PERPUSTAKAAN NEGARA MALAYSIA

Contents

6 Author's Preface

9 Foreword

10 Introduction

12 Latif Wood-carver

24 Awang Silversmith

36 Abu Bakar Ironsmith

50 Hajjah Ngah Silk Weaver

64 Ng Lee Huat Sarawak Potter

72 Hamzah Maker of Shadow Puppets

86 Su/ian Sigo Sarawak Beadworker

% Zainab Maker of Screw-Pine Mats

102 Hashim Kite Maker

112 Mat Yusof Maker of Bird Cage-Traps

116 Index PERPUSTAKAAN NEGARA MALAYSIA

10

INTRODUcnON

In nine of the ten crafts of Malaysia which have been chosen for inclusion in this book, indigenous traditions, designs, and methods have been consciously preserved by individual craftsmen and women, who themselves possess exceptional manual skills. These criteria have led to the exclusion of the traditional craft of boat building, because modern Malay fishing boats are designed to be driven by engines, and their owners have no use for decorative shapes, for sails, or for carved and painted sail-guards (bangau). These criteria have also caused the omission of Malay Batek making, which was first practiced in Kelantan by a few individuals in about 1937, and was only adopted as a local craft after World War Two.

No attempt has been made to describe Asian crafts which are not indigenous or which do not reproduce traditional patterns or designs.

Pottery of merit has never been produced in Malaysia, probably because this peninsula was high on the list of markets for Chinese "export ware" from the time of the Ming emperors, but the Chinese potters in Sarawak have been included because they specialize in the reproduction of traditional Sarawak decorative designs, which are disappearing from the walls of long houses and from the trappings of indigenous ceremonial.

The four major crafts which are here described - wood carving, weaving, silverwork, and weapon making - can be found in all the neighbouring countries in Asia, and have been practiced in Malaysia since ancient times. But there has always been a diffe~ence between the designs which predominate in various Asian countries, and the ·work of skilled Malaysian craftsmen and women can be distinguished from that of their neighbours in Indonesia and Thailand, and still more clearly from that of the craftsmen of India, Sri Lanka, Burma, or Cambodia.

The distinctive identity of Malay designs is referred to in the text: they can be recognized by their persistent originality, rejecting the use of standard models; by their refinement; and

PERPUSTAKAAN NEGARA MALAYSIA

by their uncrowded arrangement. These designs are also distinguishable by their general adherence to the Islamic tradition, which prohibits the representation of living beings, human or animal. In many other Asian countries, craftsmen have adhered to the Islamic concentration on calligraphy; and though a few Malay wood-carvers, weavers, and metalworkers have practiced this tradition with great skill, the majority of indigenous Muslim craftsmen have broadened the tradition. They have replaced the exquisite curves of Arabic lettering with the curvilinear charm of branches, leaves, and flowers, which represented the natural background of the craftsmen's daily lives - the forest - with emphasis on its beauty, simplicity, and majesty. The Islamic cultural tradition has been practiced more positively in another way; as in other Muslim communities, the Malay craftsmen did not attempt to design monuments to the glory of God, and did not strive to achieve a unique masterpiece. They preferred to provide their patrons and the general public with work that could be understood and enjoyed by everyone.

One other cultural tradition which has persisted in Malaysia through the centuries is that of anonymity. The finest Malay craftsmen and women were never honoured or publicly identified. They did not inscribe their names on carved panels or silverware, nor did weavers or weapon-makers use a mark by which their masterpieces could be recognized; as a result their names have vanished, although some of their best work still survives.

The motifs in Malay decorative designs are not necessarily all of Malay origin, though they have been adapted and modified by many generations of Malay craftsmen and women. This peninsula, with its long coastline and many hospitable river mouths, which provided a safe anchorage for foreign traders from many lands, stimulated the import of cloth, metal ware, glass, and porcelain from other Asian countries. The titled and the wealthy residents, then as now, felt no obligation to patronize local craftsmen and women.

