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 was 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 heddles.

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. 

A Batak Photograph I took in Silalahi in 1986

This Batak photograph graces the hompage of the renewed website of Fashion Act Now. It is from my book, Legacy in cloth, Batak textiles of Indonesia (p. 138). 

It was taken in North Sumatra, Indonesia in 1986, and specifically in a village on the North shore of Lake Toba called Silalahi. I snapped it quickly because I was so excited to see the regional version of the textile called ‘bintang maratur’ (ordered stars) typical of that region. I had seen the ikat patterning and textile layout in century-old museum collections but nobody was making it anymore. The textile tradition of the Batak people is in sharp decline.

Like most varieties of Batak textiles, this textile has become extinct. The Batak people living around the edge of Lake Toba have (perhaps I should write ‘had’) an ancient weaving tradition. Based on weaving vocabulary and the technical repertory, it is believed to be one of the oldest in the Indonesian archipelago. At one time a tremendous number of ikat patterns, expressed in manifold variations in the different villages around the huge crater lake, characterized their tradition, but since colonial times that variety has shrunk as has the quality of the textile work. 

 

This is not the fault of the weavers. Despite often being on the receiving end of blame for the decline in their tradition, in fact they are the heroes of their story. It is by dint of their ingenuity, technical prowess and allegiance to their craft that they have continually been able to adapt the fruits of their looms to the vicissitudes of the market and changing social circumstances. They have learned to deal with altered materials including yarns, dyes and loom parts, and have also altered their patterns to be able to weave faster. This has inevitably meant larger and less complex patterns and letting go of some of the exacting rules taught by their ancestors to ensure high quality. They have developed divisions of labour and the speed of their work is spectacular, but after a while even their amazing creativity and perseverance has not been able to win against the forces of the market. I have witnessed weavers in tears because the cost of yarn had become higher than their earnings from weaving it. They had no choice but to put down their looms. This is traumatic for them because they lose their expertise and social position and are no longer able to supplement the family income. It is not their choice to stop weaving; they are forced. Many of them burn their looms in hopelessness and discourage their daughters from taking up the craft. Poverty is a major reason why their tradition is dying. The failure on the part of government to protect them from competition from (semi-)mechanical looms that take over their designs and then sell their ersatz products at a lower price is partly to blame for their destitution. None of this is the fault of the weavers. They are being sacrificed by the system.  Their skill and aesthetic system is being obliterated by modernization: industrialization, colonialism, capitalism, and the incessant exhortation to wear Western garments and fit into urban culture. 

 

There are amazing stories of weaver resistance here and there around the world. This article about Guatemalan weavers explicitly points the finger at the fashion industry to explain their resistance. An Indonesian story reveals how Mama Aleta in West Timor used her Molo loom and her weaving community to protect her natural environment from planned mining operations. Her story fits the familiar theme of indigenous people standing up for clean water, ancestral lands  and access to the forests for natural dye and other materials. These are people unwilling to be erased and to live in sacrifice zones. So far no leaders in Batak weaving communities have stood up to organize resistance. And their tradition continues to decline.

 

Many initiatives are afoot to further commercialize, professionalize, speed up, commodify and fashionalize the Batak weaving tradition. The computer has been brought into the mix to ‘invent new Batak motifs’ and extensive efforts are trying to fashionalize the indigenous aesthetic. This has led to the introduction of yet more (semi-)mechanical looms in the region. Designers (many of them male) and university students have blithely assumed the weaver community’s prerogative to design their own tradition. Collectors have scouted for the last remaining heritage pieces of cloth and sold most of them to buyers from outside the country and in urban settings. Ironically, these collectors  are often celebrated as ‘aficionados of indigenous craft’. The youth have lost touch with the wealth that their tradition used to embody.  Modern versions of their heritage tradition have become, like fashion, items to parade, wear, use decoratively and then discard where they have permanence as waste because they are made with synthetic fibres.

