Gathering: It takes a community to find a word

 I like to believe that my descriptions of textile techniques are accurate, but I don’t trust word-for-word translations. Do the words convey the right meaning and are they idiomatic? After all, translation is about giving a different culture access to what was written. 

 

This time my quandary relates to resist-dyed stripes in the Karo cloth called ‘Batu Jala’. The stripes are made by stitching two lines of basting, gathering the cloth tightly along those lines, and then dipping it in dye. When the cloth is dry, the basting is removed, and voilá, where the basting was done -- provided the gathering was sufficiently tight -- the dye did not enter and the cloth has a white stripe. This is the Batak version of ‘stitch resist’. On Java it is known as ‘tritik’. 

Batu Jala

The translator of my text used the word ‘kumpulan’ for  ‘gathering’ the cloth, technically correct if you consult any dictionary, but I didn’t trust it. ‘Kumpulan’ is used for gatherings of people or things. Could it possibly be that both English and Indonesian used ‘gather’ for crumpling up cloth along a line of stitching?

 

Another rabbit hole. 

First, I turned to my well-connected friend, Mara, in Jakarta. She has lived in Indonesia for most of her life, has a broad circle of friends, and is a textile aficionado. As I didn’t know how to explain ‘gathering cloth’ in Indonesian, it was a relief to put the question to her in English. I described the stitching and gathering as ‘like smocking’.

 

To my delight, she came back quickly with an answer: ‘Tarikan benang supaya bentuk kerut2 kecil dan rata di kain’, ‘pull yarn so that little, even pleats are formed in the fabric.’ I am very excited and relieved with her answer. Where did she get it? She laughs and says, ‘google’ and sends me the link. I ponder this for a while. I like the phrase, but I see that it describes smocking more than tritik, and besides, can I trust google? I consult the link she sent, and note that the word ‘kumpulan’ was also used; my trust levels sink. So, I decide to cross-check with tritik practitioners. Only one small problem: I don’t know any!

 

This time I turn to my friend, Nia, who inhabits the textile world and lives in Yogyakarta, the heart of tritik country. By chance, she is with a colleague who is a tritik enthusiast. ‘Tritik’ is ‘sasirangan’ in her culture, Banjar from Kalimantan, she tells me. 

 

Nice chat but we didn’t resolve the ‘kumpulan/gathering problem. I need to learn how the technique is described idiomatically, by a practitioner, so that the translation is a comfortable read for Indonesians. Suddenly I think of mas Huda, my new acquaintance, an enthusiastic batik student. I show him images of the Karo technique (as they appear in Legacy in Cloth 2009). 

“How would you describe this?” I ask as neutrally as possible to give him latitude to respond as is comfortable for him. He spontaneously comes up with the word ‘sasirangan’ for the technique, as well as ‘jumputan’. I cross-check with my friend in Yogya. She is surprised at the use of the word ‘sasirangan’ in Yogyakarta claiming its Kalimantan origin, and she says that ‘jumputan’ means ‘tie-dye’. Probably neither will work for my needs. Mas Huda promises to get back to me after consulting the notes he took when he was a student learning the techniques. 

 

In the meantime, I turn to my trusty photographer friend and colleague, mas Nashir, to ask if he knows someone who can help me. ‘Caroline Rika,’ he responds immediately, a craftsperson whom he admires https://www.wiruwirone.com/. She is delightfully and immediately responsive, even though she is on the fly. The word ‘tritik’ is used in Yogya, she says without any prompting, ‘sasirangan’ in Kalimantan, and ‘pelangi’ in Palembang. They are all ‘teknik jahit,’ techniques that involve sewing. ‘Biasanya disebut ikat celup dengan teknik jahit’, she says: ‘Usually referred to as ‘tie dye with a sewing technique’. There’s that notion of tie-dye again, clearly with a broader sense than in English.

 

In the meantime, mas Huda has found his notes: 

‘Teknik tritik dilakukan dengan menjelujur pola pada kain, menarik jahitan erat-erat, mencelupkan kain, lalu melepaskan benang untuk memunculkan motif.’ 

 ‘The tritik technique is executed by basting a pattern in cloth, pulling the stitches very tight, dyeing the cloth, then removing the stitches so that the motif appears.’

 

Ah, thank you, mas Huda! His notes are probably his teacher’s words, without any interference from my questioning. I have gained the words ‘menjelujur’, or ‘jahitan jelujur’ which translate as ‘basting stitch’. In addition, I have confirmation that the notion of ‘gathering the cloth’ is best translated as ‘pulling the stitching tightly’, as Mara shared right from the start.

 

Then Caroline Rika found a quiet moment to get back to me and recommended two Indonesian publications.