Silks and satins, with new colour combinations and patterns from India or the Middle East, received a high degree of aristocratic patronage when they were available. Local crafts~ men and women, undismayed, examined the foreign patterns and chose those which seemed to them to be worthy of assimilation. As a result, some of the ancient decorative motifs, which can still be seen in the finest Malay cloth-of-gold sarongs, were given the names of Indian or Middle Eastern flowers or fruit, though the resemblance may now be minimal.

In many countries outside Asia the genuine craftsman or woman disappeared long ago: they were replaced by mechanical methods of production. Today, in Malaysia, we are surrounded by the products of modern technology, and by the designs of men and women who are often ignorant of their cultural heritage and more receptive to foreign influences. The public seldom has the opportunity to appreciate the beauty and originality which flow from the minds and hands of indigenous craftsmen and women, gifts from the Creator which disappeared in many other parts of the world at least a century ago. Traditional patterns retain their vital excellence and their originality in the hands of hereditary craftsmen, but they die when they are commercialized and standardized.

The survival of some of the crafts described in this book is still precarious. The emergence of new forms of government and new territorial boundaries places a special responsibility on national leaders to continue to encourage, to promote, and to give substantial patronage to indigenous crafts of high quality - not as museum exhibits, but as a treasured part of the contemporary aesthetic life of the nation.

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LATIF

W ood-caroer

12

An official report published in the mid-70's tells us that there are about eighteen million acres of forest in Peninsular Malaysia. But three years later Abdul Ladf, the most talented wood-carver in the country, had to visit twenty sawmills, motoring a distance of two hundred and fifty miles, before he could purchase five tons of high quality timber - the equivalent of only four large trees.

Success has come to Latif in a craft which, fifteen years ago, was on the point of death. This success is the reward for un­rivalled skill, but it is also the result of untiring persistence, of which his recent visit to the sawmills is only one example.

Latif s father and six generations of master carpenters be­fore him had no such problems - the forests were then truly virgin - but they encountered other obstacles. When Latif s father was commissioned to build a twenty-eight-foot fishing boat or a two-storied timber house, he entered the forest and searched for a suitable tree. The quest might continue for two weeks. Only a mature tree of the right species could be felled. Knowledge of timber was not enough. He must also be able to live in the forest and to protect himself from the many wild animals which roamed there. And when the tree had been selected, before it could be felled, he had to propitiate the spirits of the forest, friendly and hostile, who were referred to as Jenggi Kayu.

The ability to sleep soundly during such a journey depended on a man's faith in God and his knowledge of a number of prayers, memorized at leisure and repeated each night while in the jungle. Latifs elder brother accompanied his father on several of his expeditions and observed the confidence of the old man, who could fall asleep within minutes of completing the recital of special prayers. At first Latifs brother slept fit­fully and was sceptical of the itmu pagar (the knowledge of self-protection). But no tiger, elephant, or bear came within a chain's distance of where they lay, and he gradually gained assurance. Latif was too young to share this experience.

Such expertise was passed down from one generation to the next, b~t was not widely shared: usually only one member of a family was allowed to receive it. Latif s father chose his nephew, Taib, but Taib died unexpectedly without passing on more than a fraction of what he had learnt.

When the master carpenter had selected his tree, he re­turned home, assembled a group of villagers and re-entered the forest, taking a supply of rice, salt, and chillies with them. Large saws were unknown and a tree was felled with a couple

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of small adzes, each fitted with a three-foot-Iong wooden handle, made flexible by special rattan lashing.

Moving the tree trunk was often laborious. Ideally the tree chosen should stand on a slope not far from a river, so that it could be floated downstream.

Latif's father spent all his life in Besut, on the border be­tween the Malay states of Kelantan and Trengganu. (His name, Long, was short for "sulong," the firstborn.) He lived to be one hundred, but for forty years his skill was monopolized by the Raja of that area. The Prince, who was a younger brother of the Sultan of Kelantan, was forever adding to the embellishment of his principal timber palace, at nominal cost. A nineteenth-century Malay raja rewarded his craftsmen with nothing more than their daily food and clothing and the elite status resulting from royal patronage.

