filler’ (isèn) motifs are tiny ornaments that elaborate pattern interiors, and thus activate the surface. North-coast isèn proliferated in staggering variety because fresh pasisir concepts demanded detail; also profusions of meticulous isèn justified higher prices. In the principalities, on the other hand, patterns were often so intricate and so densely packed that new isèn types were superfluous. The number of north-coast batik factories grew enormously after 1850. The growth was due in part

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Decorative Processes and Products

to the stamp (cap) process, to quick dyeing, and to the outburst of colour and exuberant new pattern concepts now limited only by the imagination of the designers. Patterns incorporated Chinese and Dutch troops; butterflies; dice; steamships; European bouquets; iris ponds; symbols of faith, hope and charity; garlands; bicycles; Chinese mythological phoenixes, lions and dragons; art nouveau flora; fans; artillery; motorcars; the alphabet. Old preoccupations were given a new lease of life: hands of playing cards or cornucopia might supplement the swastika as signs of luck and fortune; Little Red Riding Hood became a mythic heroine; traditional Javan microcosmic representations such as the old enclosed royal garden were updated as zoos. IndoEuropean or Chinese managers of batik manufactory workshops competed to introduce specialities or a novel isèn that was unique to their particular establishment. The explosion in the industry was also fuelled by increased affluence within a monetising economy, by the substitution of locally made textiles for imports, by popular tastes being shaped on an unprecedented scale by European industrialisation and communications, and by the new phenomenon of ‘mass consumption’. Area of distribution of decorative techniques c.1900, after data by G.P. Rouffaer (1914) and C.M. Pleyte (1912). Geber, kasang and rice-paste batik cloths have not been made for the last 50 years.

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ing facilities such as educational courses to local textile producers. Their activity is the product of good intentions, but unavoidably many older, more refined crafts, nurtured in an introspective village context, are doomed to extinction because of a bias towards large-scale economical product promotion integrated into the overall national development scheme.

Notes 1

Rouffaer, 1901.

2 Musschenbroek, 1878, pp. 49–53. 3 Coolsma said in his study on Sundanese people: ‘Houses of the Sundanese are mostly made of bamboo, sometimes of wood. The floor is flattened bamboo, palupuh, the walls are bamboo plaitwork or boards. A piece of white cotton serves commonly as ceiling. The house has no glass windows; there are however window frames with bars set in the walls. Wellto-do people have the walls inside the house covered with textile hangings called kasang. Paint is not used. If there is need for partitions in the house, curtains are hung to that aim. There is not much furniture… Many houses possess a weaving loom, which is placed on the veranda… House and possessions are mostly so modest that the whole is not worth ten guilders’ (Coolsma, 1881, p. 110). 4 See comparative batiks, from Mindanao and Celebes, in

An important role in the modernisation of village production-techniques is played by the presentday oversight of the government Department of Industry, which stimulates development by provid-

Loèber, 1925, abb. 3, 22, 23; Langewis, Laurens and Wagner, 1964, no. 48; Holmgren and Spertus, 1989, nos. 19, 20. 5 Rouffaer and Juynboll, 1914, pp. 1, 301.

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Flowers from Universe

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3 The Island of Java in the Sixteenth Century

Selendang – shouldercloth for women This at any rate is its function in its new surroundings, for this silk cloth decorated with the double-ikat technique originates from overseas Gujarat, India. It came by way of trade as part of the spice trade between the Dutch East India Company (voc) and Indonesia from 1750 to 1800. Ikat on silk. Gujarat, India but exported to Minangkabau, West Sumatra, 197 x 80 cm, c. 1750-1800. Collection Wereldmuseum Rotterdam 27355

The ‘grand bazaar’ in Bantam According to the description by Willem Lodewijcksz, who took part in and described the first voyage to the East in 1595, in the centre is ‘the area for the Women who sell Cloth and it is therefore declared off limits; persons belonging to the Male gender are forbidden from entering’. In: G.P. Rouffaer and J.W. IJzerman, vol. I, 1929, p. 250, pl. 12

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The Javanese and the inhabitants of Banten are conceited and obstinate, having an exceedingly proud bearing: (they) adhere to the Mohammedan creed, (which) first obtained only 35 years ago, and there are still many Heathens who have not become Moors ... Their attire, for poor as for rich, is a cotton cloth, though some use silk, wrapped around the body ... Above the waist and from the knees downward they are naked ... Cornelis de Houtman, cit. Rouffaer and IJzerman, 1915–29, II, p. 27

After an arduous, monotonous voyage from northern Europe lasting more than one and a half years, the ship’s journal abruptly sprang to life when, in 1596, the tiny flotilla of four Dutch trading vessels anchored at the West Javanese city of Banten. Amazed and impressed by everything new, the ship’s journalist related that, on the day of arrival, the harbour master himself, ‘who is exalted, almost at the level of the King’, boarded the ships to inquire of the Dutch their reasons for coming, and how on the following day ‘many small boats’ arrived, offering

for sale all manner of victuals ‘too varied to list’. The native governor of the city and his followers spoke ‘good Portuguese’, the dominant European language in the Orient at that time. Banten’s situation and traffic are precisely described: ‘who comes to do business… which wares are bought and sold the most…. Her religion, habits, and domestic arrangements, very strange to behold.’ 1 Banten city, almost as big as ‘Old Amsterdam’, had three markets, open daily, which attracted ‘uncountable throngs of people, astonishing to

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