 

The first (Pengembangan Teknik Jahit Celup (Tritik) dengan Pola Geometis by Bintan Titisari, Kahfiati Kahar and Intan Rizky Mutias and published in ITB J. Visual, Art& Design 6(2), 131 (2014), https://journals.itb.ac.id/index.php/jvad/article/view/626) teaches me the umbrella concept of ‘tekstil kelompok celup rintang’, which I would translate as ‘resist-dyed cloth’. Just as in the standard academic textile literature. ‘Tritik’, just as ‘sasirangan’, are examples of ‘teknik jahit celup’, literally ‘stitch dye’. Their description of tritik is so close to the one that mas Huda shared, that I suspect a shared source. The Karo technique, although it does not appear in the textile literature except as a brief reference in Loebér’s work from the 1920s, is clearly a variant on the theme.

 

The second reference that Caroline Rika shared is Nian S. Djoemena’s well-known Batik dan Mitra: Batik and its Kind, (Djambatan, 1990).

 

I suspect, upon reviewing her work, that I have stumbled upon an area of conceptual syncretism in textile terminology. The splendid coffee-table book from 1976 by Jack Lenor Larsen, entitled, The Dyer’s Art: ikat, batik, plangi (Van Nostrand Reinhold), is probably the best-known reference to resist dye processes and textiles. His ‘The Classification of Resist Techniques’ (p. 15) has become the standard, and in it he cites Alfred Bühler (1946) as the source of that classification. (See also Buhler, Alfred. 1972. Ikat Batik Plangi: Reservemusterungen auf Garn und Stoff aus Verderasien, Zentralasiën, Südosteuropa und Nordafrika. 3 vols. Basel: Pharos-Verlag Hansrudolf Schwabe. 1972)

Dutch ethnography may have influenced Bühler’s work. If so, the standard textile jargon and resist classification in European languages derives from Java, and perhaps other places, and returned to the Indonesian textile literature via the English. There seems to have been a ‘back and forth’ in classification. In that case, the two young craftspeople with whom I spoke, Huda and Caroline Rika, have learned from the source as I. To verify this, I would need to go, once again, back to the villages, to learn the categories used by traditional makers and also trace the connections between the European researchers. That is beyond the scope of my translation work, but it remains a compelling puzzle.

 

At this point, I get in touch with Mak Sandi, br. Sitanggang, in her village in North Sumatra.  She is not Karo, but rather Simalungun. She was the one who informed me years ago that the Batu Jala was also known and once made in Simalungun. She became quite excited by the technique and explored it with a grandmother, in her village, now deceased but an erstwhile maker of the Batu Jala. I ask her if she knows what menjulujurwould be in Simalungun and she says ‘mejjulujur’. I suspect it is the Indonesian term as it would be spoken in Simalungun, and not the word that would have been used in Simalungun in by-gone days when the cloth was still being made. She informs me that ‘les’, the word that the Karo maker had used for the stripes, is also an Indonesian word, meaning ‘edging’, and has no specific reference to the textile arts. In Simalungun, the words used for the white stripes would be garit garit and oret oret, again not specifically textile-related. However, oret oret na lang hona is, literally, ‘white stripes which did not absorb dye’.

 

I stop here. I am sorry that in 1986 my fieldwork focus was solely on the technique and not the Karo words for it. Is there anyone left who knows the words in Karo and Simalungun? Is the Javanese perspective on the techniques still available in the villages, or perhaps in the ethnographic literature? What about in Kalimantan or South Sumatra? Will it still be possible to track down the unique ways of looking at these techniques? 

 

For my translation purposes, I have found the following vocabulary. That is enough for now:

Perintang warna - resist dye

Tekstil kelompok celup rintang – class of resist dye textiles

Jahit celup – stitch resist, including tritik, sasirangan and the Karo variant

Jahitan ditarik – said for ‘the cloth is gathered’

Kerut-kerut kecil – the little folds or pleats that result from gathering the cloth along the line of stitching

Jumputan – plangi, tie-dye

 

Thanks to Mara, Nia, Huda, Caroline Rika, Nashir and Lasma. I wish we could gather and talk shop. We are scattered all over the globe, but a community in a shared search for a few words.

How 'Weft wrapping' became 'Wrapping the Warp': An Exploration of Weaving Terminology

My challenge, today, is in translating the Batak words manirat and bonggit lilit into Indonesian.  

The Batak have their own language, as well as a unique way of understanding the weaving arts. This is reflected in their weaving vocabulary. Academic English makes use of a 'standard vocabulary' that Irene Emery and others have developed over decades to make it possible to discuss weaving techniques across cultural boundaries. Indonesian is the language that will be used in the weaving text that I am translating from English. As far as I am aware, there is no standard weaving vocabulary in Indonesian. Indonesian takes from the indigenous vocabularies found in the archipelago, and has also incorporated many terms and perspectives from Dutch and English. My task is to translate from English to Indonesian in a way that makes sense within the Batak weaving world. The Batak will be my primary audience because they are the practitioners of the weaving tradition that I am trying to describe. It would be thoughtless to make translations that alienate Batak readers from their own art! The text that I am translating has already done that; it was written in English academese. I know, because I wrote it! I observed the Batak techniques and then scoured the literature to figure out how to label them correctly in academic idiom.

