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Preliminary thoughts on the rhetoric of paintings: Rituals and Balinese

painting in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.1 Draft Only

(Not to be quoted without the author’s permission) Introduction Balinese paintings from the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, from the period between 1800 and 1940, potentially have much to tell us about the history of Balinese experience of and response to a time when the insistent, intensifying and transforming influence of Dutch colonial society and its culture became widespread in Bali and more broadly in the archipelago. The painters and their works speak to us both about how the Balinese in this period knew, imagined, thought and felt about the world in which they lived and about the visual representation and communication of these ideas, imaginings and feelings through the medium of narrative paintings. It is with this in mind that I propose discussing some aspects of how one might go about identifying the rhetorical configuration of paintings from this period and what it contributes to our understanding of the historical moments of the reception of their viewings. Painters, I suggest, design their works not just to recount a story but to persuade viewers of the probable logical, ethical and emotional validity of generally shared beliefs and values (Smith 2007). An example might serve to illustrate my point. The painter of a nineteenth century work illustrating the Brayut story from the Tropenmuseum in Amsterdam2 narrates a tale of family life—of discord and angry disagreement around the rituals at the time of Galungan, and later, of reconciliation and restored harmony, at the time of the father’s ritual meditation on the graveyard, his consecration as a commoner dukuh priest and the youngest son’s marriage, the moment when he, the son, assumes responsibility for the family’s civic and ritual obligations. The painting illustrates the efficacy of ritual, the moral virtue of the male head of family and the emotional appeal of a convivial harmony in family life.

However, before I come to my discussion there are a number of points to be made about the paintings I discuss. As the remarks above suggest, the works I have chosen are narrative works. In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries painters, working in the Kamasan and related styles, illustrated narratives, which we also know circulated in manuscripts and performances of ancient prose works such as the Adiparwa and Uttarakāṇḍa, great kakawin epic poems such as the Rāmāyaṇa, Arjunawiwāha, Bhāratayuddha and Sumanasāntaka, Balinese kakawin, and kidung epics such as the Malat and Bhimaswarga. They also illustrate cautionary animal fables from the Tantri, and Balinese folk stories such as the Calonarang and Brayut. They were painted and embroidered on cloth and on wooden screens or parba for display during religious festivals in temples and private household shrines where they decorated pavilions and offering shrines, just one aspect of the elaborate reception and entertainment of the gods and ancestral spirits who visit for the time of a ritual. They also decorated the ceilings of pavilions of justice and the living spaces of palace and house compounds and dalang

1 I would like to thank Mark Hobart and Stuart Robson for their comments on earlier drafts of the present paper. 2 Tropenmuseum Amsterdam, 2058-2. See Worsley (2016a & b).

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recounted these same stories in performances of the shadow play and they were staged in a variety of forms of dance and theatre and no doubt talked about and recounted in the course of ordinary conversation. These forms which narrative was given existed in a dialogical relationship with each other.3

Among the many subjects, which painters chose to illustrate in their paintings, were scenes of ritual.4 In paintings of the Brayut story, for example, there are illustrations of the rituals performed at Galungan, a ritual of meditation on a graveyard, of a pedanda Boda consecrating a commoner hermit priest or dukuh and of a commoner marriage. On the other hand, painters of the story of Rama’s grandfather and mother, Prince Aja and Princess Indumatī, appear to have been fascinated by scenes of a royal swayambara, and marriage ritual, both of which appear to have been for the painters and their viewers quite exotic.5 Other paintings from this period illustrate particular aspects of the elaborate ritual processing of the dead, in particular the ritual suicide of royal and noble women, which so enthralled European visitors to the island in the nineteenth century.6 Illustrations of Sītā’s Ordeal, for example, are common in museum and private collections and the suicide of Siti Sundarī is another subject illustrated in paintings from this period as are a number of spectacular paintings of Ratih’s self-immolation following Śiwa’s incineration of her divine spouse, Smara, the God of Love. Impressive too are paintings from this period, which illustrate King Janamejaya’s snake sacrifice, one episode in a sequence of stories, which explores the relationship between kings and priests and known to us from manuscripts of the Adiparwa.7 To these I should add the remarkable representation of an exorcist ritual in a Malat painting now housed in the Museum Bali, which Vickers has discussed.8

To illustrate the characters, events and places in these stories, painters made use of a painterly style that enabled them to represent the world in which they and the viewers of their paintings imagined9 they lived. This style they thought produced realist representations of a familiar world. This we learn from contemporary folk stories10 and, interestingly, also from the

