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Introduction: Cultural Practices on Bali

The island of Bali is today a unique cultural laboratory; there traditional prac-tices still survive in perfect symbiosis with contemporary global civilization. In 2014, the population of Bali passed the four million mark, and every month the island was visited by around two hundred thousand tourists from all over the world – mostly from Australia, Japan, and China – which at an annual rate makes for well over two million. The incursion of a crowd of foreigners has not, however, in any way disrupted the traditional rhythm of life for the Balinese. The inhabitants of the island do not fail to make regular offerings before the thou-sands of altars, even in localities consumed by the global tourist industry, such as Kuta, Legian, or the artificial and luxury resort of Nusa Dua. They honor the gods with splendid works of art; they throw offerings to the demons on the earth.

On Bali there are more temples than homes. Every village has at least three public temples, usually more, and every family complex, surrounded by a wall, has at least one family temple. These buildings give space a sacred character. They are always raised in the direction of the interior of the island, toward mountains of volcanic origin. The geography of Bali is surprisingly consistent with Hin-du-Buddhist cosmology, according to which at the center of the universe there stands a mountain that is the home of the gods. The space of the island recreates the structure of the holy cosmos.

Sacred time is further calculated on Bali by a complicated calendar system. As a result, besides the festivals celebrated by all, such as the lunar new year, each community celebrates its own festivities, often with surprising vigor. The major-ity of ceremonies begins with a spectacular procession. Families celebrate with equal magnificence private occurrences such as birth, initiation, marriage, and funerals. Most of these celebrations, if the funds gathered for them are sufficient, offer a chance for displays by dancers, musicians, singers, puppeteers, and actors.

To a large degree, religion determines the spectacular qualities of Balinese rituals. Most of the island’s inhabitants are Hindus, and this religious system es-pecially values theater. The Sanskrit treatise on theater, the Nāṭyaśāstra, is con-sidered the fifth Veda. The use of the word “theater” in this context is, of course, problematic. The meaning of the term nāṭya is considerably broader; the treatise codifies types of gesture and body positions, metrical measures, and ways of us-ing the tongue, types of art, and techniques of showing emotions, playing instru-ments, and song. The Hindu “theater” was always an inseparable part of a cult. On Bali this is still so.

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Sacred contexts give Balinese spectacles their unique character. Watching plays on the decorated squares of temples, I had the distinct impression that this is how “theater” might have looked before the birth of “theater.”

Balinese sanctuaries usually come alive only during ceremonies. These are always very sensuous experiences: all the while the air is heavy with the power-ful aromas of incense and flowers; one hears the intense music of at least one gamelan; the participants are sprayed with holy water.

The living nature of cultural practices on Bali is determined not only by adherence to tradition, but also by an openness to change. The “monkey dance,” the kecak, the high point of the program for every tourist, was invented in the twentieth century, inspired by a German painter Walter Spies. Equally recent are the kebyar dance, which is so full of energy, and the arja folk opera. Recent-ly, young Balinese have begun to experiment with using computers and lasers during the breath-taking shows of the puppet shadow theater wayang kulit. In 1979, for the first time a woman was recognized as a dhalang, the most serious artist on the island, one that usually has a priestly status. From the mid-1980s, female gamelan ensembles have been playing their music.

The Island as TempleStudies of ancient cultures often forget about the basic difference of societies to which we have very limited access today, especially if it is a question of pre-lit-erate civilizations. An attempt to understand the cosmos of the average Balinese is the best test for anyone who believes that all people were and are all the same. In Bali space, time, and identity have a powerfully performative character, and in a natural way they have inspired and continue to stimulate the development of the most varied performative techniques. In the context of this unique culture, research into the origins of theater takes on new and surprising dimensions.

Daily life in Bali is filled with many performances (Rubin and Sedana 2007; Dibia and Ballinger 2004; Spies and de Zoete 1973). All Balinese from morning to night participate in a series of religious events. This is connected with their particular (because it is performative-liturgical) perception of space and time. On the island, as in the temple, everyone, whether he/she wants to or not, takes part in sacred performances.

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Performative space

On an everyday basis, the Balinese ignore geographical direction, such as north or east (Lansing 1995). In their spatial orientation, the crucial role is played by the localization of mountains and the sea. Volcanic mountains – and, above all, the tallest and holiest volcano, Gunung Agung – extend into the center of the island. These are the seats of the gods. On the slopes of the volcano Gunung Agung, the Balinese built their main sanctuary, the Mother Temple, Pura Basekih (Stuart-Fox 2002). The most important religious ceremonies on the island take place there. However, the sea, or the deep water, is the domain of evil forces and demons. Balinese families do not settle in the vicinity of the sea shore. The city of Sanur, which lies by the sea, is still famed as a center of black magic. In former times, the bodies of the dead were buried on the beaches while they waited to be cremated. Today tourist hotels stand there.

The direction toward the holy mountain, kaja in Balinese, also defines the whole architecture of the island. The Balinese are a village people. They live in families in farms made up of several separate buildings. The head of the clan has his own house (bale daja). There is also a separate pavilion for guests (bale dush), and a covered area for ceremonies (bale dangin). On every Balinese farm, the most important place is taken up by the temple of the ancestors (sanggah), built on the side of the farm nearest the mountain. In turn, the kitchen (paon) and the storeroom (lumbung), impure spaces, are placed on the side nearest the sea. The directions kaja-kelod are relative because on the north side of the island the volcanos are to the south, and on the south side they lie to the north etc. So the fixing of the kaja-kelod axis is each time a product of negotiation.

Thus, the architecture of the island realizes its own particular spatial perfor-mance, and orientation in the world is a performative act undertaken by a hu-man being who stands in the middle of the kaja-kelod axis. Neither direction excludes the other, but they supplement and contain the center as a third ele-ment. So space is a human product, the product of a human always situated in the middle of an axis between two opposites. Space so understood may also be geographical (kaja-and-kelod) and cultural (good-and-bad), and the human be-ing him/herself – head, body, feet – becomes a model of the cosmos (Eiseman 1990: 2–10; Bandem and DeBoer 1981).

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0.1: Pura Besakih.

The overall layout of the Balinese village is also marked by the directions of kaja-kelod. On the kaja side, toward the mountain, stands the Navel Temple (Pura

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Paseh), dedicated to the god Vishnu, and connected with the cult of water, the source of life. On the opposite side, kelod, stands the Temple of Death (Pura Dalem), the seat of Durga, the wife of Shiva, and the goddess of death. In the middle of the village, however, is the most important temple of all, Pura Desa, the sanctuary of Brahma, the creator-god. According to the Balinese vision of the cosmos, the endurance of the world is possible thanks to the balance of the pow-ers of life and the powers of death, of good and evil – which the Balinese them-selves describe as a balance between the powers of the right side and of the left.

Each individual temple is also oriented according to the kaja-kelod axis. The holiest, inner courtyard of the sanctuary (jeroan) is turned toward the moun-tains. There the images of the gods and the holy masks are kept; there, too, Ba-linese belonging to the temple bring their sacrificial gifts for blessing. That holiest place is always situated higher than the outer courtyard (jaba). The directions kaja-kelod are also used in the sense of higher-lower, and this equally applies to the architecture of a building and to the human body. The head of a human be-ing, holy and untouchable, should always be on the kaja side, upward, but the legs on the kelod side, downward. One must sleep with one’s head turned toward the mountains, in order not to soil one’s own head.

A Balinese temple recalls a “theater.” The gods do not live but perform there. For most of the year, the sanctuaries stand empty and abandoned. Occasionally, one of the people who live nearby makes sure offerings are made at the appropri-ate times of the day. The gigantic stone sculptures in the temples do not usually play important roles in the ceremonies. They are guardians. The gods are embod-ied exclusively in the smaller sculptures, the ones kept within the temple. And they do that only at the explicit invitation of the community, for example during the celebrations connected with the “birthday” of the tabernacle. At that time the holy sculptures are set out for public view.