My task, now, is, to determine whether these Batak terms mentioned above  are available in Indonesian, and if so, whether the Indonesian terms represent the way the Batak understand the terms. If there is no ‘official’ translation, or if the translations do not accurately represent the Batak way of understanding their techniques, I must search for words that are more appropriate. I do not want Batak readers, upon reading my translation, to be led toward a Western way of seeing their craft tradition. This does mean, however, that I must understand the point of view offered by the Indonesian translation in addition to the Batak point of view that I am trying to achieve. Translating is not a simple matter of substituting Indonesian words for the Batak or English words. I need to understand the baggage of all of the words.

In short, my task is challenging, if not impossible. But I do my best to approach my target. I hope not only to assist in building an Indonesian weaving vocabulary, but to point to the logic and value of different vocabularies and embedded perspectives. 

The Batak word, manirat, translates into academic English as ‘weft twining’. Batak ‘twiners’ (panirat) practice this technique to decorate the fringe ends of their weavings. It is an off-loom technique. In academic English, the horizontal element, understood as ‘weft’, is twined around the vertical element, understood as ‘warp’, hence ‘weft twining’. 

A twined edge in the Siimalungun Batak cloth called 'Bulang' (Collection Author) 

Twining or winding is a concept that is held in common by Indonesian and Batak, and is indicated with the same word, lilit. However, for Batak twiners, the words ‘warp’ and ‘weft’ are not applicable because manirat is performed off-loom. Batak twiners speak of ‘twining yarn’ and ‘fringes’ but not ‘weft’ and ‘warp’. In addition, the word ‘lilit’ emphasizes what is being wound rather than what is doing the winding. The latter is emphasized by the English. As a result, the translation of the English expression ‘weft twining’ must be represented as ‘fringe-twining’ in Indonesian to accurately represent the Batak term, manirat. The translation of the English expression ‘weft twining' thus becomes the ‘winding of fringes using twining yarn’: pelilitan rumbai dengan benang lilit. 

 

Batak	English	Indonesian
Manirat – to make the sirat	Weft-twining - the technique used to make the sirat; twining with weft	Pelilitan rumbai dengan benang sirat (wrapping the fringes with the yarn used to make the sirat)
Bonggit lilit – patterning in a cloth made by wrapping the warp	Weft-wrapping – wrapping (the warp) with weft	Pelilitan benang lungsin dengan benang pakan (wrapping warp yarns with weft yarns)

The technique that the Batak call bonggit lilit means the bonggit pattern achieved by wrapping. This is weft-wrapping in academic English. (Readers may be familiar with this technique as ‘kilim’ because the weft of kilim rugs is wrapped around the warp.) In Tarutung, one of the Batak areas where the technique is practised, when weavers wish to make the weft-wrapped pattern, they stop shooting regular weft through the warp with a shuttle, and instead wrap thicker weft, of various colours, by hand, around the warp yarns to create patterns. Because they are working in the loom, both 'warp' and 'weft' are at play. Because the warp yarn is being wrapped, the word ‘lilit’ is again applicable, in both Indonesian and Batak. Once again, the word emphasizes the element that is being wrapped rather than the element that is doing the wrapping. ‘Weft-wrapping’ in English must become ‘wrapping of warp’ in the Indonesian translation, pelilitan benang lungsin. What that conveys makes sense both in Indonesian and to Batak readers. (My translator made a simple google-type translation without knowing the weaving background, and translated 'wrapping' as 'packaging'!)

 

Weft wrapping (bonggit lilit) in the Toba Batak 'sadum' cloth

The way the two techniques are presented in English has them in the same conceptual arena: a horizontal element winding around a vertical element. This essential similarity is not disturbed by one of the techniques being off-loom and the other on-loom. For Batak weavers, however, precisely this difference puts them in different conceptual camps. How the techniques are executed is much more prominent in the Batak vocabulary. The English standard vocabulary emphasized the result rather than the process.

 

It is notable that all the elements implied in the two vocabularies are the same: warp and weft, on- and off-loom, and twining/winding/wrapping. What differs is the conceptual framework in which they are embedded. If English searches for universals through generalizations, such as ‘horizontal’ and ‘vertical’ elements and Batak technical descriptions are wrapped up (if I may) in the specifics of the process, Indonesian zig-zags between the two, with many terms that are cognates to the Batak terms even while many perspectives are built on Western academic orientations. The Indonesian terms/explanations that I opt for must be understandable and accurate for an Indonesian reader at the same time not doing violence to the Batak way of seeing the processes.

 

It can take a lot of time to translate a single word because it can send me down a variety of rabbit holes, such as searching for the implications of the words warp and weft, on-loom and off-loom, wrapping and weaving, universal and specific. Each rabbit hole offers a small glimpse into another worldview, each piece of weaving vocabulary contributing to a larger pattern that will only gradually emerge. Patience, persistence, and holding one’s (pre-)conceptions in abeyance are required to get to the nub of the differences. The process is exciting because it offers a doorway into the unknown. I can imagine weaving techniques being compared not just at the level of what transpires in the weavers’ hands, but also how she frames it in her mind. 

