Women in the Shadows

Gender, Puppets, and the Power of Tradition in Bali

Jennifer Goodlander

• Publisher: Ohio University Press
• Year: 2016
• eBook ISBN: 9780896804944
• Topic: Social Sciences
• Subtopic: Anthropology
• Index: Social Sciences

Wayang kulit, or shadow puppetry, connects a mythic past to the present through public ritual performance and is one of most important performance traditions in Bali. The dalang, or puppeteer, is revered in Balinese society as a teacher and spiritual leader. Recently, women have begun to study and perform in this traditionally male role, an innovation that has triggered resistance and controversy.

In Women in the Shadows, Jennifer Goodlander draws on her own experience training as a dalang as well as interviews with early women dalang and leading artists to upend the usual assessments of such gender role shifts. She argues that rather than assuming that women performers are necessarily mounting a challenge to tradition, "tradition" in Bali must be understood as a system of power that is inextricably linked to gender hierarchy.

She examines the very idea of "tradition" and how it forms both an ideological and social foundation in Balinese culture. Ultimately, Goodlander offers a richer, more complicated understanding of both tradition and gender in Balinese society. Following in the footsteps of other eminent reflexive ethnographies, Women in the Shadows will be of value to anyone interested in performance studies, Southeast Asian culture, or ethnographic methods.

Part One

SEKALA: THE VISIBLE REALM

Chapter 2

PRACTICES OF TRADITION

Art cannot be taught. To possess an art means to possess talent. That is something one has or has not. You can develop it by hard work, but to create a talent is impossible.

—Richard Boleslavsky 2005, 1

The Tradition of Wayang Kulit

The practice and significance of Balinese performance constantly changes over time. I Made Bandem and Fredrik Eugene deBoer (1995) describe how variance and innovation flourished in the twentieth century with the professionalization of performers, influences from foreign artists and audiences, expanding tourism, the formation of the nation, and the natural creativity of Balinese artists. Some forms become popular and remain as new “traditions,” while others may exist for only a brief moment. In Bali, art forms exist and move along a dynamic scale between religious and secular, or kaja and kelod (indicating the mountain and the sea respectively). Constant adjustments within arts reflect Balinese cosmology, which favors balance and harmony, or rwa bhineda. The relationship is circular—“while the performing arts themselves are also subject to social change, acts of performance are simultaneously employed to further the understanding of what constitutes harmony in the modern world as well as restore it” (Diamond 2012, 92). Tradition changes to mirror a continuously evolving society.

Since the start of the twenty-first century, the idea of tradition has undergone several notable changes in Bali. Tradition as vital to Balinese societal well-being came sharply into focus after the bombings in a Kuta nightclub on October 12, 2002. Many writing for the press and within the government felt that the Balinese had suffered this calamity because they had wandered too far from traditional values, religion, and culture and that in order to both heal and move forward the Balinese must look to the past. This return to the past has been dubbed ajeg,¹ a word that is difficult to translate directly, but now the emphasis on balanced harmony stresses stasis rather than fluid change. Ajeg Bali has been invoked in order to justify architectural styles, religious imperatives, gender relations, political movements, and recently the term is used in discriminatory actions against the large number of immigrants from other parts of Indonesia who are looking to share in Bali’s thriving economy. Ajeg is not so much a longing to return to the past but rather a desire for stability in an era of rapid change. Tradition, then, becomes a litmus test for and marker of that stability. Of course, not all Balinese subscribe to the ajeg Bali doctrine, and I did not directly encounter the term in relation to wayang kulit during the course of my research. However, it is necessary to mention it here as part of a larger conversation within Balinese society as it struggles to maintain unique identity and values against many different forces including tourism, Indonesian nationalism, globalization, and modernization.

Traditional performance provides the Balinese a means for situating themselves in relationship to the world. Performance is often synonymous with culture in Bali. Angela Hobart offers the typical view of wayang kulit as tradition:

It is the most esteemed and conservative theatre form and hence its dramatic and aesthetic principles link it to other dance-dramas, statues, reliefs, and traditional painting. Of these the shadow play is regarded as the original form. Through these various manifestations the villager is able to probe and analyze his assumptions of self, in a world which is increasingly affected by modern trends, while retaining his human dignity. (1987, 14–15)

In practice, wayang kulit as tradition means that each performance follows certain conventions and structures.² At night, Balinese wayang kulit is performed against a screen made of white cloth that measures about six feet across and is outlined in a red or black border.³ The dalang, or puppeteer, brings his own screen to the performance area, where the sponsoring family or village has either constructed a booth or erected a stage for the performance (fig. 2.1), and a frame is built out of bamboo for the dalang to affix his screen and hang his lamp. The dalang sticks his puppets into or leans them against the banana logs along the bottom and sides of the stage. Although electricity is sometimes used, an oil lamp that hangs right in front of the dalang’s face is still the preferred method of illumination. A microphone now is commonly affixed to the lamp to amplify the dalang’s voice. Four gender wayang, small metallophones, typically accompany the performance, although some genres of wayang will use a larger gamelan ensemble. Musicians and assistants sit behind and to the side of the dalang while most of the audience watches the shadows projected onto the other side of the screen. Each of these elements is symbolic: the screen is the world; the puppets are all the physical and spiritual things that exist in that world; the banana log is the earth; the lamp is the sun—it allows there to be day and night; the music represents harmony and the interrelationships of all things in the universe; and the dalang, invisible behind the screen, resembles a god presiding over everything (Hobart 1987, 128–29).