Performative time

Although the Balinese acknowledge the global calendar, everyday life is conduct-ed in the rhythm of sacred time. The Balinese year has 210 days and it is made up of ten different kinds of week, consisting of from one to ten days. Each of those weeks has another name and fulfills another function in the lives of the island’s inhabitants. For example, a three-day week is used to indicate market days called paseh, beteng and kajeng. This system makes it possible for three villages to link up and organize alternating markets. When the last days of five-day and seven-day cycles overlap, offerings are made in favor of specific objects like a car or a mask (Lansing 1995: 28–30).

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Every day must be viewed and interpreted depending on its current place in a complicated system of ten different weeks. Specially schooled chaplains, on the basis of laborious calculations, set out fortunate and unfortunate activities for specific days. For example, July 13, 2009, was the best day to start a new business, castrate animals, and dig wells. Detailed lists are published every month, and the majority of Balinese fit in with the recommendations they contain.

On the island, all family and public festivals are organized according to the Balinese year. For the first half year after its birth, in other words for 105 days, a child must not touch the ground, and must be carried for the whole time, because the gods still reside in it (the child). Every 210 days, thousands of temples on the island celebrate their “birthdays” (odalan), and the greatest of the sanctuaries are honored with spectacular celebrations every ten or 100 Balinese years.

Besides the Balinese year, the lunar (twelve-month) year is also observed on the island. The lunar calendar serves principally to fix the date of the new year – the day before the new moon during the spring equinox. The new year ceremo-nies are particularly spectacular. Three days before the new year, a great religious purification (melis) is organized; on that day, all the effigies of the gods on the island are bathed in a river. On the day before New Year’s Day (tawur kesanga), on the main crossroads – which is seen as place especially exposed to the op-erations of impure forces, for demons meet there – exorcisms are carried out: Ogoh-Ogoh, gigantic effigies of evil spirits, painstakingly made out of bamboo and paper, parade in raucous procession, and are finally ruthlessly destroyed and burned. The new year, called Nyepi (“to make quiet”), is, in turn, a day of absolute silence. On the roads and streets traffic is banned without exception. It is forbid-den to use electricity. One is not permitted to make love. Tourists, too, are obliged to stay inside their ghettos. On the day of silence, a purification takes place of the whole island and all the people on it. In 2016, the New Year falls on March 9.

Identity as performance

On Bali identity is unstable (Geertz 1973: 360–389). Every human being be-comes him/herself as a result of many separate narrations and negotiations. One hundred and five days after it is born, a child is given an individual name. This is made up of a series of arbitrary syllables. The priest prepares a set of cards with syllables that are auspicious on that day, and the baby by crawling chooses several of them (inspired, of course, by the gods). This personal name is secret and holy. Only the possessor should know it at the moment of death, in anticipation of his/her transformation into a divinity. That name, although holy, may be changed.

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If it goes ill with a person in life, he/she may ask a priest for a repetition of the ceremony and to be given a new name.

A second name depends on the sequence of birthdays. On Bali, however, there are only four basic personal names (with several variants): the first offspring is Wayan, the second Nyoman, the third Made, and the fourth Ketut. A fifth child receives the name Wayan again, and the cycle begins again from the beginning. Appropriate names are given to miscarried and still-born children. This system makes life much easiest for tourists to the island.

Particular dates mark kinship relations. Every generation is allocated to a sep-arate category. During funeral ceremonies, all family members who are a genera-tion younger than the deceased person, have to pay him/her special tribute by placing their hands to their foreheads several times. Even more important are the teknonyms given after the birth of a first child. From the point of view of the community’s survival, this is a more important event than a marriage. The married couple achieves social recognition, because they have contributed to the survival of the local society. They receive a new name from the child’s name: someone who has been up to now a Wayan or a Ketut turns into “The father/mother of [the child’s name].” Further names are given after the birth of the first grandchild or great-grandchild.

Still other titles define individuals within the caste system (imported from In-dia). These titles come from the gods and indicate social status. Connected with this are specific dress, customs, the date of cremation after death, and even man-ner of speech. Balinese is basically three separate systems of communication. One must address persons of higher status in one language, persons of equal status in another, and those of lower status in yet another. Public functionaries are given a further title.

Six variable names do not, however, exhaust Balinese identity. Every person on the island is born with a quartet of spiritual/ghostly siblings (kanda empat). These four spirits accompany you through your whole life, and you must bring them offerings in order to secure their support. Ignoring ritual duties can lead to serious illness or even death. These spiritual siblings are in charge of human inclinations and passions. So they may incite a person to very varied kinds of behavior, including criminal acts.

On Bali identity performances are essentially transformances, performances of change. Perhaps the most radical example of such a transformance is the “ordi-nation” of young priests. When the disciple is ready, after long years of study and debate, his teacher, usually of Brahmin rank, organizes a funeral service, during which the future priest symbolically experiences his own death. The ceremony

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is to cut him off from links with everyday life, so that he can concentrate on the development of his intellect (Lansing 2006: 2). Only those persons can be ordained as the highest of priests, who are able to put themselves into a coma lasting several days.

Balinese identity is a rhizome of narratives, influences, and relations, often viewed as sacred, although in Balinese there is no separate term for “religion” (Geertz 2004: 37–40).

The Emergence of VisualityTo conduct exorcisms on Bali, people use the puppet and shadow theater called wayang kulit. This is not only one of the most extraordinary performative tradi-tions in the world, but also a practice that continues to be cultivated and con-tinues to be religiously effective. The dhalang, the main performer, is often a consecrated priest (Hobart 1987: 27–34), and the most important spectators are the gods themselves. Entertainment and ritual constitute two dimensions of the same phenomenon, and contradictions – in accordance with the Balinese vi-sion of the universe – do not cancel each other out, but supplement and balance each other. A ticketed performance, and thus something that is on the surface for tourists, may bring about profound change in the local community. Although the “theatricality” of Balinese culture is proverbial (Geertz 1980; MacRae 2005; MacRae and Darma Putra 2007), the island’s inhabitants do not reduce their per-formances to artistic shows. In Balinese there is no word for “art,” and the word frequently used nowadays in this meaning, the word sani, is an Indonesian word.

The dhalang, both in his function as exorcist and therapist, is regarded as a skilled craftsman: a tukang (“skilled worker”) or pragina (“decorator/embellish-er”). The high level of this craft is officially recognized. On November 7, 2003, wayang kulit was added to the UNESCO list of Masterpieces of the Oral and Intangible Heritage of Humanity.

Wayang kulit

In the ancient Javanese language Kawi, the word wayang means “shadow”, and kulit means “skin.” Wayang kulit is, thus, a theater of shadows thrown on to a white, linen screen (kelir) by flat, colored puppets cut from cow skin. On Bali this art has been practiced for at least a thousand years. It probably reached Bali from India via Java, along with Hinduism (Chen 2003). Still today most presentations draw inspiration from the Mahabharata and Ramayana. The principal charac-ters still speak Old Javanese, maintaining the language of the Hindu aristocracy,

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which in the sixteenth century fled from Java to Bali in order to escape Islam. They ultimately dominated the island and strengthened the Hindu foundations of its contemporary culture. Bali still is an enclave of Hinduism within Indonesia, the most populous Islamic state in the world. Wayang kulit, as practiced on the island, has not lost its strong link with official religion.

Dhalang

Traditional presentations are given by seven artists – three puppeteers and four musicians. The most important is the dhalang, the principal puppeteer. He not only animates all the puppets, but also lends each its voice. He also fulfills the role of narrator. Two assistants sit to his right and his left. They hand the puppets to him, and provide him with any technical assistance necessary. They also make sure that the flame in the oil lamp (damar) does not go out. These are usually the disciples of the dhalang. A traditional education as a puppeteer consists of many years of apprenticeship and service with a chosen master. Until recently, pupils mainly came from the members of puppeteer families (Sedana and Foley 1993: 82). Still today on Bali, traditional teaching is conducted in villages like Mas, Sukawati, Buduk, Tunjuk, and Pacung. In the 1970s, however, in Denpasar, the capital of Bali, institutions were set up to train artists along lines resembling those as European theater schools. At that time, more attention began to paid to theory. On Java, in the cities of Surakarta and Yogyakarta, schools of puppetry had existed as early as the 1920s (van Groenendael 1985: 30).