 

For decades I have worked within the academic framework of building a universal, standardized weaving vocabulary. Having now realized that techniques are culturally-embedded and not 'neutral', I have also to recognize that my focus on a universal vocabulary has been an exercise in cultural erasure. A putatively universal prism has offered only a narrow, ethnocentric way of understanding Batak weaving. See the Batak world through their weaving vocabulary is a more exciting project. Sometimes I lose sight of the value of the ‘universal’ project. What was it, again, and why was it valid? Who does it serve?

A twined edge in a Toba Batak cloth called 'Bolean' (Private Collection Pangururan)

Emery, Irene. The Primary Structures of Fabrics: an illustrated classification.  

 

New York : Watson-Guptill Publications/Whitney Library of Design ; Washington, D.C. : Textile Museum. 1995.

The face of a cloth: searching for the weavers' perspective

 Frequently it is difficult to ask questions in another language because basic concepts are understood differently. I wanted to find the Batak word for the surface of a cloth that is visible to the weaver while she is weaving, and for the underside of the cloth that is not visible while she is at work. The question sent me down a rabbit hole into a maze that is taking me a few days to find my way out of. Truly a maze. Several times I have set off on a path only to bump into a wall. I have turned around and set off again only to bump into another wall. Eventually, though, it has all added up and some dark spots on my mental map of the Batak loom have been filling in.

 

While I have spent a long time in North Sumatra gathering weaving words, I still  encounter gaps in my knowledge and then I am grateful for WhatsApp. It is a brilliant tool for the anthropologist far away. Most Batak weavers nowadays have mobile phones and are familiar with the app. It allows me to parachute into their world, where I interrupt them and take up their time. I know that I am an imposition and ask ‘stupid questions’ about ways of seeing. Just as I am confused by their answers, they are confused by my questions. But how generous, gracious and patient they are with me! 

 

In my quest to find the Batak word for the part of the cloth that the weaver sees while weaving, I decided to contact a weaver in Silindung with whom I had spent time two years ago and who understood my work. She immediately answered my What’sApps. We conferred mostly in Indonesian, and a bit in Batak. I launched in by asking her, in Indonesian, the Batak word for the ‘face’ of the cloth, the part that is visible while she is weaving. I assumed that the use of the word ‘face’ would be a concept that we shared and we would be able to build a cultural bridge starting with that word. “Bohi” was her immediate response, the Batak word for ‘face’. I was delighted! Easy! A direct translation! The face of the cloth. “Thank you! Precisely what I am looking for,” I wrote back. 

Ompu Elsa weaving a Simalungun head cloth called 'Bulang'
The slope of the loom is evident as well as the circularity of the warp. The warp beam is the horizontal beam furthest from her, while the cloth beam is on her lap. The top layer of the warp is 'split' by the heddles to facilitate weaving.

 

“And what is the back called?” I asked. “Panutup,” she said, a word that denotes ‘closing’ or 'finish'.  My elation ended abruptly. How could ‘a closing’ be the opposite of the ‘face’? How could 'a closing' be the ‘underside’ of a cloth? An unbidden image of a loom rose up in my mind, with thread ‘endings’ dangling down like something a cat had fought with. “I think we might have a misunderstanding, here” I wrote. “I am looking for the word for ‘below’, the opposite side of ‘bohi’.” 

 

Then she told me that a cloth has a ‘face’ (bohi) if it contains ikat. Now I was truly confused. What could ikat have to do with the front and back of a cloth in the loom? “Ikat appears the same on both the front and the back of the cloth,” I wrote in return, indicating that I knew that there would be no visible difference between the two sides of an ikat cloth. “Ikat also has a face/bohi,” she wrote. “It has an upper and a lower part.”  Now the image of a dangling hank of ikat-patterned yarn rose up in my mind and I tried valiantly – and unsuccessfully -- to understand where its ‘face’ or ‘upper part’ might be located.

 

I decided to give it a rest. This wasn’t working. We were using the same words, but we were not communicating. There was a lingering misunderstanding. Had I not explained it well? Was it my choice of words? In Indonesian, neither of us was communicating in our mother tongue. Is that where the problem lay? Was I failing to understand the Batak word bohi?  Was I not understanding her conception of beginning and end? Was she not understanding my conception of front and back? I thanked her for her trouble and tried to make sense of it all, but I needed more help.

 

Awhile later, I contacted a weaver who makes the kind of cloth called ‘Sadum’, the only Batak cloth where the back side of the cloth faces upward, toward the weaver while she weaves (because of the way they execute the supplementary weft technique). I thought she would be very sensitive to the notions of underside and upside of the cloth since she worked in the inversion. We exchanged pleasantries and then I mentioned that the Sadum’s underside was what was visible in the loom. “Yes,” she said, “the inside is what shows.” The inside? Yes, I could imagine the underside of the cloth being referred to as ‘the inside’ because it is worn next to the body. It is also 'inside' when the cloth is in the loom. I looked for confirmation, “You say ‘the inside’ and not ‘the underside’ or ‘the lower side’?  Is this the 'bohi' of the cloth? 

