Cirebon's mask dancers are confronting changing times
Text and photos by Hartoyo Pratiknyo
GEGESIK, West Java (JP): The strip of lowland plain running along West Java's northern coast from Losari, near the border of Central Java, to Indramayu in the west is one of the richest rice growing areas in Java.
It is an ancient land and one of the oldest centers of Islamic expansion on the island. The influence of Islam runs strong and deep among the people of the area.
In this border area, the rich cultural heritage of West and Central Java have blended while the stamp of past contact with the cultural and artistic traditions of China are vividly apparent.
The land is green and inviting for much of the year. During the rainy seasons floods are not uncommon. Late in August, however, near the end of the dry season, the land lies listless and barren under the scorching heat of the noonday sun. With most of the harvest already reaped, a few patches of rice serve to accentuate the cheerlessness of the landscape.
In this land of climatic extremes, a number of villages thrive in relative seclusion from the incursions of modernity. Few outsiders ever venture here as the long arms of the tourist industry have not enveloped this area.
And yet, in this seemingly inhospitable strip of countryside, one of Java's most noble forms of traditional arts survives, preserved for posterity by the age-old customs and traditions of the area's tenacious farming population. Known as tari topeng, the masked dances of the area have made Cirebon famous not only in Indonesia but far beyond.
Indramayu, Losari, Slangit and Gegesik are some of the towns and villages known to critics and students of art and dance in the most prominent art centers of Europe, America and Asia. Art students have come here to study the topeng under the tutelage of the area's best known masters.
Thus, an invitation late in August to come to the village of Gegesik Kulon to attend a circumcision feast at the home of Rastika, famous for his traditional paintings on glass, was not to be turned down.
Bewitchment
Under a makeshift shelter of plastic sheets, two groups of musicians sit cross-legged on mats behind their gamelan instruments, facing each other at opposite ends of a rectangular arena.
Strips of young coconut fronds, fruits, snacks and even bottles of soft drink hanging on strings stretched across and above the center of the arena are the only ornaments embellishing the stage.
As the musicians energetically hammer on their instruments, their wooden mallets dance across the metal bars and gongs. From time to time a chorus of yells mix with the chiming tones of the gamelan and heighten the intensity of the musical passages.
A hush falls over the audience seated and standing around the arena as two dancers make their appearance -- one emerging from each of the two groups of musicians -- and quietly take their place in front of the two orchestras.
One particular dancer grabs the audience's attention. He is in his late fifties and despite his homely appearance, he draws them in with the sheer magnetism of his personality.
Slowly, the man raises a little parcel of yellow cloth to his face, takes out a mask and puts it on. He remains standing almost motionless in front of the orchestra for what seems like an eternity. Unhurriedly, with deliberate movements of his arms and hands, he twists the yellow cloth into a ball while the frenzied clamor of the music continues without a break. Then, suddenly, he flicks the cloth towards the orchestra.
The bewitchment is complete. The old man has vanished. In his place stands a handsome young prince. Standing tall and erect, he gazes across the audience and moves about the stage, his head raised proudly, the grace and dignity of his character revealed through every detail of his movements.
Now 57 years old, Sujana Arja is the foremost family representative in a long line of descendants of dalang topeng or topeng dancers in the village of Slangit, northwest of Gegesik. Indisputably, he is one of the great surviving masters of the dance.
Origins
As is usual in the traditional arts of Indonesia, the origins of Cirebon's masked dances are shrouded in legend, which makes historical facts difficult to come by.
On the basis of what is known bout Java's traditional dances, it is safe to assume that Cirebon's topeng dances have their origins in ancient religious rituals. Presumably the theatrical aspect gradually gained importance during the course of many centuries as the old religious practices declined. Eventually the dances dominated.
According to Sujana, Cirebon's topeng dances originated in East Java. They were supposedly brought to Cirebon by Raden Inu Kertapati, a legendary prince of the ancient East Javanese kingdom of Kadiri, the source of the Panji cycle of folk tales. It seems to be no mere coincidence that the leading hero of the Panji legend is also the central figure in Cirebon's topeng dances.
Whatever the truth may be, Cirebon's traditional dance experts agree that the topeng dances played in important part in the expansion of Islam in the area.
During the early days of the Cirebon sultanate, when Islam was struggling to establish itself in the region in the face of Hindu opposition, proselytizing Moslem leaders used the dance to gather people before preaching.
The use of popular ancient art forms to assist the spread of modern religions is not an unusual practice in Java. And, certainly, the topeng's appeal lends itself admirably to such a purpose.
Human character
It used to be that five separate but related dances were considered the standard in Cirebon's topeng repertoire. A complete cycle included the Panji dance, the Pamindo or Samba, the Rumyang, the Tumenggung and finally the Kelana.
"Each of those dances represents a certain stage in the growth of the human character from birth to adulthood and beyond," Pak Sujana explained. "Panji, the young prince, represents the earliest phase in a person's growth in which purity and innocence are predominant. Samba expresses the next stage of growth: when a person becomes aware of life's excitements. This growth continues until full maturity is reached in Kelana."
To the casual observer, the vigorous dances representing the later stages of life would seem the most difficult to perform. This is far from true.
"The Panji dance is by far the most difficult to learn and to perform. The other dances require a lot of energy, but the Panji is a form of meditation. Seasoned dancers can get so absorbed in it that their whole body trembles under the burden of concentration," says Toto Amzar Suanda, a former student of Sujana who now teaches at the state Dance Academy in Bandung.
No wonder it takes many years of practice as well as a rigorous lifestyle to truly master the dance. Formerly, Panji dancers were required to undergo long periods of self-control and denial, including rigorous fasts lasting up to forty days. Sujana is said to sometimes have people step on his body to fortify it against the rigors of dancing.
Perhaps this is why excellent, young Panji dancers are hard to find. Invariably, the older dancers are selected to perform on the more prestigious stages both in Indonesia and abroad.
The future
Changing tastes and preferences among a new generation of Indonesians is also responsible for the trend.
In the past, a complete cycle of the topeng repertoire was an established part of rituals solemnizing important moments in life, like the beginning or end of the rice planting and harvest seasons or circumcisions marking the coming-of-age of a child.
Today, Sujana, and less experienced dancers like Baerni of Gegesik, admit that the topeng dance has lost much of its transcendental significance and is normally staged for entertainment. With the loss of significance much of the spiritual element is also lost.
"Nowadays, we are seldom asked to do the Panji dance. It's too slow. People prefer the Samba, which is much livelier. Today, people want dangdut music and even pop songs besides the usual clowns during intervals," says Baerni, who is a leading young female topeng dancer in Gegesik.
However, a rebirth of interest has taken place, spurred on by growing attention from outside the region. The Cirebon office of the Ministry of Education and Culture encourages the teaching of the dance in schools and in other institutions concerned with the preservation of the region's cultural and artistic heritage.
Sujana has been making daily trips to the city for years to teach topeng Cirebon at the court of Keprabonan. At the same time, he is grooming his 15-year-old son, Inu Kertapati, a talented youngster who has been dancing for audiences since he was 12, to take his place among a new generation of topeng dancers. If dancers from as far as Japan and America find it worthwhile to come to Cirebon to learn the dances, why should the people who own them be left behind?