Performance arts on Bali have for a long time been seen as a kind of deep and extensive knowledge (pendhalangan), recorded in many manuscripts on palm leaves (lontar). The puppeteer is obliged to have a thorough knowledge of the Dharma pawayangan (Principles of Puppetry). In 1973, the Dutch scholar Chris-tiaan Hooykaas published in his Kāma and Kāla reconstructions of the main variants of the treatise Dharma pewayangan (along with English translations). These reconstructions are based on ten manuscripts, which differ from each other often in fundamental ways. The treatise contains scrupulous instructions concerning appropriate conduct, including recommendations relating to diet, and, further, incantations and formulaic prayers that protect the dhalang and his puppets against evil forces. It also contains remedies for poisons, details of many ceremonies celebrated by the puppeteer in his function as priest (mangku). The dhalang should also study treatises on good behavior, such as the Niti sas-tra (Obedience to Literature), the Sarasamuscaya (Divine Wisdom), and also the Kakawin, a Hindu epic in Old Javanese.

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0.2: Dhalang Cenk Blonk.

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The dhalang must be a fluent polyglot. All the songs presented during the show come from Old Javanese epics. The main characters of the play also use the Kawi language. Very few people actually understand this language on Bali today. Thus, a key role in the play is played by the secondary figures, usually comic ones, who translate the ancient lines into contemporary Balinese and pass lively comments on current events.

The aim of the puppeteer’s long education is not to train a perfect reproducer of prepared scripts, like a European trainee in a theater school. The dhalang, like the aoidos in ancient Greece, should be able to improvise the highest poetry live, interweaving old myths with local contexts and events. He is, above all, a poet, and on Bali every poet has a right to add his own versions to classic works. The concept of authorship or author’s rights simply does not apply here. In the case of many long poems, it is, in fact, impossible nowadays to establish who is its au-thor. The most competent dhalangs are able to improvise poetry and songs in Old Javanese in accordance with the principles of a complicated and ancient metrical system. Every presentation of wayang kulit is, thus, unique and unrepeatable.

Exorcisms make particularly high ethical demands on the dhalang. Villages request this kind of presentation usually when they want to reveal among the villagers themselves an unrecognized lejak, a practitioner of black magic, who is working in secret to harm the community and hiring out his/her skills to people for money. The puppet and shadow theatrical production becomes an arena of confrontation between the dhalang and the lejak. The dhalang may pay for such a duel with his life, if his conscience is unclean. For the lejak is a master of trans-formation, and does people harm by turning into any object you please. During exorcisms, a play is presented about the half-legendary witch Calon Arang. (The oldest known version of this legend along with a Dutch translation is in Poebat-jaraka 1926.)

During the play, the dhalang challenges all the lejaks in the vicinity to a trial of strength. The shadows on the screen become vehicles of their transformation (Hobart 2003: 112–120). The puppeteer, invisible to the audience, is condemned to remain on the other side of the screen, in the invisible world (niskala), the one that is dominated by spirits. It sometimes happens that on the morning follow-ing the play someone in the village dies. But it also sometimes happens that the puppeteer dies. Among the three hundred dhalangs who practice wayang kulit on Bali today, only a very few dare to conduct exorcisms (Brandon 1993: 140).

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Musicians

Instrumentalists who take part in the presentation also have to be carefully trained. They are always outstanding virtuosos. Their music is considered as ex-tremely complicated and technically very difficult, and on Bali they are treated with exceptional respect. They honor the most important ceremonies and events with their presence, such as those involving the filing of teeth during initiation ceremonies, weddings, and spectacular cremations. Traditionally four musicians take part in wayang kulit. They sit behind the dhalang, invisible to the public, and play on four metal instruments of the gendér type, grouped in pairs. Each of the metal percussion instruments has ten horizontal bronze keys, hung freely above vertical resonators made from hollow bamboos. The two larger instru-ments, called pemade (large), are tuned to a middle register; the two small ones (kantilan) are an octave higher. Each of them is played on with two wooden mallets held in both hands, which is technically extremely complicated, because it is necessary to suppress each hit with two fingers of the hand in which the hammer is held. Extended shows – usually based on a section of the Ramayana or the legend of the witch Calon Arang – also include larger groups of musicians with kendang drums, little gongs called kajar, kempur, klenang, and kemong, and cengceng cymbals (Tenzer 1998: 84–86).

The music during wayang kulit is unusually rich rhythmically and melodi-cally. The virtuosos, facing each other, make a kotekan web of sound. These are “interlocking” melodic lines in which the sounds are played alternately by one or the other musician. This kind of playing demands a great sense of rhythm, re-markable concentration, and superb team playing. While the artists’ right hands weave a kotekan in a sort of dialog, their left hands enrich the melodies with ornamental phrases. Several compositions require playing two separate kotekan lines simultaneously!

The coordination of music and image during the presentation is also usu-ally perfect (Seebass 1993). The sphere of sounds, just like the whole show, is of course controlled by the dhalang. He signals changes to the music with special mantras and a banging noise. In his right foot, between the first and second toes, and sometimes also in his left hand, the puppeteer holds a little wooden knocker in the shape of a chess pawn (cepala). With it he hits the chest for the puppets (keropak), thus emphasizing turns in the action of the play, especially during the battle scenes. With a fixed code of blows he also informs the musicians of a change in tempo, or he gives them the sign to play a specific composition. Usually the musicians do not fail to interpret all the dhalang’s signs, and they embellish his suggestions with their own improvisations.

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Puppets

In his chest every dhalang usually has more than 100 different puppets, often as many as 150. These are most often made of cow hide; buffalo skin is no use be-cause it is too brittle. The puppets are usually distinguished works of art. Delicate and rich perforations, letting through the light of a flickering flame, create on the screen captivating patterns and shapes. Because of this technique, the shad-ows of the figures acquire many details, and seem to pulsate with their own life. Each puppet is fixed to a long piece of horn or a wooden rod. The majority has movable hands, with two joints, at the shoulder and at the elbow. The puppeteer moves them with two sticks attached to their hands. The puppets that represent comic figures are provided with a link that makes it possible to move the lower jaw on a spring. Several of the demons and the clowns also have movable legs. The main rod to which the puppet is attached is inserted during a show into the soft bamboo beam (gedebong) that forms the base of the screen. In this way, the dhalang can work with several puppets at once.

The puppets are sacred. Every 210 days – so every Balinese year – the puppets’ holy day (tumpek wayang) is celebrated. Special offerings are made then to the patron of puppeteers, the god Ishvara. On that day, puppets are ceremoniously taken from their chest and set up as for a presentation. The dhalang intones ap-propriate prayers and places offerings around all the objects that are involved in the presentation. The puppets also have holy water scattered on them during a purification ceremony (sudamala). The day for honoring the puppets is always observed on a Saturday. In 2009 it was on July 11; in 2010 it was on February 6.

The most important puppet is kayonan, “the tree of life” (Rubin and Sedana 2007: 30; Hobart 1983). It is in the shape of a leaf. This is a cosmic symbol, rep-resenting the five elements (panca maha bhuta): fire, earth, air, water, and ether. This puppet’s dance begins each presentation. Glimmering in the light like a great moth, the kayonan dances out to ecstatic gamelan music a brief parable of birth and death. It appears later, in the play proper, as a tree, fire, the sea, a cloud, and even the wind. It also signals an act change. The dance of the tree of life crowns the entire show. The kayonan helps the dhalang concentrate his mind. Before the event starts, the puppeteer lays the kayonan to his forehead. The Balinese derive the name of the puppet from the word kayun (“thought”), which itself comes from the Old Javanese word hyun meaning “feeling” or “intention” (Kam 1993: 168).

The main figures in the show are the heroes of Hindu epics or Balinese legends. The audience recognizes them usually by their profile and their head-decoration. Characters are divided into positive and negative. Heroes are accompanied by

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four comic figures, who not only translate the ancient language into a contempo-rary one, but, above all, entertain the public by mocking one another. Fools and clowns are easily recognized. In Bali they are distinctive and widely used cultural images.

Tualen and his son Merdah are positive figures, but the brother Delem and Sangut are negative. The two former figures descend from the gods. According to popular legend, Tualen was formed of dirt on the body of the greatest of the gods (Sanghyang Tunggal); he is the fount of wisdom and possesses a third eye. On the other hand, the shrewd Merdah, with his onion nose, is continually staring upward, which is supposed to indicate intelligence.