 

“The 'bohi' is the first part. The ‘inside’ is the part that is not visible when weaving, but when the weaving is finished and the cloth is being worn, it is the ‘outside’. That is, in the case of the Sadum.” Hmmm. She had explained it perfectly, as I was to discern later, but at the time I was still fixated on finding the word for the ‘face’ of the cloth (in my world) and I was convinced there had been a misunderstanding.

 

“If you say ‘bohi’, I went on doggedly, then there must also be a ‘back side’? What is the word for that?”

 

“What is certain is that the ‘bohi’ is the first part,” she said in response. “That is the word used most often.”

 

I was beginning to get the idea that the ‘bohi’ of the cloth was not perceived by her as a surface. “So, the word relates to time!” I said, thinking I had made a significant conceptual leap. 

 

“No, she said, it is the first part that is woven.” Dashed again. How did that not relate to time? What was I not getting?

 

I thought of how the Batak use the word ‘ulu’ or ‘head’ for a pattern that appears in the 'end' of a cloth. Maybe it was a spatial reference. If a cloth has a head, why not a face? “Is it like the ‘head’ of a cloth?” I asked.

 

“No, it is the beginning,” she said.

 

“Maybe I am having trouble understanding,” I responded. “We have different cultures. How do you describe the ‘beginning’?” I asked.

 

“It is the first part that we weave,” she responded.

 

“The first weft?” I asked

 

“Yes,” she said. “Only, the first part.”

 

Ok, so the 'bohi' was neither a temporal concept nor a spatial concept. It seems to be the collapsing of the two, the spacetime of the process of weaving: the beginning. As one might say about a project: "I've only just begun". Interesting! I was clearly using the wrong word ('face') to elicit the Batak word for the upside of a cloth in the loom! 

 

I plagued the poor weaver with another question. “In that case, what do you call the part of the cloth that faces you while you are weaving,” I asked.

 

“I am singing in a choir right now,” she said, “and cannot concentrate. Maybe later?” I was most certainly driving her mad.

 

I screwed up my courage and contacted another weaver who has a good grasp of English and tried again to pose my question clearly. “What do you call the ‘above’ part of a weaving in the loom and the ‘below’ part?” Her answer, in Indonesian, was clear, ‘depan’ (front) and ‘belakang' (back). Well, it wasn’t that difficult after all! At least I had the terms in Indonesian, and they expressed the same thing as the English. All I still had to do was obtain the Batak words. I asked for the translation.

“Tu jolo tu pudi” was her response. Oh no! Not again! Once more I was thrown into confusion. I knew the Batak words ‘jolo' and ‘pudi’; I translate them as ‘forward’ and ‘backward’. ‘Jolo’, as it pertains to the loom, means ‘towards the weaver’ and ‘pudi’ means ‘away from the weaver’ along the plane of the cloth in the loom. Clearly, the Indonesian words for ‘front’ (‘depan’) and ‘back’ (‘belakang’) were not the words that I was searching for. They were good translations of the English words ‘forward’ and ‘backward’ but they were not translations for the Batak ‘front’ and ‘back’ of the cloth. I had to let it go again and sleep on it for a night.

 

This morning I have renewed courage. Nothing like a good night's sleep and the penny seems to be dropping. The weavers had all been referencing the circular warp, which shifts in the loom in front of them while they work, and which has a beginning and an end, and is situated at an incline, while I had been referring to a surface, the part facing the weaver and the backside of that, as perceived by an onlooker. The Sadum weaver had told me that to refer to the ‘front’ of a cloth I had to think in terms not of direction but of clothing! The ‘underside’ (from my perspective) when the cloth was in the loom was, was for them the 'inside’, the surface of the cloth that is next to the body when the cloth is being worn, and the part that the weaver can see as she weaves is the 'outside’, the part that is visible when the cloth is being worn (except in the case of the Sadum). For them the directional words ‘above’ and ‘below’ related to the angle of the loom. And ‘face’, in their world, was a word that related to the process of weaving.

 

When I contacted the Simalungun weaver, Mak Sandi, this morning to obtain the words in the Simalungun language, it all fell into place and she was crystal clear. She understood it in the same way as the Toba weavers, although she used Simalungun words.

 

The words that I had been searching for were ‘inside’ (habbagas in Simalungun / ‘dalam’ in Indonesian) and ‘outside’ (haddarat in Simalungun / 'luar' in Indonesian), the concepts that relate to the use of the cloth as clothing. The ‘outside’ is what the weaver sees when she is weaving (except in the case of the Sadum) and the ‘inside’ is what the weaver does not see when the cloth is being worn. But I still don’t know the Toba words. The search isn't over yet.

This vocabulary reminded me that the Batak weavers' words relate to their embodied experience, strapped in the loom, their way of seeing things as they go through the process of weaving a cloth. My own (scientist's/ foreigner's) vocabulary is that of an outsider observing, and carrying the baggage of my own culture. The word 'textile' is another example of that. Batak weavers don't weave 'textiles'; they make clothes on looms that are extensions of their own bodies! This perspective permeates their vocabulary. My need, as it turns out, had not just been to get the right word, but to understand the way weavers understand their craft.