Encik Long lived at Kampong Chawat, across the river from the Raja's palace, in a house he had built for himself in 1883. It was a fine example of a Malay Twelve-Pillar house, raised six feet above the ground, with high-pointed gables, gracefully curved gable-edges tapering to a point at the base, and a carved gable screen, which protected the occupants from driving rain and provided general ventilation. The walls were made of finely planed chengal planks, fitted vertically and held in posi­tion by narrow cover rib , which were secured by hard wooden pegs. No iron nails were used anywhere in the building. Two narrow wooden doors and half a dozen smaller apertures opened inwards on wooden bars. There were no glass window panes, but a few small square glass skylights were fitted into the sloping tiled roof. Encik Long built a workshop twenty yards away.

The acme of a Malay wood-carver's art was, for centuries, the decorative wall panel, inserted six feet or more above the floor, over doors and windows, and providing a frieze around the internal walls. They were usually cut out to admit air and a measure of light. Malay tradition limited the choice of objects which could be carved on these panels to leafy branches and flowers or extracts from the Quran in the Arabic script. This limitation, which excluded human or animal forms, so popular in Chinese wood carving, severely tested the originality of the designer. But no compromise was ever permitted.

The first Malay timber palace of which we can read a des­cription, the palace of Sultan Mansur Shah of Malacca, was completed in about 1465. In subsequent centuries, several hundred others have been built, elaborately embellished, and

later destroyed by accident, arson, or civil war. Today there are only half a dozen in existence and none of them are occupied by royalty. Of these the most lavishly decorated is that in Kampong Raja, Besut, and is the work of Latif's father.

Viewed from outside, the istana. is unimpressive, but if you enter by a flight of eight steep stairs leading to an audience hall (balai) you will see the equivalent of a wood-carver's art gallery. Since the Raja had many visitors, there are rooms fo( the reception of individuals or groups. There are other rooms for meals, for guests, and for the family, and there are many bedrooms. Every subdivision has its own decorative frieze around all four sides, and every panel is different. Those surrounding the Raja's personal apartments are the most elaborate and include carved rectangles which have four strata of leaves and branches - an extremely rare example of a wood-carver's skill, known in Malay as silap empat lapis. They also include panels which combine Arabic script and leaf designs, known as Ayat nasrun.

In his seventies Latif's father was a noted boat-builder. Most of his boats were commissioned for deep-sea fishing, but the ruler of Kelantan engaged him to design and construct a shallow ceremonial riverboat with the carved and gilded head of a mythical bird at the prow. Word of this reached Sultan Ibrahim of Johor, who invited Encik Long to come south and sent another ornamental boat, when completed, to London as a gift.

Latif inherited the talents of a wood-carver both from his father's and his mother's family, and he was named after a famous carpenter who lived five generations before him. At the age of nine, when his friends were playing rattan football or flying kites, Latif sat in a corner of his ninety-year-old father's workshop, shaping the wooden handle of a coconut shell ladle for his mother and the wooden hilt and sheath of a small dagger for himself. His father's tools filled four cup­boards and, as a child, he helped himself to those he thought suitable, blunting and leaving them in disarray, which infu­riated the old perfectionist.

Latif has the long, slender fingers of an artist, but they bear the scars of many accidents with small knives and chisels. Modern antiseptics were not known; a large glass bottle, re­puted to have once contained rum, stood in a corner of the workshop, half filled with a clear liquid known by the mis­leading name "camphor oil" - minyak kapur. This had been extracted from a mature kapur tree in the forest. A small

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14

hole was bored a foot deep into the tree trunk and the resinous oil flowed for about an hour. It was indispensable in a nine­teenth-century carpenter's workshop, and even today its healing properties are undisputed.

To discourage his seventh child from maltreating his choicest tools Encik Long disregarded the freshly healed scars as he struck Latifs fingers with a rattan cane. The punish­ment was repeated a number of times until Latif acquired pro­ficiency and a measure of orderliness.