 

It is, in short, a tale of enclosures, to use a word from the commons. The first wave of industrial and economic enclosures took place a century and a half ago with the introduction of synthetic dyes and commercial yarns and knowledge of natural dyes and fibres went into sharp decline. The second powerful wave of enclosures  occurred with the introduction of (semi-) mechanical looms against which the weavers were unable to compete. We are now in the third wave of enclosures in which computers and professional designers are assuming the weavers' role as designers. It is as though amnesia has struck and all have forgotten that it was the weavers themselves who invented and grew their brilliant tradition. Now they have been relegated to labour positions and become alienated from their own tradition. They have been squeezed out of the social position from which they constructed that tradition. This textile history is also about the loss of women's space. Yet they are the authors of weaving techniques and designs that are unique in the world. The textile tradition that is taking over from them in the name of ‘preserving their tradition,’ especially for tourism, is anything but unique. It represents decline and impoverishment and the kind of transformation that is taking place everywhere. Ho hum.

 

 This why I wanted to capture the image in Silalahi of a woman wearing a beloved textile from times gone by. I am sorry that I was not able to obtain the name of the wearer and she is probably no longer with us today. If anybody can identify her, please let me know. I would like to publish her name for posterity to accompany this photograph.

Follow-up:

C.F. Sidjabat contacted the writer of this blog in April 2023 because he knew the woman depicted in the photograph: Nai Jainus, Nyonya Sidebang, boru Simanjorang.

Waiting for Lasma

It is a beautiful day in Yogyakarta. I am staying in the home of Mas Ipong for one day to work on our exhibition about Jasper and Pirngadie. Mas Ipong (Pang Warman) is the designer of the exhibition and the catalogue. Spread out in front of me there is a scene that looks like a Mas Pirngadie painting. The sun is setting and the sky is blue and pink. Two stalwart figures are walking  through the rice field carrying hefty loads of hay on their heads. With the sun gone, it has become cool enough for such arduous labour.  The air is teeming with sounds: the mesjids are calling to prayer and the frogs and crickets are vying with them for attention.

I sit on the front step of the house with my camera beside me. I am hoping to capture the moment of Lasma Sitanggang's arrival. As soon as she arrives, our trip will begin in earnest. Yes, it is finally happening; she is truly on her way, and I am so excited. I am sitting on pins and needles.

I wrote about Lasma in a blog last year. She was the bright, young Simalungun girl who wanted to perpetuate the knowledge of her ancestors. But she is pretty much alone in her struggle. Other people of her age are intent on getting another kind of education. I feel an urgent need to help her. The future of the Simalungun weaving arts depends on people like her. But how to assist?

The answer came as I was preparing for the current journey to Indonesia. I always feel so privileged to be able visit interesting people in Indonesia. I learn so much and feel enriched. But it is wasted unless I do something with it. I decided that it would be a good plan to share this current journey with Lasma.  She would have the opportunity to broaden her understanding of her own culture, her position in the world and the options available to her. She would meet interesting people who could help her develop her vision, people on whom she might be able to rely in the future. Nashir stood firmly by me in this decision and even took it upon himself to handle all of the logistics so that Lasma would be able to get from Sumatra to Java. And now it is finally happening. They just called me from the airport and I await their arrival.

Hopefully it will not be too long before I add a photograph of her to this blog.

Muara, O Muara II

I wake up to the sound of boat engines. It is market day in Balige and the traffic from here to there across the lake will be heavy. Although it is still dark I can see the lake from my balcony.

The view from my balcony in the morning

I have jetlag and I want to sleep longer, but Restuala Namora said he would be coming by to fetch us at 7 am. When we arrived yesterday evening, we immediately had a planning meeting.

Restuala Namora Pakpahan, MJA Nashir and Goodman Ompusunggu

watching the first edit of Rangsa ni Tonun on the balcony of our palatial acommodations.

The scene is now set and today we must try to finish filming as much as possible of the still outstanding parts of the film, Rangsa ni Tonun.

That is why I am here.