Postscript

It is months later: As I go through the vocabulary that I have been collecting, I see the word 'balikbalikna' a Toba word for the back of a cloth, something akin to 'the reverse side' or 'other side'. 

Thanks to the following kind, generous and patient weavers:

Renny br. Manurung, Nai Tiara br.Siahaan, Lasma br. Sitanggang, br. Tobing, Duma br. Tobing, Ester br. Simorangkir.

 

In the fingers and between the ears: tangible skill and intangible knowledge

Two years ago in North Sumatra, I met Gresia Simanihuruk in Lumban Suhisuhi, one of the few remaining active centres of Toba Batak weaving. Gresia was in her late teens, polite and friendly, like girls brought up in the kampung. And what a fast weaver she was! I watched her work. She was making what everybody there makes: a shoulder cloth (uwis nipes) for the neighbouring culture, called Karo. Her village has become a major supplier of shoulder cloths for the Karo. When the Karo became connected to the city by a road a century ago, the women there stopped weaving because they could earn more from gardening. Gresia's village took up some of the slack.

 

Gresia was working with her mother. Her mother would wind the warp and instruct her on how to weave it. When Gresia got home from school she would diligently and dexterously throw the weft between the warp yarns, managing the supplementary weft more than competently. She wasn’t able to answer many of my questions about the details of weaving, however.  “I don’t really know anything about wrapping a warp,” she said. “My mother does that.” Warping is when the design and quality of a cloth are determined and where weaving knowledge is key.

 

At her age and with her education, Gresia bridged generations and worlds. I found her easy to talk with and she gave me her What'sApp number in case I had any further questions. Yesterday I made use of it. "Gresia, do you remember me? I visited you a couple of years ago..." She responded immediately, and I plied her with questions.  I wanted to know about the classification and construction of warp stripes in her region. She excused herself. “I’m sorry, bu (a polite way to address someone of my age), but I don’t know how to make an ulos.” (Ulos is the name of ritual cloth in her Toba Batak culture.)

 

Then she told me that she was now studying in Medan, the capital city of her province, a good 6-10 hours away from her village by bus. She had chosen to study law. She kindly offered to put my questions to her mother and get back to me. 

 

In the meantime I pondered her response.

 

In my book, Legacy in cloth (2009), I cite M. Joustra, who wrote about the Batak weaving arts more than a century ago. He pointed out that weavers could be highly skilled and knowledgeable, but if they didn’t have the opportunity to express the extent of their knowledge and skill, the weaving arts would fall into decline. Here I was seeing something different: knowledge was not being transferred from one generation to the next. This young woman’s skill throwing weft while sitting in the loom was nothing short of impressive, but she did not "know how to make an ulos".

 

I imagine her life while she was growing up in the village. Weaving knowledge is typically passed down  starting when children are very young. They learn to wind the weft for their mother, a straight-forward, time-consuming and relatively mindless task. Once they master the skill, they are able to save their mother a lot of time. As girls grow older, they take on other tedious tasks like starching yarn and winding it into balls. Eventually they may climb into the loom and learn to weave. This is probably how it had been for Gresia because she grew up in a weaver family. By the time she was in the 6th grade, she was a  proficient weaver, helping her mother earn the income needed by the family. 

 

This video shows Gresia weaving with three shuttles and numerous sets of supplementary weft.

Winding a warp is something Batak weavers once relegated to older generations of women, the ones with grandchildren. Winding a warp has to be done carefully and without error. It is absolutely key to the success of a cloth because it determines most of the design features. So it was normal that Gresia's mother performed this task and that Gresia herself had not yet learned it.

 

As I try to fathom the vocabulary of weaving, I am learning how ‘shaping’ the cloth is the central challenge for the makers.  A weaver has to keep her wits about her. She has to be skilled at a unique weaver-oriented way of counting, be able to focus, have knowledge of designs within her tradition, be able to wind with an even tension and have the ability to correct errors. The steps in the process are expressed using specialized words that frame a unique understanding of the unique way that yarn is manipulated in that culture. Weavers use this specialized language when they compare their work, discuss their challenges, share their inspiration and innovations, and teach others. They 'think' their designs and techniques in this language. It captures the conceptual core of their tradition. They can only weave 'in Batak'. A child will progress from the 'mindless doing’ of tedious, time-consuming tasks, and gradually become inducted into a more conscious awareness of her art. She will learn the designs and technical rules and also her creative latitude within that complex. Eventually, she will have developed a mental map of how it all fits together. Only then will she have the capacity to invent and transform designs in a way consistent with her tradition. Many weavers have told me that learning about weaving is a never-ending proposition; there is always more to learn. 

 

Gresia's shirt reads, "I am a Weaver"

Gresia had moved to the big city and was now focused on her books. She had developed superb weaving skills, but her mental map of her weaving tradition was unfinished. “I don’t know how to make a cloth,” she had said. Now, far from the village, she would probably never have the opportunity to pick up that missing knowledge; it takes time and focused learning, endless discussions. What she is missing out on back in the village is complex and rigorous. Even if that knowledge is rarely recognized by non-weavers.