0.3: Dhalang Cenk Blonk with Tualen and Merdah as seen from behind the screen.

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0.4: Merdah and Tualen as seen from the shadow side of the screen.

Delem, however, is a demoralized, arrogant, and bombastic coward. He looks like a dunderhead. He has big eyes and a goiter, a sign of impurity. But Sangut, Delem’s younger brother, is a prevaricator and manipulator. He has a big belly and an equally big Adam’s apple, and sometimes a squint too. On the heads of both puppets bunches of cow’s hair stick out. The function of the fools in the presentations is often key, and they are often called “basic” figures (panasar). They continually accompany the heroes, and their comic skits and passages of dialog, often on contemporary themes, take up more than half the entire show (DeBoer 1987).

All the puppets are painted, though the audience only sees their shadows. The colors are not matters of chance. The color white is associated with the god Ish-vara and is a sign of ritual purity and control. Yellow, the color of the god Ma-hadeva, supplements white through sympathy. Light blue or black are the colors of the god Vishnu. Black, which is linked to water, symbolizes fertility, and also courage and intelligence; it is also connected with night and magic, and thus with deceit. Blue strengthens all the positive aspects of black. Red, the color of the god of creation, Brahma, introduces conflict, and symbolizes courage and lack of control, but also supernatural powers.

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The artists’ performances

The dhalang owns all the puppets. Often he makes them himself, although on Bali there are also specialist craftsmen who make them. The instruments, how-ever – if they do not belong to the dhalang – are the property of the musicians. The instruments used in wayang kulit are relatively simple and inexpensive in comparison to the elaborate instruments of most of the forty types of Balinese gamelan. The dhalang and the musicians begin the day of the presentation with special prayers in their own homes. The secret of a successful performance is the presence of the taksu. Originally this term meant the spirit of an ancestor. In his prayers, the artist connects with his dead forebears, especially if they too prac-ticed the art that he follows, and asks them for support. If the prayers are success-ful, the taksu enters into the person making the prayer, lending him energy and inspiration during the show. The word is also used to describe the entry into a trance. Taksu is the equivalent of our concept of charisma, inspiration, or artistic efficacy. A Balinese, looking at the screen with its shadows or listening to the music of the gamelan, is always able to recognize whether the artist “has” taksu. If he does not, the show is a sorry and worthless one.

Before leaving his house, the dhalang stands before the threshold, brings his open hand to his nostrils, and blows. If the air current is stronger in the left nos-tril, he crosses the threshold with his left leg. If it is stronger in the right nostril, then he does the same with his right leg. And if it is the same in both nostrils, he jumps over the threshold. It is said that this procedure was begun by soldiers going off to war (DeBoer and Rajeg 1987: 80). The dhalang makes the breathing test once more, before he enters the place where the presentation is to take place. This test has an important divinatory function. A stronger current of air from the left nostril means that the presentation will be a success only if it is lively and dynamic, with extensive battle scenes. A stronger current from the right nostril suggests, however, a more philosophical show and one full of intrigue. If both currents are in balance, then the show has to be balanced. If the results of the two tests are contradictory, the dhalang should turn his attention to the sponsor of the presentation to discover his expectations. He has an excellent opportunity to do so during the traditional meal that the sponsor offers him before the show. In August 2013, for example, the famous dhalang Cenk Blonk was asked by the inhabitants of the village of Tegallalang to intervene in the matter of drug abuse on the part of young people.

After the banquet, the dhalang takes a solitary siesta, meditating on the most appropriate structure for the show, while his assistants set up the bamboo frames and stretch out the screen. When everything is ready, the musicians invite the

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audience into the auditorium by playing the “sitting down piece” (potegak). The show usually begins at nine in the evening. The audience usually takes a long time to gather. The atmosphere is relaxed. People talk and eat snacks. The musi-cians decide when the show starts. If they think that an appropriate number of spectators has gathered, they inform the dhalang of this by playing an agreed-upon piece of music. The dhalang interrupts his meditations and goes behind the screen. He begins by making offerings prepared by the sponsor. He burns incense. He chews ritual betel. His assistants make offerings before every instru-ment. After prayers and invocations to the gods, the dhalang strikes three times with his open hand the lid of the chest, delicately waking the puppets. Only then may the chest be opened, and the holy puppets safely removed. This is a sign to the musicians to begin the overture (gending pemungkah) – which is usually the most extended piece of music in the whole evening. Every region of Bali has de-veloped its own variants of this overture (McPheee 1966: 204–225).

First, the dhalang takes the giant puppets of the Guardians, Pamurtian, out of the chest. They represent enraged and wild manifestations of the gods (Hooykaas 1971). The puppeteer places them at the outside edges of the screen. The Guard-ians will remain there to the end of the show, invisible to the audience. They will protect the performance space from harmful interference and disruption. All these initial performances, which are key for the correct preparation of the show, are not seen by the audience. They take place behind the screen, in a color-ful world of gods, spirits, and artists.

At last the dhalang takes the kayonan, the tree of life, out of the chest. This is the first puppet whose shadow is seen by the spectators. First, however, the dhalang lays the kayonan to his forehead, and inclines toward the lit lamp until the pup-pet touches the lamp’s decorated casing. After a moment of meditation, the dance begins. The musicians pass on to the next part of the overture, and the dhalang marks the choreography with irregular blows of the cepala knocker on the chest. The tree of life glimmers and flutters over the whole screen. The dance represents the creation of the world out of nothing. After two minutes, the dhalang places the kayonan in the middle of the screen, inserting the puppet’s rod in the bamboo at the base of the screen. Next there is an ordering of the figures that appear in the play. With the help of his assistants, the dhalang takes a series of puppets out of the chest and places them in the bamboo holder on both sides of the tree of life in the order in which they will appear in the play. Good figures are on the right-hand side, the bad on the left. The puppets are, however, not usually visible to the audi-ence, for the dhalang fixes them at right angles to the screen. At most they cast a delicate shadow. The first act of the creation of the world, deeply mysterious as it

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is, should not be visible to uninitiated persons. Puppets not used in the presenta-tion are placed to the side of the screen. After emptying the chest, all the puppets that will appear in the play are handed to the assistants. All this part of the show usually lasts a quarter of an hour. This is crowned by a second dance by the tree of life. The kayonan is now more mobile and more frequently spins than the first time it danced. To strengthen the effect, the dhalang rocks the lamp. The dance of the tree of life is supposed to show humanity’s struggle in the material world (sekala).

The music speeds up. The dhalang strikes the chest with the knockers in his foot and in his hand, and he even strikes it with his heel. One of the most rhythmically complex pieces, Alas harum (The Scented Forest), begins. On the screen, the first shadows appear of the noble persons of the drama. Meanwhile, the dhalang intones a poetic prolog. The words are only loosely connected with the story material. The dhalang’s song sometimes expands into extensive invo-cations. The action proper of the play begins along with the entry of the first comic characters, the sluggish Tualen and his cunning son Merdah. The clowns translate into Balinese all the utterances that are in Old Javanese, and they also add extensive commentaries. Then the dhalang enriches their passages of dialog with brief interpolations on the part of the narrator. Like the chorus in ancient Greek theater, he helps the spectators to place the characters in a concrete time and place, replacing the non-existent stage design with poetic couplets. He also introduces the contexts of events, and explains the inner motives and hidden in-tentions underlying the protagonists’ actions. His words help to create an intrigu-ing dialectic of the visible and the invisible. The dhalang instructs the spectators in what they should know when they look at the shadows.

Presentations usually last several hours without a break. The whole time, the dhalang sits with crossed legs and brings alive the succession of figures in the play. The assistants have no right either to bring the puppets to life nor to give them voices. Passages of rapid dialog demand of the dhalang an extraordinary manual dexterity and vocal acrobatics. In the finale the kayonan returns. The musicians play the “closing number” (tabuh gari). The auditorium empties rap-idly. The dhalang, with his assistants’ help, puts the puppets back in the chest. One of the assistants gives him the offerings that are necessary to produce holy water. The dhalang takes a sip, chews betel, and makes a prayer. The main prob-lem now are the puppets representing the figures who have died during the presentation. Before they can be put back in the chest, they have to be brought back to life by a special ritual. With the help of the Tualen puppet, the dhalang blesses some water. With the shaft of the puppet he writes a holy syllable on the

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water. Then he mixes the water with the shafts of the puppets that are the god Shiva and the tree of life. With the consecrated water he sprinkles the puppets that require “bringing back to life.” He gives the rest of the water to his host. As a priest, the dhalang should not be paid for his performances; but he is permitted to accept “gifts” in the shape of money. This is his principal source of income. After the “gift” has been accepted, the music falls silent. The artists pack up their things into a small truck.

