Woven Languages: An Interview with Peter ten Hoopen
Author and ethnographer Peter ten Hoopen has spent several decades collecting and studying traditional Indonesian ikat textiles. His Pusaka Collection is the subject of the exhibition ‘Woven Languages’, on view at the Museu do Oriente in Lisbon until 25 January. Orientations spoke with ten Hoopen to find out more about the exhibition and the ikat tradition.
Orientations How did you start collecting ikat?
Peter ten Hoopen Growing up in the Netherlands in the 1950s, I came into contact with Indonesian culture at an early age. Neighbours who had lived in ‘Indië’ loved to display whatever works of art they had brought home from this enchanted world, with its hints of mystery and magic. In 1975 a friend showed me an ikat from Sumba. With its intriguing, scintillating patterns, it immediately fascinated me. After I learned how ikat was made, I realized that this process would not survive the rush to modernity. So my interest was awakened by a combination of colonial nostalgia, artistic sensibility, and the realization of impending scarcity— which led to a passion to possess and learn about such pieces.
Peter ten Hoopen
O Many of the pieces in your collection are from remote areas of Indonesia. How did you go about the task of documenting and researching ikat? What obstacles did you face in the assembling of your collection?
PtH Much information comes from a substantial library, internet research, visits to museum depots, and travel to various remote islands in the early 1980s. But most informative were my nearly daily visits to dealers on Bali when I lived there in the mid-1990s. Some of these, such as Verra Darwiko and old Baharuddin, were amazingly knowledgeable. By juxtaposing two similar cloths with dramatically different asking prices, and asking why they wanted so much more for A than for B, I learned to tell the difference between a true lima varna, or ‘five colours’, Roti nobleman’s shawl, and one where the yellow was dabbed in after the weaving; between a Kisar sarong and a Luang, though they have similar motifs; between a Batak shawl made of machine-made yarn, and one of extremely fine handspun yarn.
The greatest obstacle I faced was that some islands were already swept clean of their ikats, and not just by traders. By the 1930s, the missionaries—who came well before the traders—were shipping chestsful home for their orders’ collections, or had the whole lot burned ceremonially to free the islanders’ souls of all this heathen stuff. This was still happening in East Timor in the 1970s. As a result, cloths from certain areas hardly ever come to the market. If you are lucky, you might find one when an old family collection is auctioned, ideally at an obscure auction house.
If you are extremely lucky you find one in your own collection. I had been looking for a Seram ikat for twenty-odd years. Then a few months ago, Vanessa Gliszczynski, curator at the Weltkulturen Museum in Frankfurt, asked me if I was positive about the provenance of a ‘Tanimbar’ sarong shown on my website. The museum happened to have some old Seram ikats, and my cloth shared several of their characteristics. I had bought the sarong decades ago along with three undisputed Tanimbars, but the photos she sent were quite convincing, giving cause for great jubilation. But if such luck befalls you more than once in your life, you’d better move to Vegas.
Dula banga (men’s shawl)
Roti, Indonesia, 1930
Cotton, 74 x 151 cm
Pusaka Collection
O What timespan does the collection encompass? Perhaps you could highlight some of the older works; from this perspective, what role has C-14 dating played in your research and collecting?
PtH The latest is a royal Sumba from 1960. The oldest are a Sumatran tapis sarong and an ‘elephant patolu’, a 4.5-metre-long silk sari in double ikat with spectacular design showing caparisoned elephants, horse riders and tigers, imported from Gujarat, India, by the Dutch East Indies Company (VOC) to buy the loyalty of local rulers—one of perhaps ten that have survived. Both may be mid-18th century. But this is just an educated guess: they may well be half a century older or younger. Textiles from the tropics are notoriously hard to date. One of the best indications is the piece’s condition correlated with its intended use. If a sarong for daily use shows heavy wear it may be only a few decades old, but one intended for ceremonial use in ‘lightly used’ condition can easily be early 20th century, as it was worn only a few times a year, and probably never washed. Carbon C-14 dating is inherently unreliable due to differences in the intensity of cosmic ray bombardment, nuclear testing in the 20th century, and contamination of the sample by groundwater. When dealing with ancient pieces we may disregard such ‘impurities’ in the method. But for cloths a few centuries old, their impact can be enormous … the margins of error tend to be from here to the moon. For example: ‘1456–1532 (47.8%) & 1582–1620 (29.2%)’. What does that tell us? About the textile, the maturity of the technique, our craze for age?
O That being the case, to what extent does establishing a chronology for the works factor into the curation of such an exhibition?
PtH My aim has been inspired by geography and ethnology rather than chronology. I wanted at least one example from every single ikat region in the archipelago so that my collection could serve as a body of reference—an aim that has largely been realized, as it does now cover about 90 per cent of the archipelago, and is used by collectors and some curators to help them identify pieces. This gives me great joy. Fortunately, it works both ways: some people share their expertise with me, enriching the scholarly depth of my website.
Detail of homnon (sarong)
Kisar, Moluccas, 1925–40
Cotton, 64 x 145 cm
Pusaka Collection
Detail of lawar (sarong)
Luang, Moluccas, 1925–40
Cotton, 62 x 139 cm
Pusaka Collection
O The collection’s name Pusaka (‘heirloom’) suggests that these textiles are on a journey of inheritance. With regard to Ruth Barnes’ concerns about the collecting of these heirlooms [see Without Cloth We Cannot Marry], has there been much pressure to return them to their communities of origin? How is the collecting of ancient ikat viewed in Indonesian communities?