3 See below page 4 for more on the dialogical relationship between forms of narrative, painted narratives in particular. 4 I use the word ‘ritual’ not as a Balinese classification of a form of social action but rather as a convenient designation of a ‘life-transforming practice’ (Inden 2000:22)—a prescribed technical order of devotional service or liturgy addressed, in the case of the Balinese, to gods, ancestral spirits or other beings and intended to make and remake and articulate the world—based on what I am almost tempted to call a ‘scientific’ knowledge of the ‘mechanical’ workings of the world and different from a ‘ceremony’ being simply the performance of any solemn act according a prescribed form (OED). 5 Worsley (2014) and Supomo (2001). 6 See van der Kraan (1985) for a good account of a number of European reports concerning this practice in Bali in the nineteenth and early twentieth century and Creese (2004:210–244) for discussion of the practice in Java and Bali more generally. Geertz (1980:116–120) discusses Helms’ account of a royal cremation and masatia in the context of his discussion of ritual and social status in pre-modern Bali. 7 Two ider-ider from the Pura Bale Batur, painted by Pan Seken, I Nyoman Dogol and Pan Sempreg and datable to 1918 and 1919, together with a tabing, once in the Nieuwenhuis collection, all presently housed in the Gunarsa Museum of Classical Balinese Art in Klungkung Bali (003/L/MSLKB) illustrate these stories from the Adiparwa. The two ider-ider replaced earlier paintings, perhaps produced as early as 1818 which are now part of the Colin McPhee Collection in the Museum of Natural History in New York (70.2/1121; see Vickers 2012:71–73). Since the 1980s new paintings have replaced the two ider-ider in the Gunarsa Collection. 8 Vickers (1984a). 9 I have used this term in the meaning given it in the OED under 1.a.1.1.a: ‘To form a mental image of, to represent to oneself in imagination, to picture to oneself (something not present to the senses)’. 10 Pan Mertasih, Nagasepuh. Gedong Kirtya Manuscript Collection. MS 2091: ‘Satua I Sangging

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report of a conversation, which the Mexican painter Miguel Covarrubias had with I Gusti Bagus Jelantik, the regent of Karangasem whom he met in the early 1930s towards the end of the period we are discussing. Following this conversation, Covarrubias concluded that ‘Balinese art is realistic without being photographic—that is, without attempting to give the optical illusion of the real thing’—an important comment because Covarrubias concedes to the Balinese their own conception of a realist style (Covarrubias 1937:165).11

Paintings were for the painters and the viewers of their paintings representations of a familiar world, one in which they imagined they lived and was imbued with the strong sense of occasion which Balinese attached to the time when and place where an event took place for the consequences it might have for the safety and wellbeing of those involved. The world for the Balinese incorporated all that was manifest in material form (sakala) as well as what was unmanifest (niskala) and lay beyond the realm of human senses. The royal audiences, polite discussions and angry confrontations, the battles, marriages, sexual encounters and lovemaking, the rituals and the dance and theatrical performances, journeys, the scenes of solitary meditation and encounters with gods and demons and scenes of hellish punishment—these events were vivid in the imaginations of Balinese of the time. So too were the places where these events took place—the palaces and houseyards, the villages, the temples and graveyards, the battlefields, the wildernesses of mountain and seashore and scenes set in the world of the gods and in hell. Painters populated their works with beings that Balinese imagined inhabited this world: humans, gods, demons, witches and animals. I should add here that the iconography which painters employed, the manner in which the characters of the story were represented in Kamasan paintings, except in the case of a small number of individualized characters, was intended to draw clear distinctions between, on the one hand, physical and psychological make-up and on the other, social status and roles. In the end the stories that painters told are as much about these physiognomic types and social roles as they are about the individual characters who inhabit the stories, and which are in any case only identifiable in the context of the story told.12