Figure 2.1. The assistant hangs the screen in preparation for a wayang kulit performance. Photo by author.

Wayang kulit is often described by other scholars, as well as many of the Balinese I met, as a microcosm of Balinese society, culture, and ideals, because a wayang kulit performance instructs its audience on matters of morality, politics, and philosophy. Wayang kulit also functions as a form of offering to the gods. Balinese Hinduism divides the world into three parts: the lower realm of “bad” spirits, or demons; the middle realm that we live in; and the upper realm of the “good” spirits, or gods (Lansing 1983, 52). Balinese cosmology does not privilege gods over demons in the same way Christianity does, because there is no struggle for one side to eventually win out over the other. Instead there is a recognition of the importance of both kinds of power; much of Balinese religious activity, including wayang kulit, is centered on bringing these opposing forces into balance. Anthropologist Stephen Lansing explains how wayang negotiates religious forces within Balinese society:

To create order in the world is the privilege of the gods, but the gods themselves are animated shadows in the wayang, whom the puppeteers call to their places as the puppeteers assume the power of creation. . . . puppeteers are regarded by the Balinese as a kind of priest. However, they are priests whose aim is not to mystify with illusion, but rather to clarify the role of illusion in our perception of reality. As Wija [a well-known dalang] explained: “Wayang means shadow, reflection. Wayang is used to reflect the gods to the people, and the people to themselves.” Wayang reveals the power of language and imagination to go beyond “illumination.” To construct an order in the world which exists both in the mind and, potentially, in the outer world as well. (1983, 82–83)

It is important to remember throughout my account of wayang that it maintains this complex nature: the puppeteer is understood to be speaking for the gods and to the gods; he also functions as a kind of god himself because he has called the world of shadows into being.

Becoming a Dalang

The dalang is the ultimate performer because he⁴ is the one that manipulates the tradition within a wayang kulit performance and ensures that all the elements of the performance work together. He is the playwright, actor, director, orchestra conductor, musician, singer, producer, and priest all combined into one artist. He needs to be an expert in Balinese philosophy, religion, politics, and myth, as well as a talented storyteller and comedian. The dalang’s skill as a performer, together with his knowledge and perceived wisdom, make him a respected member of Balinese society. It takes a lifetime to master the art of wayang kulit, and a respected dalang is always seeking to improve his knowledge or skill.

In the past, only the son or grandson of a dalang could study wayang kulit. The knowledge about the performance passes down from one generation to the next in many formal and informal ways. For example, Nandhu, my teacher’s son, often sat nearby or on his father’s lap during my lessons. He was just a toddler but had paper puppets and a few small leather ones to play with. In general, children or others are not allowed to touch the “real,” or sacred, wayang; they can only be handled by a dalang or a student, usually an adult, of a dalang. Nandhu learned about the performance through watching his father, through play, and by telling stories with his father. Sometimes an eager youngster might be taken in by a dalang who is not his father, and the student becomes like a son to his teacher and is called anak murid, or child-student.

A major evolution in the process of becoming a dalang has been through the opportunity to study wayang kulit at the Sekolah Menengah Karawitan Indonesia (SMKI), the high school for the performing arts, and at the Institut Seni Indonesia (ISI), the arts university.⁵ This method of training introduces older would-be dalang to different styles and teaches a couple of the basic stories. A professor in the program, I Nyoman Sedana (1993, 24) notes that for a dalang to really be successful, he must seek additional training outside formal education in high school or university.

My own experience and relationship with my teacher can be understood as a combination of formal education in the university and working with a dalang as a kind of anak murid. My study of wayang kulit began at the University of Hawai‘i and continued at Ohio University, but like the aspiring dalang in Bali, this was not enough. I needed what folklorist Barry McDonald (1997, 64) describes as a “personal relationship” where “emotion, commitment, and deep communication are all crucial entities” in order to understand the tradition of wayang kulit as social action and artistic practice.