 

I think of another skilled weaver whom I met on Samosir Island years ago who marketed her weavings through Gresia's village to the same Karo market. “I would like to learn how to weave the cloths of my ancestors,” she told me, but she had no access to the knowledge, equipment and materials to be able to do so. Moreover, she was poor, and couldn't spare the time to travel around and search for what she was missing. She was a proficient weaver, but alienated from her heritage. She represented the end of her tradition. I assumed that Gresia's mother was in the same position, knowing only how to make uwis nipes for Karo. It turned out that Gresia's mother once did weave in her own tradition. But if income is meagre, the need for cash is acute, and a weaver can earn more by weaving for another ethnic group, she will be enticed to leave her own weaving tradition behind. Thus a cultural tradition can dwindle away. 

 

How often skill is confused with the knowledge needed to maintain an art. How commonly intangible cultural heritage is confused with the tangible because people do not know the difference. Gresia knew the difference intuitively: she could weave but she didn't know 'how to make an ulos'. She was good at the tangible but was not yet fully inducted in the intangible. In my experience, Fashion brands and even Fashion scholars, regularly fail to register this distinction. Many congratulate themselves on keeping a heritage alive by hiring skilled indigenous craftswomen to perform their craft for the needs of the industry (embroidery, dyeing, beadwork etc.). However, the industry of Fashion is like the Karo market. It can  seduce craftswomen away from their own traditions with the promise of a wage. Accurate performance of technical skills is tremendously important but it is not the same as perpetuating a tradition. A tradition is also about what is between the ears. It, too, can be forgotten and lost if it is not exercised. Working independently and creatively within the cognitive frame of one's own knowledge system is different from being a skilled labourer for an employer within a different cultural system. Even when the skill is the same, there is a cognitive world of difference. Indigenous traditions can be eroded even when intentions are the best. A wage is critical for craftspeople, as it is for everybody, but when it costs them their tradition, it is a stiff and eternal price to pay for a wage.

 

In Gresia's case, the end of her role in her tradition is paired with gaining a formal education, no doubt something her mother strongly supports so that her daughter will not be trapped in tedious craft labour that is poorly remunerated and has no future. In the city and at the university, Gresia has entered a different cultural universe. Distance is a factor. If Gresia is able to build a career, she will only occasionally have the opportunity to return to the village -- for marriage and death rituals -- and never for long periods.  Craft is socially so poorly valued that she may be pushed to feel shame that her family had to rely on weaving for income. But even if she is able to maintain a feeling of pride for her skill, without the accompanying intangible knowledge she will not be able to pass her tradition on to her children. 

The comb is used to assist with creating supplementary weft pattern sheds in the sides of the uwis nipes. 

Undocumented Weaving and Dyeing Techniques in SiLaen

 

fig. 1 Ikat in the Sangkarsangkar 

The weaving tradition in the area Southeast of Lake Toba was once unique and rich. Various types of traditional cloths (ulos) were made here that are not found in other Batak areas, such as the Ragi Harangan and the Sangkarsangkar, remarkable for their ikat patterning and deep, rich dyes. The weaving tradition in this region has never been well studied. Weavers there resisted commercialization and commodification of their work longer than in other regions, but in the 1980s and 1990s this resistance was finally broken. Many old pieces appeared on the tourist/collector market and the tradition lost its vibrancy.  

 

In 2016, when I was trying to learn more about the use of Morinda citrifolia, a tree that yields red dye, known amongst the Batak as bangkudu, I drove through SiLaen, about a half hour away from Porsea at the S.E corner of Lake Toba. When Batak weavers still relied on natural dyes, bangkudu was still a common tree found in every village. Now it is rare because weavers use commercial, synthetic red dye that they purchase on the market. A bangkudu tree in SiLaen caught my attention, therefore, when I drove past. I wanted to know if there was a weaver in the vicinity and so I knocked on the door of a house near the tree and I was invited in.

 

My host was an elderly weaver, probably in her 70s, who had some ulos for sale. I was in luck because when I enquired, it turned out that her grandmother had worked with natural dyes and she had observed her grandmother until she was 18 years of age. I asked the elderly weaver some questions. I couldn’t understand her answers in their entirety. Nevertheless, I was able to take a few notes during our brief stay. I believe that the techniques that she described are unique to her region. 

 

She remembered that yarn had been locally spun using the spinning wheel (sorha) in 1942. Cotton (kapas) was planted and after 6 months the cotton bolls could be harvested.  It hurt, she said, “Hansit ma hape”, and my sense was that she was referring to the hard labour involved in making yarn.

 

Then the yarn was dyed. She mentioned the distinction between blue yarn, dyed solely in an indigo solution, and black yarn (na itom) made using the sigira technique. I was familiar with this from all over the Batak region. She said that the yarn (1 kumpal, a skein-like measure) was first dyed in an indigo solution (mansop) for three days, 6 hours at a time each day. This turned the yarn blue. When the indigo process was finished and the yarn was dry, the next stage could begin. This was when they put the blue yarn into a red dye (bangkudu) bath. The use of Morinda citrifolia as part of the sigira process was new to me. In other regions, the sigira process involves putting the indigo-dyed yarn into black mud where the iron content of the mud interacts with the indigo, turning the yarn black.