Lobangkara,’transcribed by I Gusti Nyoman Agung, 30 October 1940; Kat Angelino (1921–1922:387–89). 11 See Worsley (2014:7–9) and Vickers (2012:21) for further commentary on realism in Balinese painting. 12 The iconographic conventions of Kamasan paintings were designed to convey information about distinctions drawn between various categories of beings. The focus of these were the body – particularly the face – and the costume – in particular the headdress. Representations of the body were intended to draw physiognomic distinctions between various kinds of beings. Types of eye, eyebrow, nose, mouth and teeth and degrees of hirsuteness were important in this respect. These physical characteristics pointed to an inner condition – how refined or brutish – was the god, demon, or human who was portrayed. Clothing on the other hand, in particular the headdress and hairstyles worn by the various characters, signalled hierarchical differences in social status and role. Crowns distinguished kings. Princes wore their hair in a number of different styles; the supit urang (‘lobster-claw’) and gelung were perhaps the most frequently illustrated. Saiwite priests were recognizable because of the gelung ketu they wore, while Buddhist priests wore their hair in long black tresses behind their necks. The gods – the divine kings and queens and priests who inhabited the world of the gods –– were identified by the radiance (praba) which surrounded them. Commoners had their hair arranged in less elaborate styles and their clothing was modest, frequently nothing more than a kamben tied about the waist. The clothing worn by kings and queens and their courtiers of noble descent of course was highly elaborate. Not only their headdress distinguished priests but they were often portrayed wearing long coats of a cloth decorated with floral motifs over trousers. An iconographical array of bodily comportments and gestures signalled clearly behavioural relationships between the actors in Kamasan paintings and through these illustrated the strict etiquette which governed the hierarchically ordered relationships between the categories of beings we have just described. For fuller descriptions of the iconographic conventions governing the representation of characters, see Kanta (1977/78) and Forge (1978) and (1980). See further comments on pages 10–11 below.

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The rhetoric of paintings These narrative paintings are dialogic, that is they are produced and viewed in the context of a painter’s relationships with contemporary and previous painters and their paintings and viewers and their viewings of them. Each painting is one moment in an historical sequence of painters and their paintings and viewers and their viewings of their narrative works.13 It is in this context that we discover the rhetorical character of a painting. Painters made use of two devices to this end. Firstly they selected a story to illustrate, episodes and their contents from it to depict, and having selected story and scenes, they then proceeded to design their paintings, arranging their works to make clear the sequencing of narrative scenes. This might be to make clear the chronological order of scenes in the narrative but, more importantly, as I said earlier, scenes were arranged to draw the attention of viewers to the logical, ethical and emotional validity of generally shared beliefs and values alluded to in the painting. Careful attention to the placement of the illustrated scenes, and of details in the scenes themselves, reveals nuances in the rhetorical configuration of paintings.

To illustrate the rhetorical effect of these two devices, let us briefly look at two paintings in the collection in American Museum of Natural History in New York. The first illustrates Pan Brayut’s consecration as a commoner dukuh priest or, perhaps as Vickers suggests, the Brayut family attending an odalan ritual,14 and the second the widow sacrifice of Abhimanyu’s wife, Siti Sundarī.

Fig. 1 The consecration of Pan Brayut as dukuh priest/Celebration of odalan, Kamasan Bali, 19th or early 20th

century, traditional paint on cloth, langse 249 cm x 72 cm AMNH 70.2/1137.

In the first of these works the painter has chosen to illustrate the story of the Brayut family and has selected three scenes from the story to include in the painting. In the top right hand part of the painting is a scene in which a procession carries a portable shrine or pelinggihan containing

13 I owe this remark to a comment made to me by Mark Hobart [personal communication 10th August 2017]. See also Inden 2000:11). 14 odalan is the more elaborate celebration of the anniversary of a temple held once every Balinese year (210 days). There is a second less elaborate celebration called sepian or sepen according to Belo (1966:2) held in the same calendar year.