I found my “personal relationship” through a chance meeting. My partner, Tina,⁶ and I had been in Bali only a week, and we arrived in Ubud just in time for a large royal cremation (the largest ever, many papers proclaimed). The sarcophagi were so big that the villagers had not been able to burn them right away, so we returned to the graveyard a couple of days later to see the fires before they completely died out. Intrigued to know more about the cremation, we began chatting with a local Balinese man named Jaga, who was sitting there watching the activity around him. Jaga told us that they had started the fires late at night on the day of the procession and that the cremation towers were still smoldering. He asked what we were doing in Bali, and I explained that I came here to study culture and the arts, kesenian dan budayaan. When Tina mentioned that I hoped to find someone with whom to study wayang kulit, Jaga said he knew a dalang who would be an excellent teacher. Jaga offered to introduce us to him; I decided it was worth investigating and we agreed to meet.

The next morning Jaga met us at our hotel and drove us to Pengosekan, an area in the southern part of Ubud that is known for its strong community of artists. Jaga pulled the car to the side of the road and we walked through the narrow gate that is the typical entrance into a Balinese home. Traditional homes in Bali consist of several small buildings situated around a garden. We passed a statue of Ganesha, the god of wisdom and learning, to be welcomed by a spry-looking man sitting within the central bale, or pavilion. The man, I Wayan Tunjung—or Pak Tunjung, as I would come to call him—welcomed us and asked us to join him sitting on the mat. We drank sweet tea and talked about my desire to study wayang kulit. Pak Tunjung seemed pleased to meet me and eager to take me on as a student; he promised that he would teach me “systematically” and said that I could also learn to carve puppets. We agreed to begin classes the following week and we would meet on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings. When I asked about payment he said that he worked for the love of his art and culture—he did not have a set price. We would figure it out.

I was not the first and certainly will not be the last foreigner to study arts in Bali through a close personal relationship with one or more teachers. Foreigners have a long history of working with Balinese artists—allowing for what Stephen Snow terms “deep learning,” that is, “learning that takes place on all levels: in the mind, heart, and body” (1986, 204). Snow examines the work of Islene Pinder, who studied dance; John Emigh, who studied topeng; and Julie Taymor, who collaborated with several Balinese performers, as examples of three artists who spent extended time in Bali learning and performing to bring those influences into their artistic practice. The benefits, echoing Dwight Conquergood’s (1985, 9–11) notion of “dialogical performance,” allow the artist to successfully negotiate cultural and aesthetic differences to bring a performance genre from one context to another. The idea of “deep learning” could also be applied to Ron Jenkins, Colin McPhee, Carmencita Palermo, Margaret Coldiron, and others who have dedicated a portion of their life and work immersed in Balinese performance. Larry Reed studied Balinese wayang kulit, first with I Nyoman Sumandhi in California and then in Bali with Sumandhi’s father, Pak Rajeg, in Tunjuk. Reed built on that experience to create innovative productions mixing shadow puppets and live actors with his theater company, ShadowLight. Reed’s work attempts not only to transmit Balinese theater forms to an international audience but also to “make it his own” (Diamond 2001, 260). Several scholars who study, perform, and write about other types of puppetry in Indonesia deserve mention. Matthew Isaac Cohen performs Javanese wayang kulit and Kathy Foley performs Sundanese wayang golek; both are masters of the form who draw from their performance experience to enhance their scholarship. The study of wayang “has been possible for foreigners, even actively encouraged, since the 1960’s” (Cohen 2014, 190). Many Balinese also have come to the United States and other countries abroad to work, teach, and learn. Pak Tunjung’s own teacher, I Wayan Wija, has toured the world and embarked on several collaborations with international artists.⁷ My own experience must be understood as part of a larger international exchange and flux of ideas regarding Balinese performance and wayang around the world.⁸

For the rest of the summer and then the following year, those Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays became the foundation of my slow initiation into wayang kulit. I have returned to Bali many times to continue learning and to add to my repertoire of stories and knowledge. Often during our lessons or at performances, Pak Tunjung would implore me to remember to honor the tradition of wayang kulit—to perform it “the Balinese” way. He would come up with ideas for my performances; for example, he proposed that instead of the traditional oil lamp, I should get a hat and put different colored lights on it, because I could then light my screen with blue, red, white, or yellow light depending on the mood of the scene. I also went with Pak Tunjung to watch him perform at a variety of ceremonies and events, where many of the Balinese I met would comment that they liked his performances because he was a very “traditional” performer. Sometimes I would watch Pak Tunjung perform wayang tantri, a new form of wayang made famous by one of Pak Tunjung’s teachers, the aforementioned Pak Wija from Sukuwati, which features dynamic animal puppets that were designed specifically for this performance.⁹ Pak Tunjung often told me stories from the Mahabharata¹⁰ and reminded me that it was important for a dalang to know these tales and be able to tell them well. He also described new performances he was creating using other stories or myths from the history of Bali. These discussions and examples demonstrated how “tradition” functions as an affect, or a “process of continual...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Series Page
• Title Page
• Copyright
• Dedication
• Contents
• List of Figures
• Acknowledgments
• Note on Language and Terms
• One. Gender, Puppets, and Tradition
• Part One. Sekala: The Visible Realm
• Part Two. Niskala: The Invisible Realm
• Notes
• Glossary
• References
• Index