I made the decision to come only last Saturday as I was checking flight availability for the first week of February. It became clear that I could fly right away and it wouldn’t cost me extra. Moreover, my photographer/filmer needed some assistance finishing Rangsa ni Tonun. I was beginning to realize that if I flew to Indonesia immediately, as the film’s producer, I would actually be able to be present at all of the filming and the fine-combed editing. It suddenly seemed grossly unfair to have thrust all of this work into the hands of my filmer. As enthusiastic, capable and willing as he is, he is neither a weaving expert nor a Batak scholar and the Rangsa text is difficult and esoteric. It was time to assume my responsibility. I started to pack and within three days, I was in Medan.

Last night was my second night in Indonesia. I am back in Muara, the valley that received me so indescribably warmly last November (see blog Muara, O Muara). Once again my team is complete. Pak Jerry, my beloved chauffeur was available and Mas Nashir was ready to return to the lake.

And then there is Restuala, my host in Muara last November. Here in Muara, he is a key member of our team. While I was working in Holland during the past six weeks preparing the Fiber Face 3 exhibition “spotlight” on Batak textiles (Exhibition Yogyakarta 12 – 25 February), he was working on our sorha (spinning wheel). When we arrived last night, it was sitting tidily and ready for use on his living room floor. Nevertheless, for me it was like a phantom, a mirage; it was eye-rubbingly unbelievable to once again see a spinning wheel in the Batak area. And when I turned its handle, it worked!

Restuala knows everyone in the village. He was born and raised here. Like all Batak children of his generation, his aspiration was to leave the village and seek his fortune in the wide world beyond. He was successfully and energetically building his career in Jakarta when he was called back home. He is the youngest son (siampuan). It is his responsibility to return and perpetuate the family presence in the village. Restuala has embraced this fate with the same energy that so far characterizes everything that I have seen him do.

He is an enthusiastic fellow and he has a vision. His dream for Muara is to bring the village into the future in a way consistent with what the future needs: a sustainable community socially, culturally, economically and environmentally. He sees that the best talents of Muara have left, just as he did. This successively erodes the culture. It is a vicious circle: the village has little to offer to the youth and they leave, whereby the village builds little to offer to the youth of the future. Restuala wants to break this cycle.

       I decided to do an "Edward Curtis photo" with Restuala.


Muara has everything, he is fond of pointing out: a beautiful location on the edge of one of the most extraordinary lakes in the world set against a backdrop of steep hills offering panoramic views as stunning as one would ever want to see. The soil is fertile, fresh water is abundant; fruit trees, rice and fish are plentiful. The culture is sufficiently intact to build on. If handled properly, Muara could become a tourist destination of allure. Restuala has assigned himself the goal of realizing this potential. From our discussions last night, it is clear that he is not wasting a single moment.

But our focus for the moment is on the filming of Rangsa ni Tonun.

The enterprising Restuala has managed, courtesy his connections, to put us up in a palatial white house with pillars, with every possible comfort (the owner is in the city).

My unexpectedly palatial accommodations in a Batak village.

This morning, the world outside is beginning to throb. A man has gone to fetch a group of children to bring them to school and he is teaching them songs under my balcony; their sweet and trusting voices fill the air. The future of Muara is waiting for us. Restuala will be here at any moment and we will see what the day will bring. In the evening, we will hear more about Restuala’s plans and activities. He is a person to watch. Ten, twenty, thirty years from now, I will be able to say, “I met Restuala when he was just beginning to work on his vision. He started with ulos, the textiles that represent the soul of Batak culture.”

Piercing the Bubble

It is 3:30 a.m. I am gearing up for our departure at 8 am. It was postponed for one day to accommodate the schedule of my photographer, Mas Nashir. I spent that extra day in luxury: a large, air-conditioned room in a delicious hotel. With pleasure, I joined the world that I describe as a bubble.

It is a fake world far from the heat and the grime of Medan streets, far from soil and plants, not a whiff of poverty in the filtered air. People transfer from their air-conditioned rooms to their air-conditioned vehicles to air-conditioned malls and back again. It reminds me of Edmonton, Canada, where people transfer in a comparable way without ever having to pull on a coat, even in the deadly cold of winter. It is a comfortable life: a bubble.