Sekala and niskala

In Indonesia, a shadow is seen as a mediator between the visible world (sekala), the realm of matter, and the invisible world (niskala), the domain of spirits. Step-ping on someone’s shadow is seen as an act of impoliteness. Going out into the sun at midday, when one’s shadow is directly under one’s feet, may bring bad luck. The puppets, since they appear in religious presentations or in exorcisms, have the status of sacred objects. On an everyday basis they are kept in a special chest. As holy objects, filled with divine energies, they can be dangerous. The dhalang takes the puppets out of the chest exclusively during presentations, after accom-plishing a series of ritual purifications and after uttering protective prayers. Nor-mal persons may not be able to bear the sight of a holy puppet; thus they are only shown shadows. This is as in the Platonic cave.

According to legend, the gods invented wayang kulit, and the gods are the most important spectators to any presentation. It is for them that the puppets are painted, because the gods can look directly at reality, without the mediation of illusion. For the gods alone special performances are enacted in sacred spaces, in the inner courtyards of temples. These presentations are called wayang lemah, “the theater of shadow during the day,” because it is acted out in daylight, without using screen or lamp, before an invisible audience. Most frequently, the piece per-formed then is one about the divine origin of the theater of puppet and shadow. Three gods – Brahma, Vishnu, and Ishvara – invent the theater when they try to slay an irate Shiva and to save the world from annihilation. Ishvara takes the role of the puppeteer. Today, the dhalang is usually identified with Ishvara, and the dhalang’s two assistants are called Brahma and Vishnu.

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0.5: Dhalang Ketut Pasek performs Wayang Lemah at Bug Bug in 2013.

The production addressed to people, which always takes place after dusk, is called wayang peteng, “the night shadow theater.” The gods may watch these shows too, especially if they are performed in the inner courtyard of a temple. Often, how-ever, the dhalang is asked to intervene outside a sacred space. Then the main spectators are people, but also lejaks and demons during exorcisms. This kind of audience should only see shadows. So in a square or a street, the dhalang erects a temporary hut with a screen; the hut is covered with canvas at the sides and in the back. These rules are observed especially when it is a matter of a religious intervention. The dhalang may be asked to perform a play during the ceremonies surrounding the celebration of a birthday or a wedding, and then someone’s fu-ture may depend on the quality of the presentation.

It is only once darkness falls that the rich symbolism of wayang kulit fully appears. The screen of white cotton, stretched out between bamboo poles, is a model of the universe. The base of the screen – that is, the bamboo beam into which the dhalang sticks the puppets – represents Mother Earth, Prithvi. The rope stretching the screen to the lower beam symbolizes human muscles and nerves. The oil lamp is, of course, the sun, the source of light and life. The wick consists of three filaments, representing the three principal gods: Brahma, Vish-nu, and Shiva. Symbolism increases the powers of the dhalang. During the show,

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the puppeteer remains on the side of the screen that is the presented world, to-gether with the gods, demons, and spirits of the ancestors. He has to tame this colorful demonic reality, which is invisible to ordinary folk, if he wishes to give it the form of visible shadows. The presentation is always a great improvisation; anything can happen. The dhalang, identifying himself in his mind with a demon or divinity, may be dominated by energies that are greater than he, if he does not maintain vigilance and inner concentration.

On Bali the invisible world and the visible world – sekala and niskala – are inseparably linked. One makes the other possible and legitimatizes it. The Ba-linese cosmos endures thanks to an equilibrium of contrary forces. According to the Balinese, evil is essential for the existence of good and manifests itself in the world as “spiritual chaos” (bhuta kala). The lejak, the practitioner of black magic, gives meaning to the dhalang, the priest of a white magic.

Wayang kulit reveals the surprising paradox of the Balinese understanding of visuality: in what is visible, what is seen is not present. The objects of the secu-lar world, however, are not seen as feeble copies of an ideal world. The shadow does not only mediate between the two worlds, sekala and niskala, but, above all, stimulates the imagination. It awakens a free and creative game. A capable dhalang easily transforms a flickering, black and white silhouette into a lively and colorful figure. Indeed, a presentation of the shadow theater plays out in that liminal sphere, defined by Friedrich Schiller in the thirteenth letter on the aes-thetic education of man as the sphere of being “a non-entity” (Null sein) (Schil-ler 1967: 88–89). It is there, between visible and invisible worlds, that a free and uninhibited play of imagination is possible. The spectator does not have to be responsible either for his own life, or for the actions of the puppets producing the shadows. The spectator is free. He/she can enjoy him/herself.

But wayang kulit is at the same time a rite. The shadows are real. They can serve as vehicles for performances of transformation. The dhalang makes it pos-sible for an evil deity to embody itself in a puppet, and then he attempts to tame the demon by playing out a holy tale. A lejak may also transform itself into a shadow. Then the threat to the dhalang grows. Even a tourist has access to the arena in which white and black magic fight it out with each other. It happens sometimes that people in the audience fall into a trance. The spectacle ceases to be a game.

Visuality in wayang kulit is a composite of many performances, visible and invisible. The spectators do not see the puppeteer or the musicians, but only black and white shadows. In turn, the artists do not see the audience, but are placed in the world of colored puppets and of spirits. From the perspective of the

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spectators, visuality is a composite of quite different performances from those involved in visuality from the artists’ perspective. Each group sees an utterly dif-ferent world and exists in a separate reality. However, neither of those worlds can exist independently, without the other. It is in this context, in my opinion, that we have to interpret the link between the visible and the invisible, sekala and niskala. Wayang kulit, thus, suggests the possibility of another understanding of visuality, one not reduced only to what is actually visible.

The emergence of visuality

The theory of performance allows one to grasp visuality in terms of an event, one that is unique and not reduced to a simple script. Despite the existence of treatises and scripts, wayang kulit theater functions still today as part of an oral culture. The dhalang does not use a script during a presentation; he knows all necessary texts by heart, and the remainder he can improvise live. The presenta-tion is, thus, on each occasion an exceptional and unique encounter of artists and spectators, whether supernatural or human. The visuality produced during the show also is a unique event. The dhalang transforms the colored puppets into black and white shadows, but he so effectively animates them that the spectators see them as living beings.

In wayang kulit the relationship of the visible and the invisible is particularly intriguing. Theater with actors has a bodily dimension. But the spectacle of shad-ows plays itself out in a liminal sphere, on a screen. The dhalang deprives the colored puppets of materiality, transforming them into effects of light, glimmer-ing and not always clearly visible. The audience, stimulated by the art of anima-tion and by the dhalang’s vocal effects, imagines that living beings inhabit these shadows, and they lend them corporeality, but this is not the corporeality of the puppet. The lejak pursues yet another strategy; he/she wishes to break into the shadow world, there to defeat the dhalang’s white magic with his/her (the lejak’s) dark powers. In wayang kulit, visuality has none of the corporeality that is part of a theater of living actors. The wayang kulit performance does not give material existence to the characters of the play to the degree that an actor’s appearance on stage does. The shadow on the screen has no body, and each figure’s voice comes from one person, the dhalang.

Tualen, the clown, though he is a real and colorful puppet, is visible only as a shadow, the trace of a puppet, as real as it is intangible. The shadow exists while the presentation does, and then it disappears. But if the shadow moves and speaks convincingly, the audience splits its sides laughing, because instead of a shadow, people see the comic Tualen. Every time visuality appears as a new,

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exceptional occurrence, which cannot be held or repeated. Visuality does not ex-ist, but it emerges, happens.