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a representation of a god(ess).15 To the left is a second scene in which a group of men slaughter and butcher cattle in preparation for the making of offerings and feasting. Finally below, and occupying by far the greatest area of the painting, is a third scene of ritual. In it in the upper left part of the scene we see a padanda Boda who is seated in a pavilion with his ritual paraphernalia before him ringing his bell as he pronounces his litany. Below is a gamelan and in the bottom left hand corner we see a wayang lemah (daytime shadow theatre). In the centre of the scene the family Brayut sit with their arms raised in honour on both sides of two platforms on which offerings have been arranged. To the right is a shrine containing the small portable pelinggihan we saw in the first scene. To the right again another gamelan plays while in the top righthand corner a bespectacled man reads from a lontar-palmleaf manuscript. The painter has made a number of choices—of the story to illustrate, and the scenes and the details to include in each scene. He has however done more than this. He has designed his painting to highlight the events he has chosen to include in the visually most prominent scene in the painting. Here there is some uncertainty. If we follow Vickers and his identification of the scene as an odalan, one might argue that here the painting records the rites of aspersion, of primary importance in Balinese ritual, when to the ringing of the priest’s bell, holy water is asked and then dispersed over the site, the offerings and the devotees, here by the wife of the pedanda Boda who stands between the devotees holding a bowl in her left hand. However, the contents of the bowl which the standing woman holds in her left hand suggest something else: that here the painting records the moment, following the consecration of Pan Brayut as dukuh, when the Brayut family honours Pan Brayut’s teacher, the Buddhist priest Pangeran Jembong and Men Brayut comes forward with a bowl of cash (kepeng) to offer to the priest seated in front of her on the ground, a ritualized form of payment for his services.16 Whichever explanation we accept as identifying this prominently displayed scene, it is the events illustrated in it that the painter most wants his viewers to consider. I would argue that the painter has created this work to flag the importance of ritual and the lively conviviality which Balinese families desire to experience on such festive ritual occasions and which they so much appreciate.17

15 Belo (1966:6) tells us that these pelinggihan or tapakan, seats or receptacles for the gods, when they visit take various forms: artja (figurines of gold, bronze or gilded wood), plain boards bearing a face carved into their surface, or a simple woven figure of palm, sometimes even a stone or piece of bronze. 16 There is a further possible identification of this painting. Towards the end of the story as it is narrated in the geguritan Brayut, Pan and Men Brayut return home following Pan Brayut’s consecration as a dukuh and it is decided that they shall move to a new hermitage in a place called Gebong. With the assistance of their family and neighbours they do so and celebrate the move with feasting, music and the recitation of kakawin and kidung. It seems likely that such occasions would also have included a ritual, conducted by Pan Brayut’s teacher the padanda Boda Pangeran Jembong, to consecrate the site of the newly established hermitage. 17 The point that this painter wished to make is similar to that of the painter of another work illustrating the story of the Brayut family. This second painter also celebrated the conviviality of family life. However, in this case the family is imagined as a community of men, of father, sons and brothers, sisya of a male padanda boda and identified with the barong (Worsley 2015 and 2017b).

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Fig. 2 The Widow Sacrifice of Siti Sundarī, Kamasan Bali, 19th or early 20th century, traditional paint on cloth,

langse 216 cm x 71 cm AMNH 70/1709

In the second work, the painter has chosen to illustrate an episode from the story of the great battle between the Pandawa and Korawa cousins, the Suicide of Siti Sundarī.18 The painting we are looking at closely follows the version of the episode as it is recounted in the kakawin Bhāratayuddha, a twelfth century epic poem which circulated widely in Bali in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries: Siti Sundarī and Uttarī are the two wives of Abhimanyu, Arjuna’s son who perished in battle at the hands of his Korawa cousins. On his return from the battle Arjuna learns that his son is dead and is furious. Angrily and threatening to suicide he reproaches his brother Pandawas for not assisting Abhimanyu. Kṛṣṇa calms him and explains the role that the Korawa Jayadratha has played in Abhimanyu’s death. Arjuna vows to take his revenge on Jayadratha and discusses with Kṛṣṇa just how this might be done. To prepare himself, Arjuna meditates and God Śiwa appears and predicts Jayadratha’s death. It is decided that because Uttarī is pregnant with Abhimanyu’s child she is not to follow her husband in death, but Siti Sundarī would do so.

The painter has selected five scenes illustrating the events which follow the death of Arjuna’s son Abhimanyu and has chosen to focus attention most on the scene of ritual suicide of Siti Sundarī. The painter has designed his work to draw the viewer’s attention to the act of ritual suicide, pictured in the visually prominent scene situated just to the right of the centre of the painting. Here, the painter has pictured Siti Sundarī, a chewed betel quid in her mouth as her provisions for the journey to the afterworld,19 climbing the ramp from which she will jump to her death in the funeral pyre in which we see the burning body of Abhimanyu. The cleverly conceived gambit of decentering this scene and placing it between the busy clustering of scenes to its left and right enhances the painter’s focus on the spectacle of widow suicide. I would argue that then the eye is drawn from the visual centre of the painting and its focus on the scene of ritual suicide to explore the lefthand cluster of scenes because of its visual prominence. There we see three scenes which take place in the Pandawa camp prior to Siti Sundarī’s ritual suicide: firstly at the top of this grouping of scenes is one in which Kṛṣṇa, in the presence of the other

18 The death of Siti Sundarī, 19th or early 20th century, langse, 71 x 216 cm, Doremus Missionary donation, Division of Anthropology, American Museum of Natural History, 70-1709. See Vickers (2012:42, 44). Originally described as "Battle Scene” and thought at one stage to have illustrated the death of Satyawati, this painting better corresponds to the version of the death of Siti Sundarī in the Bhāratayuddha (14–15.19). 19 Bhāratayuddha 15.11.