While he was at his primary school Latif entered every competition for school handicrafts, as well as at district and state agricultural shows, and usually won first prize for carved objects.

His father died in 1962 when Latif was sixteen. After two sterile years in Besut he decided to move to Kota Bharu, tradi­tionally a centre of Malay decorative arts. The memory of his father's workshop followed him, but for more than ten years it remained as remote as his birthplace.

In Kota Bharu he was an unemployed youth, with a talent for which there seemed to be no demand. He rented a room, which contained nothing more than a single bed and a mosquito net. His frustration was temporarily relieved by the Rural Industrial Development Authority, a government agency, which offered to take him to an annual exhibition in Kuala Lumpur where handicrafts could be sold to the public. He worked night and day preparing wooden dagger sheaths and hilts, walking sticks and model animals carved from buffalo horn, and he sold every article. His skill also attracted orders from a Malay ruler and a travel agency, which com­missioned him to design and carve four wall panels, five feet high, for its office in Kuala Lumpur.

Other patrons were difficult to find. Two more annual exhibitions in Kuala Lumpur brought temporary relief, but each time Latif returned to his single bed and to an uncertain future.

He recognized that the concept of a personal patron was an echo of the past and he wondered if there could be a substitute. The enigma continued to disturb his thoughts, but two exhibi­tions of traditional wood carving in Kuala Lumpur offered a possible solution. They were held in the National Art Gallery and the National Museum in 1971, and they were accom­panied by competitions for living wood-carvers. Latif won the first prize for cutout panels in both exhibitions, and he was commissioned to design and carve a folding screen for the

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Prime Minister's office and a set of furniture and forty-nine panels for the Malaysian Airline System's centre in London.

The dream of having his own workshop suddenly became a reality: he rented a large Malay house two miles from the town centre in Kota Bharu, removed most of the internal partitions and set up working tables and benches where half a dozen apprentices were employed to do routine planing and pre­liminary chiselling. Trees shaded the workmen when they went outside to rest, birds whistled an accompaniment to the tapping of chisels, and Latif worked twelve hours a day de­signing and carving. He also travelled to consult with his clients and to look for new ones.

In his workshop he assembled cutout panels from demo­lished houses; carved sail-guards, shaped like abstract dragon heads, which had been jettisoned by the owners of sailless fishing boats; and an album of photographs of old wood carving in Besut and elsewhere to provide silent inspiration. He designed every panel and every object personally. His method of carving followed closely that of his father, using the same hand tools, but he enjoyed at least one advantage. His father had first to shape every plank with a light axe before he began to plane and to carve. Latif was able to buy planks, cut to his measurement, from a sawmill. His father drew each of his intricate designs freehand on white paper, altered it-until he was satisfied, then stuck the final version on to a plank with rice paste. In cutting out the design with a chisel the paper was destroyed. Latif also draws his designs freehand on white paper in a separate room at the end of the workshop, but when one of these is completed he places the drawing on the smooth surface of the plain wooden panel, with a sheet of carbon paper between the two, and traces the design on to the wood. Carving then begins.

Latif has made no attempt to assemble an armoury of tools like his father's, but he has about fifty which are in regular use. With them he chisels, chips, cuts, shaves, scrapes, carves, drills, and polishes. His tools - mainly an assortment of chisels, saws, and files - are made to order by a Trengganu ironsmith, but Latif fits his own wooden handle as his father did. Each of his assistants is supplied with a set of essential tools, but he can draw on a pool of others when necessary.

The preliminary chiselling of the outline of a new carved panel is normally carried out by an assistant. Latif then takes over and works systematically from one end of the panel to the other. Polishing is the" task of an apprentice, who can now use

emery paper in place of the dried skin of the sting ray for most of this work.