Summary

1. Performance studies reveals exorcism as the emergence of visuality.2. Visuality is produced by different, often simultaneous, performances.3. Each participant in a visual event helps to create it as a performer.4. Visuality is an event that is exceptional and unique.5. Visuality does not exist outside the event: it emerges in the course of the event

and only for the time of that event.6. The emergence of visuality takes place in a liminal sphere.7. Visuality emerges as a mediator between the material and the spiritual world.8. The emergence of visuality makes it possible to cross in both directions the

borders between the material and the spiritual world.9. Visuality cannot be reduced to the visible.

The Emergence of the OtherFor several years, a group of researchers at the Faculty of Neurobiology of the Weizmann Institute in Israel, led by Rafael Malach, has been conducting in-triguing studies into the functioning of the brain. Their first publications with attempts to interpret their results caused a sensation. It appears that processes connected with self-consciousness do not have to be involved in sensory percep-tion, and, indeed, during difficult perceptual tasks they are even blocked – for example, while watching an absorbing film, we are not conscious of ourselves. Perception takes place without the perceiver. Therefore, we fall into a kind of trance (Hasson et al. 2004; Mukamel et al. 2005; Goldberg et al. 2006).

“Pure perception” experienced during zen meditation also leads to a silenc-ing of the emotions and processes connected with a consciousness of one’s own self. The aim of zen practice is to experience full presence in “seeing itself ” and “listening itself,” without reflection or conceptualization connected with passing judgment (Izutsu 1982). In a conversation with Zoran Josipovich (Malach 2006), Malach proposes that we accept the hypothesis that in the brain there exist two separate networks of neurons – an internal system that is introspective, and an external one that has to do with perception. According to Malach, the brain is not one global network, but a dual-network system, with one network dealing with the external world, and the second oriented toward internal processes. Both

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systems participate to different degrees in our daily life, sometimes mutually blocking each other.

In Balinese, the term engsap means equally “to be unconscious” and “to forget.” The return to consciousness, in turn, is expressed by the term inget, “to remem-ber” (Eiseman 1997: F-17; Coldiron 2004: 236). The identity of a person in a trance is, thus, neither displaced or replaced, but is simply blocked, not paid at-tention to. In an intriguing fashion, Balinese seems to confirm the discoveries of the Israeli neurobiologists.

Trance as a meeting with the Other – concentration on vision

The research done by Malach’s research team allows us better to understand the altered states of consciousness practiced on Bali. On the island, trance is a tra-ditional way of contacting the gods. The Balinese have developed various tech-niques for very rapidly blocking the perceptional or introspective neuron system, which can lead to experiencing “possession.”

Traditional technique for contacting the divine or higher energies leads to a blocking of external perception through concentrating on one’s own interior by using magic formulas, loud gamelan music, smoke, or dance. The brain of a medium, deprived of external stimuli, produces visual and auditory visions. This leads to an encounter with the Other, who – if he/she has enough power – can block the medium’s awareness of self, taking complete control over the medium’s body and voice.

In Balinese, a spiritual medium is usually called a balian tetakson, an “inspired healer.” Among many other meanings, taksu defines the powers essential for con-tacting another reality. Both men and women can be mediums, although in the case of the latter they are usually unmarried, without children, or elderly widows. Almost no one decides to become a medium of his/her own will. To be so may bring some local prestige, but rarely brings in much money. Mediums generally live on charity. The initiatory summons (vocation) is usually the result of divine intervention, and is connected with a series of most unfortunate experiences, of-ten involving brushes with death. Only after such an initiation may the medium serve the community. In Balinese, a trance is designated by the term nadi, which comes from the verb dadi meaning “become” or “exist” (Hobart 2003: 88–89). It suggests a higher degree of consciousness and perfectly gives a sense of the intensity with which visions are experienced.

A trance lasts from fifteen seconds to twenty minutes. According to Hobart, the main reason for asking the gods to speak (in Balinese nunas baos batara) are psychological and physical complaints. Many people, however, also seek

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explanations for theft, conflicts, the death of livestock, accidents, suicides, bad dreams, fires, and scarcity, etc. Several mediums specialize in selected problems; but clients mostly turn to persons with the best reputations and those who are most effective. Balinese will walk many kilometers for a consultation. They rarely know the medium personally.

Healers employ very varied trance techniques. For example, Jero Mangku Sri-kandi dances. She became a healer when she was seven. God told her to die three times. She experienced “what felt like death” and she ascended to heaven to meet God. When they learned of this occurrence, the people of her village organized a solemn cremation for her. They laid her out, wrapped in a shroud, in a special temple, just as if she were dead. Shortly afterward, the gods began to visit her in order to dance through her body and sing with her voice. A Chinese goddess called Dewikwanin taught her to dance and move her hands in a magic fashion. During a trance Srikandi usually dances; her body reacts to every impulse from the gods. She feels herself connected with all the religions of the world, from Islam through Christianity (Keeney and Nickerson 2004: 74–77).

Not only healers dance on Bali. In temple courtyards people still practice the “spirit dance,” tari sanghyang (from hyang, the spirit of an ancestor or a god). Various spirits can animate the performer’s body, giving the performance of san-ghyang a variety of names (Belo 1960: 202): lelipi (the snake), celeng (the pig), ku-luk (the puppy), bojog (the monkey), sampat (the hammer), jaran gading (golden horse), jaran putih (white horse), dongkang (the toad), penyu (the turtle), sembe (the lamp), etc. Many of these dances are slowly dying out. The most famous and still widely practiced trance is the dance of “the spirit of the heavenly virgins,” sanghyang dedari (Rubin and Sedana 2007: 65–72). Two young girls in a full trance, with closed eyes, stand on the shoulders of tall men and dance, perform-ing identical gestures. In the 1970s, the disappearing Balinese tradition of sang-hyang jaran was revived, the dance of the “horse spirit,” which uses lajkonik-like figures (traditional Polish hobby-horse figures commemorating the Mongol/Ta-tar invasions of southern Poland in the Middle Ages).

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0.6: Sanghyang Jaran at Pura Taman Kaja in Ubud.

During a dance in a trance, Balinese performers have a blocked consciousness of self. Afterwards they remember nothing. It is not so much that they dance, but rather they are danced. A thick smoke isolates them from the external world. This isolation is enhanced by closed eyes, loud gamelan music, and a rhythmi-cally enunciated syllable. The performers can concentrate completely on their inner visions. Sacred performances, always played out in the presence of the en-tire community, confirm the connection between the local community and the spirits. Financial problems compel some communities to show the trances to tourists. Commercial shows, however, can easily transform themselves into an authentic ritual. I was witness to such an occurrence at the end of July 2009 in Ubud, during a ticketed performance of sanghyang jaran. The hobby-horse figure did not just joyously leap on the burning coals, but also picked them up with bare hands and put them in its mouth. When it began to kick burning embers in the direction of the audience, it became really dangerous. A Japanese tourist’s dress caught fire and burned like a torch. It was only with some difficulty that the as-sistants were able to get hold of the crazed dancer. He only became calm when the priest sprinkled him with holy water. He appeared shocked. He stared around with wild eyes, and could not understand why two sturdy men were holding him so firmly by the arms.

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The experience of altered states of consciousness are attested to in all cultures. Erika Bourguignon (1973) studied 488 aboriginal cultures over the whole world, and in as many as 437 of them (that is, 90%), more or less institutionalized trance practices were identified. In the case of the remaining ten percent, accounts were either inadequate or unavailable. Cults of possession are equally widespread, and practiced by 74% of the societies examined (Bourguignon 1976).

The mask as a tool of possession – concentration on the external world

The most effective technique for falling into a trance, and at the same time an elementary technique in the actor’s art of transformation, is the placing of a mask over the face. A mask– with small eye holes – radically limits the perception of the external world, compelling the perceptual system to work strenuously. Inat-tention during dynamic acrobatics with a prop might lead to a nasty accident. The introspective system, which is of little use in such situations, should indeed be blocked. In a mask the dancer’s perception and actions are done as if the danc-er him/herself were not there; the consciousness of the dancer’s own body is also blocked. If the mask has enough magical power, it can possess the artist and take full control over him/her, replacing the artist’s own identity with the identity of the mask.