I flip back in my notebook to a blog entitled “The Poverty of Wealth” that I never got around to posting. I want to read my thoughts of 2 weeks ago. It was impossible not to be struck, in Jakarta and in Medan (Indonesia’s third-largest city), by the spectacular displays of luxurious wealth. Oscillating between these cities and the Batak villages, it was equally impossible not to be struck by the contrast between the easy expenditure on a first-class hotel room and the difficult earnings of a weaver: a weaver must toil diligently for several months, making one textile a week, to make close to the rental of one of these rooms for a single night. And the rooms, by European standards, are not even expensive.

Superficial “bubble life”, guided by passing fads, comes at the expense of the survival of indigenous culture. Bubble life is our monument to financial success. Everywhere, people scurry to “keep up” with financial demands and trends. Weavers weave ever more quickly, ever more loosely, with increasing division of labour, making ever-more standardized products using faster machinery – and end up not with more wealth (they cannot keep abreast with the rate of change) but with a hollowed-out art form that has lost its indigenous value, and has no allure in the bubble world. It becomes a lost art in every sense. Both integrity and desirability are gone: a huge price to pay for worse than “disappointing” results.

Yesterday, I enjoyed a conversation with Torang Sitorus and Henny Harsha over a cup of hot chocolate (the bill for three beverages came to half the price of a hand-woven cloth) about the future of Batak textiles. Current production is following in the footsteps of the industrial revolution. The old cloths are forgotten rarities. My fellow conversationalists talked about displaying the antique cloths in malls to awaken demand. These textiles can only become viable again if they register in the glamorous bubble world. Desire must be kindled.

The problem, then, will be at the supply side. No weaver can afford the cost of time and materials that it takes to produce a beautiful, old-style cloth of integrity. She will have to be supported.

But a seed has been planted. Henny Harsha is a member of the Indonesian Heritage Society and a textile-lover. Torang Sitorus has fallen in love with the traditional textiles of his own Batak culture and wants to promote them. The two of them want to combine forces to make a mall exhibit, thereby placing Batak textiles in the heart of bubble culture.

My own work right now focuses on the weavers, handing over to them the visual record of their own weaving tradition, something they could never afford to purchase on their own. Yes, I am distinctly aware that Legacy in cloth could be used to stimulate market demand for the beautiful old items, but I will leave that work, at least for the time being, to creative people like Torang Sitorus, Henny Harsha, Merdi Sihombing and Sebastian Hutabarat and I will continue to plant seeds. Today I head off in my air-conditioned car for the villages.

* Yesterday, I gave Henny Harsha a copy of Legacy in cloth to thank her for her assistance in importing and storing the book in Medan until my arrival. This book was donated with the generous assistance of Henk and Margot van Dalen who wanted to support the project in any undesignated way that would be helpful to me.

** I gave Torang Sitorus a copy last week on Samosir Island in the name of the Soroptimists of Arnhem (see blog “Didn’t pay? It was costing money!”). I think that book has turned out to be an important investment. Moreover, Torang fills high-end requests for Batak textiles and offers many weavers, thereby, a livelihood.

See Back to the Villages - the map!

The Dutch in San Francisco

That the nameboard on my booth at the fairs announced my residence in Oosterbeek, The Netherlands, turned out to be a great boon. Many Californians of Dutch heritage made a beeline over to me to practise their Dutch and to reminisce about their Dutch past in comparison with their California present. Having, myself, a Dutch father who emigrated to Canada, we found that we had much in common.

One highlight of such meetings was the visit from Jaap and Petra Veerman. Jaap Veerman had recently been installed as the Deputy Consul of the Netherlands in San Francisco. His and Petra’s enthousiasm as collectors of Asian art was second only to their enthousiasm for promoting Holland in the world. Inevitably the conversation led to the potential role that the Dutch consulate could play to involve foreign Dutch nationals, and especially local Indonesian Dutch, in the fairs. The conversation evolved as we went to speak with Louis Rierijnck, another Dutch booth-holder at the fair and then further again in the Veerman home two days later where we enjoyed a warm welcome and a delicious meal. Their enthousiasm for Dutch Design and the accomplishments of the local Dutch in the San Francisco area was so infectious that I found myself wishing that I had also made foreign affairs my career...