High-quality wood carving is time-consuming. Assistant carvers and apprentices work at least eight hours a day; Latifs hours are longer. One finely carved panel five feet long and two feet wide cannot be completed in less than fourteen days. When the time comes to price a carved panel, door, or screen, or perhaps a carved ceremonial chair, patrons sometimes com~

plain that the cost is prohibitive, and quote the wood carving they had purchased in a neighbouring country, forgetting that it was mass-produced by mechanical tools.

The designs for Malay wood carving of panels, screens, chairs, or tables are prepared for two basic types: one is cut out, the other is carved in low relief. A panel carved in low relief may charm by the beauty of the design and may offer a greater decorated surface, but it wlU not admit air or light. A cutout panel will attract by the delicacy of the work, which is empha­sized by the admission of light, and almost all the panels in the Besut palace, carved by Latifs father, were cut out. This type was occasionally enriched by carving branches or leaves so that they coiled and curved under and over one another; this is called ukiran silap. Latif won the first prize at the National Art Gallery in 1971 with a panel carved in that way.

The identity of the leaves and flowers in many of the Besut carved panels defies even Latifs expertise; it is probable that Encik Long designed them to please himself. But Latif often chooses a particular tree, plant, or flower unfamiliar to town dwellers and reproduces them as accurately as possible.

By 1977 the new patrons whom he first discovered six years earlier had provided almost continuous employment for him and a growing number of young assistants. Universities, ministers, and banks, recognized the rare quality of his work and his genius as a designer and gave him commissions far larger than his forebears had ever received in the feudal past. He designed and carved tall chairs and other ceremonial appa­ratus for two university chancellors; he carved traditional patterns on one hundred and fifty panels for the board room of a Malaysian bank, using the most elaborate form - ukiran sitap - and he devised and cut out eight wall panels covered with Arabic quotations from the Quran for a minister's resi­dence. Each panel was eight feet high and the carved letters were cut in chengal, the hardest Malaysian wood, one inch thick. With these panels he revived an art that was last exhi­bited on the walls of a Trengganu palace ninety years : ago.

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It was time to construct a real workshop, much larger than his father's and of quite different design. His friend, Haji Ramli, provided a site near the main road leading to Kota Bharu, and early in 1978 Latif and his work force of thirty moved their tables and equipment to a cement-walled build­ing one hundred and twenty feet long, forty feet wide, and eighteen feet high. The interior is plain, but on the outer walls sections of the concrete surface are covered with cutout wooden panels, and long carved borders flank the stairs which lead up to Latifs office and drawing room. No other tradi­tional Malay craft is housed in such impressive and hygienic surroundings.

Examples of his work are on display in a showroom on the ground floor at one end of the building. Some of these are awaiting dispatch. Two elaborately carved double beds will soon be seen at Malay weddings. A chengal table ten feet long, with Chinese-style lion heads at each corner, and lotus leaves at each side, will soon be moved to the Kelantan Buddhist Asso­ciation. Half a dozen boat-shaped chongkak boards, with differently decorated bows and sterns, are awaiting dispatch to customers in Johor and Perak.

Five tons of chengal, located with so much difficulty, will soon be delivered, and work on five hundred and ninety-six panels for a State Legislative Council chamber will then begin.

If you meet Latif in 1978, on the outskirts of Kota Bharu, at the entrance to his modern workshop, you may be surprised at his height - five feet eleven inches - a head taller than any of his thirty assistants. You may wonder at his pale skin, a feature of many Kelantan Malays. When you take his hand, you may notice his long, slim fingers, and when he smiles at you, with an air of modest self-confidence - you will probably smile back.

To what should we attribute Latifs almost miraculous success?

Deprived of all traditional patronage, surrounded by the material values of a modern world, totally lacking capital and starved of publicity, Latif has been constantly inspired by a sense of dedication to his hereditary craft and to the memory of at least seven generations of ancestral craftsmen. By making their standard of skill his target, he has triumphed over all obstacles.

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Right: fAtif draws a 4esign before

carving a wall panel

Overleaf: fAtif carving a wall panel

PERPUSTAKAAN NEGARA MALAYSIA

PERPUSTAKAAN NEGARA MALAYSIA