Balinese masks are tools with an exceptional transformative power. They are made from a special species of wood. The local community is involved; rituals must be strictly followed. Masks of the greatest power are carved from trees that grow in places that are imbued with great power, such as cemeteries, crossroads, or the inner courtyards of temples. The most highly valued wood comes from the tree known on Bali as kaya pulé (Alstonia scholaris). It does not grow in Europe. Its proverbially bitter bark is used in medicine (Eiseman 1997: P-27). This tree that comes from the seed of Shiva, emits a milky juice that is called in Sanskrit rasa. In ancient India the word rasa captured the essence of all nourishment. Ac-cording to ayurvedic medicine, it was one of the seven elements that maintain the integrity of the organism (Khare 1992: 180). In the Nāṭyaśāstra treatise, the term rasa is seen as the quintessence of the reception of a piece of theater, com-parable to the “tasting” of a well-prepared dish (Schwartz 2004).

The trunk of the tree, from which a mask can be made, must be “pregnant” (in Balinese, beling), that is ready to give birth. This is, of course, recognized from the swelling of the bark. The Balinese believe that in this way the tree agrees to the figure for whom the mask is intended. Sacred masks are produced exclusively as a result of an explicit commission from the members of a local community

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(krama desa). The decision making process is usually complex. For if the com-munity decides to create a mask for a new figure, the local priest has to have a vision (in Balinese, pawasik) to confirm the appropriateness of the decision (Hobart 2003: 132). All the families are involved in the production of the mask. Besides the necessary financial contribution – sacred masks demand outstand-ing carvers and very high quality products – each individual is involved accord-ing to his/her means. The whole process is overseen by a representative of the highest caste. Priests conduct rituals, men clean and produce colors, and women decorate the temple and prepare meals and offerings.

After choosing the tree, it is necessary to fix a day that is propitious for cut-ting. Then the priest makes special offerings to the god of the place where the tree grows and to the spirit of the tree. This may be somewhat dangerous in the case of a tree filled with a considerable portion of “divine energy,” called on Bali tenget. Because of its tenget, people do not, for example, use a particular tree growing on the edge of the village of Singapad for making masks. Two priests who performed the initial rituals before the cutting of a section of this tree died in mysterious circumstances (Slattum and Schraub 2003: 14, 24).

On a propitious day, a woodcutter delicately cuts the swollen part of the trunk from the living tree, and a priest solemnly bears the wood to the local temple. There the cut section is soaked in water, so that any insects present in it die, and then it is dried, often over a period of several months. Many Balinese believe that fresh wood could pose a threat to the health of the person making the sacred mask. In the case of ordinary masks, such demands do not apply. Wood for secu-lar objects is often purchased from Balinese mountain folk.

The mask maker, called in Balinese undagi tapel, usually inherits his calling from his father and lives in one of two villages, Mas or Singapad. He has to go through special purification ceremonies, which means that today on Bali not many craftsmen have the right to make the sacred masks designated for sacred performances. The creators of such masks have to fast, bathe, and meditate. Be-fore starting work, of course only on a propitious day, the carver, dressed in a clean robe, prays and makes offerings to the sun god Surya, the witness to his creation, and to an ancestor whom he asks for inspiration (taksu). Next he sprin-kles the wood and his tools with holy water, and he begins actually carving the mask (Coldiron 2004: 82; Slattum and Schraub 2003: 24).

Work on the sacred mask must be carried out within a temple complex, in an open pavilion with a raised floor – because the status of the mask is high. The carver sits cross-legged on a mat of palm leaves, which is laid directly on the floor. His legs support the mask.

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To carve a Barong mask he needs at least a month. The undagi topel works the wood with a chisel, and when the mask is ready, he presents it to the villagers to polish it with sandpaper. The painting of the mask requires a top-class spe-cialist. The traditional paints are produced from natural materials: white from a calcified pig skull, black from soot, and yellow from special stones that occur in the south of the island. Red coloring and gold leaf are imported from Singapore or Hong Kong. The pigments are mixed with Chinese fish glue. To increase the shine, calcium or powdered betel leaves are often added. Depth of color is ob-tained by covering the main parts of the mask with more than a hundred layers of the same color.

0.7: Barong.

The moving and expressive mask of Barong, the most difficult to make, needs many additional elements. The bushy eyebrows are made from civet hair. The beard, full of mighty power, is made exclusively of black hair that is freely given by virgins. The teeth, and especially the great tusks, most frequently come from wild animals. On the inside of the mask are written protective spells. Finally, the mask must be purified, for the carver has touched it with his feet, which are seen as unclean.

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0.8: The Mask of Rangda.

A completed mask has to be ritually brought to life, so that divine energies can fill it. In the case of masks of Barong and Rangda, this animation must be conducted

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on a moonless night in a cemetery during a ceremony called pasupati. This is a dangerous ritual. Only a small group of the most important people in the village take part in it: the brahmin, priests, and also local practitioners of black and white magic. The villagers watch the ritual in silence and at a safe distance. The brahmin invites the spirit to visit the mask, chanting the appropriate mantras in Sanskrit. This may last several hours. The Balinese believe that the mask’s gaining power is an event of cosmic proportions, because the sky lights up in a purple glow (Hobart 2003: 143–149).

The spirit visits the mask suddenly, like a ball of fire that casts neither light nor shadow (Slattum and Schraub 2004: 27). The priest quickly puts on the mask and falls into a deep trance. He dances like a crazy person and runs about the cemetery. Magical protection means that nothing bad can happen to him. After the dancing priest has been caught and sobered up with holy water, the mask, wrapped in white canvas, is solemnly hidden within the temple. As a vessel filled with the spirit, it will from now on be seen as an impure and dangerous object. No incidental person should look at it or touch it for the sake of his/her own safety. The mask’s power, renewed during sacred performances, will protect the entire community.

The masks of Barong and Rangda have the greatest power. These figures are seen as gods on Bali. Their masks must never touch the ground. After presenta-tions, they must be taken away in baskets carried on the head, and when they are not in use they should be wrapped in a piece of white canvas on which sacred symbols are drawn, a drawing called rarajahan. Every village has at least one such mask with a full costume. Barong is identified with the placenta of every villager, and thus is linked to the four spiritual siblings (kanda empat) that accompany Balinese from their birth. These are: anggapati, (“waters”), prajapati (“blood”), banaspati (“umbilical cord”), and banaspati raja (“placenta”). The spirit of the placenta manifests itself most strongly in Barong Ket, which is also the most widespread type of Barong on Bali. As the king of the forest, he represents an aspect of the god Shiva, and he has exceptional powers (Dibia and Ballinger 2004: 72; Coldiron 2004: 204–205; Slattum and Schraub 2003: 103; Lansing 1995: 46; Eiseman 1990, vol. 1: 100–107,1997: K-6). The performances of Barong and Rangda express the deepest essence of the Balinese vision of the cosmos: the equilibrium of opposing forces. Barong represents white magic and protection; Rangda represents black magic and destruction.

A performance is always inaugurated by Barong. He is animated by two peo-ple. One holds the mask and moves the lower jaw; the other moves the trunk and the tail. Barong’s spectacular costume, covered with gold leaf and mirrors,

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can weigh as much as forty kilos. The dancers who animate Barong have to go through special training and purification. Hours of arduous exercises mean that they always fall into a trance at the same time. Actually in the case of Barong, a trance is not required, but those who work Rangda experience this more fre-quently.

The mask of Rangda along with the head-covering weighs up to twelve kilos (Fossey 2008). It is terrifying. Its long tongue with flames hangs out of its face; it has huge tusks and large, staring eyes. As the queen of the witches, Rangda is associated with all the torments that plague the island (Lovric 1987). The name Rangda comes from the Javanese word rondo meaning “widow,” and it has nega-tive associations with the discredited ritual of sati, which was practiced on Bali from the beginning of the fifteenth century right up to 1895, when the Dutch col-onizers forbade such practices. After her husband’s death, every wife was obliged to commit ritual suicide. Still today, the Balinese believe that a three-times di-vorced woman is so filled with bad energies that she can quite easily engage in black magic (Slattum and Schraub 2003: 84–85).