PtH This is a delicate question, and one to which there is not an easy, unequivocal answer. Ruth Barnes is right to be concerned. While I was not aware of this at the time I started collecting, it has become clear to me that the very act of collecting robs the island communities of textiles that are vital for their social cohesion and spiritual well-being—and the more we publish about them, the more desire we create in others. To quote Barnes herself: ‘... with our publications [such as indeed this article], we inadvertently threaten the cultural heritage of those to whom we owe so much.’
This is a painful truth to acknowledge. But Barnes has worked with some of the world’s most prominent collectors, such as Mary Hunt Kahlenberg, and will be the first to acknowledge that there is a parallel truth. Collectors and curators are also the most effective agents in the preservation of the Indonesian islands’ cultural heritage, and, perhaps even more importantly, in its documentation. This is not an issue limited to Indonesia. In many parts of the world, old textiles are disappearing due to less-than-delicate handling, pests, mould, and the ravages of a tropical climate.
As for documentation, one could say that we are writing the dictionaries for what are becoming dead languages. My exhibition is called ‘Woven Languages’, a tribute to expert on Indonesian textiles Brigitte Majlis, because in essence Indonesian ikat is a range of lively vernaculars, speaking to us of belief systems, relationships with ancestors and totemic animals, prowess in headhunting, caste, status and belonging. Alas, most of these vernaculars are dead or dying in the sense that few people still remember what the motifs express, and no new memes are being created. In the past, most weavers would think it beneath their dignity to replicate a cloth they had made before—let alone one created by someone else. Now many of them copy admired old pieces, because they have little knowledge of old lore and legends, and/or are striving to recreate bestsellers. In other words, because they have nothing to say, or even the vocabulary to express themselves with.
Awareness of this back-story is strong in the small circle of curators and collectors. In Indonesia, awareness has been long in coming, but is definitely forming, and I have met people who are contemplating ways to recover the country’s heritage. So yes, some pressure is beginning to be felt. I support their striving, because Indonesia, like many other countries that were subject to colonialism—and robbed of much of their wealth, material culture, and often their spiritual wealth as well—needs to regain a pride in its native culture and achievements. One of the ways to bring this about is to show people fine examples of the artistry of their ancestors.
Hinggi (blanket)
East Sumba, Indonesia, 1960
Cotton, 107 x 270 cm
Pusaka Collection
O How do you think the exhibition catalogue will help to further research in this area?
PtH The 144-page catalogue, Woven Languages/Linguagens Tecidas, cannot nearly do justice to its vast subject, but it does cover the entire archipelago, and nearly all weaving areas that we may differentiate, including some represented by only half a dozen known pieces—or even fewer. So you could see it as a skeleton for future scholarly work, and I hope that it encourages more research. It certainly encourages more research and writing of my own, as it serves me as the pilot for a much more ambitious work that I hope to publish in the near future.
O What will the scope of this larger work be?
PtH My aim is to produce a reference work that covers the same ground as the exhibition catalogue, but in much greater depth, and with many more examples, so that it can truly serve as a handbook. Ideally, you should be able to pick up an ikat from any region, look it up and find a similar enough cloth to be able to determine its provenance with a fair degree of certainty, learn something about the culture of the region and the beliefs of the people—and hence about its significance. Given this ambitious scope, I shall be relying on the collaboration of specialists in certain areas.
Elephant patolu
Gujarat, India, 1750–1800
Silk, 104 x 451 cm
Pusaka Collection
Ulos (shawl)
Batak, Sumatra, Indonesia, early 20th century
Cotton, 75 x 206 cm
Pusaka Collection
O Can any comparisons be drawn between the ikat tradition and other textile traditions around the world?
PtH Ikat textiles have been made in many parts of the world, and always served as status symbols—such as the chiefs’ ponchos of the Mapuche Indians in Patagonia. But the technique found its highest expression and richest social meaning in Indonesia. In many island communities, ikat was the very weft of the social fabric. As the title of Ruth Barnes’s article states unequivocally, masterfully woven cloth was an essential part of the bride-wealth exchanges. On Borneo, women’s skill at ikat weaving was regarded as highly as men’s headhunting prowess. Even on islands where headhunting ceased to be practiced, weaving remained the most highly valued competence a woman could bring to the prenuptial negotiations.
O Can you talk about contemporary production of traditional-style ikat? How important is ikat production with regard to local economies in Indonesia?
PtH This is a big subject that requires more space than we have here. It touches several raw nerves, and needs to be handled with care. Ikat as a technique is surviving—actually blossoming on some islands. In most cases (there are exceptions) without much social significance. But modern ikat are often made with chemical dyes, which make the product look garish, and produce effluents that harm the environment. It is crucial, however, for the economic survival of certain communities, and in many it brings little-researched social changes as the women gain in economic power and status.
This subject far exceeds the field as I originally delineated it for myself, narrowly defined by the cloths themselves and the traditions that spawned them. Now the field is being redefined. It gets new fringes—social, economic , political and even legal [think copyrights, for example, Javanese registering traditional Balinese motifs] —which are still uncombed, untwined, and of unpredictable direction.
It seems clear that there is a great urgency to document what we know about the dying woven languages, and to care for these pusaka as if they were our own. I intentionally use that clause ‘as if’. You never really own works of lasting importance; you are just their temporary guardian.
Ikat weaving on Sumba