One of the most noticeable Dutch contributions to American society is the café chain called “Peet’s” that began in Berkeley. To my delight, they had a special on of Batak Blue coffee while I was there, and the walls of their coffee parlours were decorated with high-quality indigenous textiles.

                       
....I wonder if they would be interested in blue Batak textiles....

 

Another serendipitous meeting at my booth was with Marijke van Doorn who invited me to her Berkeley home for tea. There I also met Riet, a Dutch professor at UC Berkeley and Mariet Braakman, artist. Their warmth and enthousiasm for Asian art and for my book added a special glow to my experience of the fairs.

My thanks to Michael Craycraft, Galerie Arabesque, for use of his photo of my stand at the fairs!

Presenting 'Legacy' to Consul General Sinambela of Indonesia

On the last day of the Tribal and Textile Arts Fair, a black official-looking limousine with diplomatic plates pulled up to deposit the Consul General of Indonesia and his wife at the door of the Festival Pavilion. I knew nothing of this until my colleague booth-holder, Noeleke Glenn Klavert of IndoArts, Inc., came by to introduce this very special guest to me and my book.

To my great surprise and pleasure, the Consul General was a Batak. Mr. Asianto Sinambela – you can tell by his name –   is a member of the same marga or lineage as the great Singamangaraja. The twelfth in line of the priestly king dynasty within the Sinambela lineage had led a rebellion against the Dutch colonialists at the turn of the twentieth century and paid for it with his life. I have been to the beautiful bay and Valley of Bakkara (southwest corner of Lake Toba, North Sumatra) where the Sinambela marga originates and have visited the monument that was erected there to him. I would have liked, more than anything else in the world at that moment, to sit down with him and chat about his lineage and his ancestral home on the bay. Time and circumstances did not grant me this pleasure, however. Perhaps sometime in the future?

But I did grab my chance to present Consul General Sinambela with a copy of my book. It was such a great pleasure to do so. I told him about my wish to bring copies of it to the weavers in North Sumatra and he pledged his support for this next endeavour. Immediately he was off to visit the next booth....

 

Sandra Niessen presenting Legacy in cloth to Consul General Sinambela of Indonesia on his visit, with his wife, to the San Francisco Tribal and Textile Arts show. Thanks to Riena Sarojo, Secretary to the Consul General, who took this very nice photo!

The Arts of Pacific Asia Fair 2010 is over...

The Arts of Pacific Asia Fair 2010 is over. It began with a gala last Thursday evening that was a joy to behold. The hordes descended upon us booth-holders interestingly, charmingly, curiously, outrageously and elegantly attired in Asian scarves, silks, robes, headdresses, shawls and gowns, as colourful a scene as could possibly be and apparently very San Francisco. There was music and dance, children on stilts and beauty queens. I took several pictures which I hope to post when I get back to The Netherlands.

We booth-holders were all keyed-up in anticipation. The vetting of the objects (to ensure their authenticity and appropriateness for the show) had taken place and all preparations were complete. The pavilion was utterly transformed by the beautifully arrayed Asian treasures.

My own stall was, in fact, a large exhibition space adorned with more than 20 of Thomas Murray's best 19th century textiles (not for sale) and fine Batak wood-carvings. The exhibit was so stunning against the soft grey walls that many people gushed with spontaneous compliments. Many were inspired to enquire about the objects. Where were these textiles from? Why hadn't they ever seen them before? How lovely and unique they were! I perceived that the exhibit represented a kind of introduction of the Batak to a public that was more used to jade, kimonos and lacquer ware. This was exactly what Thomas Murray and I had hoped for.

 Exhibit of Batak textiles and carvings from the collection of Thomas Murray.  Photo Sandra Niessen

The next day, I re-arranged the stall a little. The exhibit was working just a little too well and was drawing attention away from Legacy in cloth  rather than TO the book. I placed the book in more prominence and made signs to inform the visitors that this was a book launch rather than a " regular" stall with artifacts for sale. That seemed to do the trick.