 

There were no restrictions on who could fetch the bangkudu root; it could be harvested by both men and women. The dye material was dried and then brought to a boil (together with other ingredients), but not boiled for long, at the edge of the river. The weaver said that a hole was dug in the ground beside the river and the liquid bangkudu dye was poured into the hole. It was not clear to me whether the earth of the hole was sufficient to make the desired chemical reaction, or whether additional earth, which she said was fetched from the foot of the mountains, was needed. Water with high iron content was added to the mixture (aek sibaungbaung: na tasihan, tasik, aek na karatan) meaning rusty water, or water with iron content. One would not wash clothes in such water, the weaver said, or they would turn yellow. ‘Rusty water’ is an ingredient when dyeing with Morinda citrifolia elsewhere as well. The weaver said that this combination of red and blue was used for various ulos design types and she gave the design types called Ragi Pangko and Antahantak (fig 2) as examples. (Legacy in cloth, Fig Cat 4.4 p. and Fig Cat 5.6 p. 304 – 305).

 

The information given (or that I managed to understand) was limited, but it gave me pause to reflect on her tradition and of course it raised several additional questions.  

 

1.     The weaver did not show me an example of the result from dyeing yarn with both blue and red dyes, and the colour that it yields is not clear to me. However, reviewing the cloths from the weaver’s area, I see a range from deep blue with a reddish-purple sheen, to a deep chocolate red. My awe for the prowess of the dyers explodes. The dyers knew how to create quite a variety of deep colours.  Evident in fig. 1 is the white of undyed yarn, the deep chocolate-red colour, and also bright red ikat. One question that comes up is whether the deep chocolate-red colour results just from bangkudu combined with the iron-rich mud and water (or perhaps tanin), or whether there is also indigo dye involved.  In fig. 2 a weaver in Porsea is holding up a lighter-coloured cloth of which the sides have a red/purple hue. Could this be the result of indigo dyeing with sigira that includes bangkudu? By combining blue and red by dyeing the yarn successively in these two colours followed by the mud bath, could the weaver achieve a whole gradient of colours along a blue – red – black spectrum? Deeper colours are produced by dipping the yarn in the dye over and over again. However, the elderly weaver told me that the dip in sigira was done only once. The proof would be in experimenting with the dye baths, or listening to elderly weavers – of which few, anymore, know the dyeing tradition. None practise it anymore.

fig. 2. A weaver in Porsea holds up
the design type called  Antakantak

 

2.     Special, in this region, is red-dyed ikat patterning in indigo-dyed yarn. I don’t think that the weaver was describing how this was done because she didn’t mention ikat – except to say in passing that she had taught all of her daughters how to make ikat. To yield this result, the yarn would be dyed with indigo after the yarn was wrapped with ties to resist the dye. When the ties were removed and the yarn was dipped in the red or bangkudu dye, the spared bits would turn red (fig. 2) (see also Legacy in cloth, p. 305 Fig. Cat 5.6b). The question that arises here is whether the weaver would submerge even the blue parts of the yarn in the red dye, thus dyeing it both blue and red, or whether she would bind off the blue part? Given the colour variation in old cloths, they may have practised both strategies.

 

3.     How important and prevalent was the use of the iron-rich water when dyeing in this region? As the weaver mentioned, it would turn clothing yellow. Certainly, many red cloths from this region have a deep maroon-chocolate colour (fig. ) e.g. Legacy in cloth, p. 268, 278). This could be from tanins, but also from the iron in the water.

 

fig. 3 resist-dyed ends of the Sangkarsangkar ulos

I became very excited when the weaver remembered that a resist dye technique had been followed to make the ‘white ends of a cloth’. This is evident in fig. 3. It was also sometimes practised when making the most extraordinary cloth from the region, the Pinunsaan (Legacy in cloth p. 363), but also other weavings with white ends, such as the Simpar (p. 300 Legacy in cloth). However, I had never met a weaver who was familiar with the process. This weaver in SiLaen was able to let me know that the end (of the warp, not the whole cloth) was dibungkus or tied off using part (leaves?) of the banana tree. The reed-like sungkit could be used as well. It is easier just to sew a white piece of ulos onto the middle section to produce white ends in the cloth, and this is done in 'morden times'. It is unclear whether the resist dye technique was always practised in the past to achieve this design result. This would be consistent with the deep Batak conviction that the warp should not be broken, but rather continuous.

 

The weaver also remembered the use of hori, a nettle plant that Batak weavers used to make a coarse fabric. I had never been able to find first-hand information about the use of this fiber. The fibres, if anything like the nettles in the Northern hemisphere, were probably quite long. She mentioned that they were knotted (dipuduni) probably end to end to produce a long yarn, and then wound up using the spinning wheel. To my knowledge there is only one hori in a museum collection, a coarse and simple cloth.