Driving Oxen (Jogja) Oct26

Rumah Seni Cemeti

         Cemeti Art House — or House of Art – Cemeti. 

         The surprise was in the noun—Whip. Cemeti in Bahasa Indonesian.

         It defeated the Madurese guide, Mahshushah. 

         Why of all things “whip” for an art gallery? Whip? Like... drawing a shaft and strands in the air, closing the fist on the handle.

         We talked whips for a bit just to be sure we were on the same page; then livestock and villages more broadly. 

         Up in a European mountain plateau village posing for a photograph, the author had once held a whip behind oxen—the equivalent of buffalo here—and in the play made the mistake of twisting his wrist slightly. Thereby the beasts set into alarming motion. 

         With firmer belief in the truth of the tale, Mahshushah—Susi for short—might have laughed more freely. 

         On the island of Madura they used bulls instead for ploughing, and staged races across the fields. There were competitions for beauty in cows too. Whips were common. 

         The difficulty in explaining the usage for a gallery remained however.

         A Footscray, Melbourne artist with an Aboriginal heritage had recently completed a residency at Cemeti; we had come to see the outcome. Too late unfortunately—some kind of cock-up in dates. 

         Some of the same questions and impulses for a contemporary Aboriginal artist would have been shared with Javanese. The work of this artist that remained on the long wall at Cemeti featured images of a boxing and speared kangaroo, fractured smiling/gaping skulls, and LOVE/HATE finger tattoos either hand. Space astronauts/invaders landed on the ground of a kampung, in the case of one of the locals in the storeroom.

         Gray volcanic soil and ash was evident in the gardens below a twenty foot jackfruit tree, which closely approximated a walnut. 

         Caged pigeons, sculpted stones and a well-shaped, upraised timber was fashioned into a bench-seat.

         WARRIORS / Come Out To Play had not been immediately legible at the Australian’s entry portal.

         The chief building at Cemeti was a modestly impressive work of art in itself. Originally the structure had stood out in the area of Imogiri, about forty kilometers from Jogja, where a burial ground for the Sultans had been sited. Under the supervision of an architect the house had been disassembled and reconstructed in this art precinct not far from the Sultan’s Palace. 

         Six wooden posts hoisted the building, the refreshing ventilation coming from wide openings front and rear. Above bamboo lining immediately beneath the roof-tiles provided surprising insulation. 

         Old, weathered, barn-like doors, neutral tiling and simple annexes for extra space. 

         No need for actual whips to press the point—their presence hanging on one of the walls or behind a door was suggested.

A Glimpse (Pak Muh’s Jogja) Oct26

 

When Pak Muh bought the land out at Pasar Kalasan the price was Rp600,000sqm. The restaurant and living quarters behind must have cost a pretty penny too. A farmer, as Pak Muh described himself in his surprising English, turned the rear of the allotment into a large vegetable garden that included tomato, chilli, banana trees, and on one side a couple catfish ponds. 

         Some years before Pah Muh had a regular Californian patron at his Beringharjo food-stall, who settled permanently in Jogja. 

         So long, Pak M farewelled his visitor yesterday.
         The son-in-law painter, Luddy, was tasked with the fish: feeding, cleaning the ponds, arranging the trade. Without the regular pellet feed cannibalistic catfish would turn on each other, Luddy said. An easily manageable responsibility for an ambitious painter, who had been picked up a few years before by a high-end gallery in Sing. 
         The farmland around Kalasan was attracting hobbyists and retirees like Pak Muh, the motor-cycle traffic steady on the road. When we needed to turn-off to the side-road for Luddy and Amri's house, it was safest from the gravel shoulder. 

         Artists' dwellings were often exceptional abodes, but the example here for a young family was unexpected. The witch's hat cone roof followed the example of the local Sultan, Luddy explained. Unrendered thin brick was laid flat like pancakes, a carved jati inner screen separated a small reception area from the rear domestic. The tiling was no doubt Luddy & Amri's design, but one that was founded on a wealth of local tradition.
         Lush wide greenery below a pressing sky at Kalasan presented like some kind of mental puzzle after more than a month in the tourist hub of central Jogja. For one thing there had been no more than a couple hours rain in the whole of the term. 

         Mornings with a clear sky saw Merapi volcano in the north, according to the hosts. The Prambanan temple precinct was a short ride away. In the yards of the house small, shapely plantings and stepping stones stood amidst the grey volcanic soil & ash. 
         Dusk pressed early and rapidly there as in Singapore. Luddy needed to fetch a second helmet for the lift to the bus-stop. Waiting in the driveway, the colours across the wide expanse shifted with the cloud and the waves of the paddy in the breeze. The undulating visual field seemed to breathe contentedly at end of day. 

         From numerous directions the magrib prayer was being called in a strange, unintentional choir of voices that was a kind of homage to the setting.

 

 

     Yogyakarta, Indonesia