"Dr. Sandra Niessen of Oosterbeek, Niederlands. Sandra Niessen is an anthropologist with a new, important book on Indonesian textiles." Photo by Michael Craycraft, Galerie Arabesque, for Jozan Magazine - see review.

 
All who saw my book expressed appreciation for the design of the cover, the quality of the photographs, the layout and, of course, the weight of the tome! Several book dealers and gallery owners expressed an interest in distributing it. Some bibliophiles bought it for its book-qualities alone! I can't say that I was born to sell, but having a top-quality product like Legacy to flog made the whole process quite enjoyable. I found myself wanting to phone Cecile Noordzij, the book designer, every time I received another compliment, and wished that she could share in the pleasure of receiving them all.

Very pleasant social bonds quickly developed among the dealers in the booths. I came to appreciate and enjoy my various exhibition "neighbours", all of whom were kind and very interesting people: Diane Hall and Alan Marcuson from Brussels, who had made a spectacular display of their colourful kimonos, the Verne family from Ohio known for their beautiful and diverse Japanese prints (the Verne Collection), Keith and Curtis Clemson, as new to this game as I and with a sumptuous array of gold-decorated Sumatran textiles (and an astonishing collection of excellent Batak textiles), Rudolf and Karin Smend from Cologne, world-famous for their exquisite Javanese batiks, Wen Hua with her treasures from the Silk Road, Lee, Vichai and Chad Chinalai with their unusual and popular array of ancient and modern adornments from Thailand, Louis Nierijnk, with whom I could speak Dutch, and his eclectic Southeast Asian array. We talked, laughed and ate together, congratulated each other on our successes, commiserated with each other's rueful moments of bad luck, looked after each other's stalls to facilitate coffee and toilet breaks and generally enjoyed getting to know each other. The whole event could hardly have been more convivial! 

Diane Hall and Alan Marcuson from Brussels in front of their spectacular display of colourful kimonos. Photo Sandra Niessen

Of course, the visitors to my stall and the book buyers were a great pleasure to meet, many of them happy to share the origins of their interest in textiles, books and Asia, their knowledge of weaving and so on. Several of them were in the throes of publishing their own books! Respect for their privacy keeps me from publishing their names -- but I was aware that I could write a tome as thick as Legacy  about Legacy's buyers....  
 
The Festival Pavilion at Fort Mason in San Francisco is now gearing up for the next fair: Tribal and Textile Arts. Apparently this second one is even better subscribed to than the first with not an inch of space to accomodate another booth. It is promising to be an even busier weekend...

(See some photographic impressions of exhibitors and visitors to the two shows).

Batak textiles at SF Arts of the Pacific Asia Show

Yesterday evening, just as the sun was glowing red on the San Francisco horizon, Thomas Murray, the well-known collector and dealer of Asian art, and I arrived at the Festival Pavilion of Fort Mason. Tom had wanted to give me a sense of the place and where I would be situated when I sell Legacy in cloth at the Arts of Pacific Asia Fair this coming weekend.

We had spent the entire day, and the day before, reviewing his Batak textile collection. To my great joy, Tom agreed to make his textiles available for the exhibit that the fair organizers are developing for my book. It is a thrill for me to have one of the best collections in the world of Batak textiles accompany me at this event. (See photo gallery of Legacy being promoted against a background of Tom's collection.)

Tom and I agree that Batak textiles have not yet received the attention that they clearly deserve. The subtle, quiet beauty of the old pieces require contemplative appreciation of their detail. We are hopeful that when Legacy in cloth is displayed -- as it will be -- at the entrance of the fair where every single visitor will see it, and when a great number of the textile categories described within the book are illustrated -- as they will be -- with top-quality examples from Tom's collection, Batak textiles will make their entry on the radar of aficionados of Asian art. (See photo gallery of Legacy being promoted against a background of Tom's collection.)

Batak textiles from the collection of Thomas Murray hanging at the Arts of Pacific Asia in San Francisco, Feb 2010 - photo Sandra Niessen.