Cirebon's mask dancers are confronting changing times

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?