As the widow Rangda, she is identified with the eleventh-century Javanese princess called Mahendradatta, who married a Balinese prince. Their son was the famous king Airlangga (991–1049). Mahendradatta was driven from the court by her husband for practicing black magic. As a widow, she inspired terror in peo-ple, and no one wanted to marry her beautiful daughter. Enraged, Mahedradatta summoned up a plague. King Airlangga asked the holy wise man Mpu Bharadah for help. He defeated the witch in a duel of strength. This tale is the basis for the play Calon Arang, which is used for exorcisms. Rangda usually takes the main role in it (Fossey 2008; Hobart 2003: 112–120; Spies and de Zoete 1973: 116–133; Belo 1949: 18–39).

To take the part of Rangda, the personification of evil, is not without danger. It is most often taken only by “people with power” (anak sakti), priests, or descend-ants of families well seasoned in their contacts with spirit powers. According to the Balinese, the god does not possess the performer, but is revealed in the mask. The power of the divine energy blocks the dancer’s consciousness of self and memory, transforming him into an obedient executor of divine impulses. In the trance, the performer becomes the vehicle of the mask (Coldiron 2004). Rangda, although she personifies black magic, ultimately also fulfills protective functions like Barong. Both figures are essential in order to maintain cosmic equilibrium. Performers never accept payment for their appearances in the masks of Barong or Rangda.

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Because of their great powers, these masks are kept in separate places. They also must not be confronted with each other during the sacred performances, although I have, in fact, seen many religious spectacles involving both figures. This is because the conflict between Barong and Rangda is resolved indirectly, via human participation. At the culminating point, dancers without masks, and also men and women in the audience, fall into trances and throw themselves on Rangda with ritual daggers in order to deliver fatal blows to her. Rangda, the mistress of black magic, however, turns the blades, and each person thrusts the blade into his/her own body. Several fall into convulsions, but no one bleeds. The mighty blows leave no marks on their bodies.

Victory over people sometimes fills Rangda with such power that in rage she runs out of the temple, and the assistants pursue her to catch her before she does harm to anyone (Spies and de Zoete 1973: 121). After being revived, the performer does not remember what he did when wearing the mask. The conflict of Rangda with Barong is never concluded with the clear victory of one of the protagonists (Belo 1949). The dark powers are necessary for the functioning of the world. This extraordinary exorcism, however, confirms simultaneously the power and the ultimate powerlessness of evil. Evil will never annihilate good.

Summary

1. On Bali, trance blocks consciousness of the self.2. During the trance, the performer is animated like a puppet.3. Transformation does not involve the replacement of the person of the per-

former by the figure of the Other, but rather cutting off access to his own ego.4. The Other never appears to the performer as himself, but always as an aspect

of the Alien: as a vision, as an impulse, or as a mask.5. On Bali, many techniques may lead to a trance: music, smoke, prayer, putting

on a mask.6. Trance is a natural element of everyday life.7. Performers are not professionals.

Cremation as LiberationOn Bali, cremations are among the most jolly of occurrences (Covarrubias 1937: 359). Many observers, frequently with an element of amazement, stress the lack of a mood of mourning during funeral ceremonies (see, for example: Friedrich 1959: 97; Bateson and Mead 1942: 46, 243). During the funeral itself no one in fact cries, for there are reasons for joy. The rite frees the dead person from his/

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her impure body, and permits his/her soul once more to take a body in the cycle of reincarnation. The relatives have managed to gather together money for the funeral. The neighbors tuck into dainties. Artists and craftsmen can show off the splendid artifacts made specially for the ceremony. The gamelan musicians dem-onstrate their most beautiful instruments. Tourists have an exceptional opportu-nity to take fascinating photographs and make quite unusual films. Cremations, although they belong among the main duties of the deceased’s surviving rela-tives, cost a fortune especially if the dead person belonged to the highest caste.

Today a simple cremation costs the equivalent of several thousand dollars, a moderate one as much as twenty thousand, and for a royal cremation one has to pay out the equivalent three hundred thousand dollars (Santikarma 2005). Often the family itself has to cover all costs (Lansing 1995: 33), although customs vary in this matter, and several communities support the relatives financially (Korn 1932; Warren 1993). Such expenses are not easy, given that the average income on Bali in 2010 was just a little under two thousand dollars (according to Bali News and Views of May 4, 2010). The poorest Balinese, therefore, bury their dead in temporary graves, in order to organize later mass cremations, which are cheaper and permitted by law.

A death in the village is announced by beating the empty tree trunk that usu-ally hangs in front of the village meeting hall. When this sound is heard, each family that belongs to the neighborhood community, called the banjar, is obliged to send one representative to the dead person’s house in order to help wash the body. This is one of the most important events in the life of the local community. It is also often an opportunity sincerely to grieve for the dead person (Connor 1995). A priest, hired for around 500 to 600 dollars (Connor 1995: 542), oversees the complicated ritual procedures, with the help of several assistants. After being washed with holy water, the remains are wrapped in a white shroud. If the date of the cremation is fixed and near, the remains are kept in the deceased’s family home, usually steeped in ice or a mixture of formaldehyde and water.

The procession to the place of cremation begins with the placing of the re-mains, wrapped in several layers of shroud, in a tower, called a wadah or bade, raised on a lattice of bamboos. The number of the tower’s storeys, always uneven, depends on the dead person’s rank. At the end of July 2009, I witnessed a funeral ceremony in the village of Batubulan in southern Bali. For fifteen minutes, the priest’s assistants struggled with the white bier. When they finally succeeded in forcing the bier into the tower, all hell broke loose.

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0.9: The Cremation Bull at Batubulan in 2009.

Young men jauntily hoisted up the bamboo lattice work, along with the tower-like funeral vehicle and a sarcophagus in the shape of a bull, in which the de-ceased’s remains were to be burned. They began to run and dip the lattice work now to the right, now to the left. Every few moments, they changed direction. At every crossroads, they made a circle three times. This all took place on one of the main thoroughfares on Bali, the one that links the south of the island with Ubud, the cultural capital. Chance witnesses leaped into the ditches to get out of the way.

Asked about the reasons for this somewhat “crazy” behavior, the Balinese gave different explanations. According to the majority of my informants, the turning and twisting of the tower with the remains is meant to protect the dead person’s soul (still floating above the remains) from an attack by malevolent demons and from practitioners of black magic. Balinese believe that evil energies and evil deities can only move in straight lines. A sudden change of direction prevents a bundle of evil energies or a demon “adhering” to the soul, which could make difficult or even completely prevent future reincarnation. However others main-tained that this chaotic procession is meant, above all, to confound the soul of the dead person, so that he/she cannot get home alone and intervene in the life

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of the family without being invited to do so. The relatives want to control their ancestor’s visits and limit them to traditional festivals.

Finally, the crazy procession reached the temple of Durga, the goddess of death. There the sarcophagus, or the black bull, was placed in the center. The assistants cut off the upper part of its torso. The white bier was taken out of the tower and placed inside the bull. After gifts and offerings were thrown inside, the bull’s torso was closed again. The grimy specialists in cremation went to work. They surrounded the bull with sticks. From a dilapidated truck they took gas canisters. They switched on the burner and gave the priest the lit end. The bull caught fire at once. It looked quite weird because the bull had a happy face.

Meanwhile the villagers set themselves to destroy the splendid cremation tower. The thick forest round about made it impossible to burn the structure. So it was simply thrown into a nearby stream. All those who took part in the crema-tion, tourists included, were invited to Batubulan two weeks later. The ashes of the dead brahmin would then be borne in solemn procession to the sea’s edge and scattered in the water. This ritual completed the funeral ceremony and finally freed the soul of the dead person from links with the material world.

When they speak of cremation, the Balinese do not emphasize the reduction of the body to ashes, but they use such terms as ngentas (“crossing [into death]”) and lepas (“liberation [from earthly bonds]”). The body is not by any means the most important element in this rite, and, in fact, an effigy can replace it just as well (Connor 1995: 539). The rituals are meant, above all, to free the soul from its links with its previous incarnation, and to make a new incarnation possible.

Summary

1. On Bali, death is seen as a performance of transformation.2. A funeral ceremony is carefully organized spectacle that strengthens the iden-

tity of the local community.3. Cremation confirms the caste-based social hierarchy.4. The body is unnecessary to the human being for eternal life.5. Reincarnation is a spiritual process, and links with the material world can

hinder or even prevent this process.