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Pandawa brothers, curbs Arjuna’s anger and threats of suicide; then on the far left of the langse is the scene which follows and in which Arjuna, with Kṛṣṇa beside him, meditates on God Śiwa who appears before them promising victory over Jayadratha, the killer of Abhimanyu; and finally to the right of this scene we see Uttarī and Siti Sundarī taking leave of each other before Siti Sundarī suicides. The viewer’s attention is then drawn to the right of the scene of the ritual suicide to examine the one residual scene. This is a crowded scene set in the Korawa camp: above we recognize Droṇa, priest and teacher of both Pandawas and Korawas but who sided with the Korawa in the great war between cousins. He is recognizable in his red jacket and by the arrangement of his hair and coronet. The kneeling figure is in all probability Jayadratha placed in front of a third figure of status to whom he pays honour—perhaps Duryodhana who plays an important role in the narrative that follows.20 Clearly, in this case again the painter has decided on a story and selected scenes from it to illustrate. His arrangement of the scenes in the painting both signals the narrative sequencing of scenes and draws attention to the spectacle of Siti Sundarī’s ritual suicide. He flags the virtuous behaviour expected of dutiful wife joining her husband in death and the reward, which shall be hers, when she joins him in the after world and the promise of making love with him again.21

In the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries it was a common narrative practice that performances of kakawin, kidung, and geguritan based on manuscript recordings of them rarely involved any attempt to recite an entire work in one reading. Selections from them—episodes much loved or considered appropriate for a particular ritual occasion—were chosen. This is a practice embedded in the repertoire of the shadow play in Bali as well as in dance and theatrical performances and, as Vickers has pointed out in the case of the Malat, also had consequences for the copying of manuscripts of epic kakawin and kidung and other narrative works. 22 And the selection of what was to be recited was done with some purpose in mind. Friederich, for example, who arrived in Bali in 1846 on the eve of the Dutch Wars against Buleleng and whose travels also took him to Badung in the south of the island where he spent two years, noted the rhetorical purpose attached to recitation of epic kakawin works in this period. Informants made clear to him that these works enjoyed great prestige because they served an important political purpose. The Rāmāyaṇa and Parwa, he tells us, were considered to be 'a sort of pattern for princes', and that ‘the adat of the princes, and of the second and third castes is contained in those works, holy to them ' (1849/1959–50:14).23 He goes further to suggest that these epic works not only provide models for the behaviour of princes but that their performance was also intended to enhance the authority and power of kings, 'to obtain [...] a kadigjayan, a subjugation

20 Vickers (2012:42–43) suggests that this scene is the illustration of the report of the events leading to Siti Sundarī’s ritual suicide on Abhimanyu’s funeral pyre to the Korawa camp. However while this is a possible identification of the scene, there is nothing to confirm it at least in the text of the kakawin Bhāratayuddha which as I have noted the painter appears to have followed closely. If Vickers is correct perhaps we have here a tmely reminder that painters do not always illustrate the literary versions of stories found in manuscripts of Bali’s epic poems. 21 See Sumanasāntaka 176–182.2 for one description of this promised reunion. 22 See Vickers (1984b ) and (2005:86–90) on variation in the case of the Malat and compare Robson on the uses of ‘Kawi classics’in the Bedulu region of Bali in 1971 and Creese (2004:50–1), Rubinstein (2000:15–38) and Zurbuchen (1987:82–112) on Balinese reading practices more generally. 23 The practice which Friederich describes here conforms with a comment of Howe (1984:199–204) who argues that each social group or bangsa was identified with a particular kind of behaviour and an attached moral duty (darma) which was specific to bangsa status, age, occupation, and gender.

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of the world.’ Interestingly he was also told that the parlous state in which Bali found itself at the time of his visit was due to the fact that rulers did not heed the advice contained in these epic works (Friederich 1849/1959–50:17).

Just as selections of kakawin and kidung were chosen because they were appropriate to a particular occasion so too painters referenced their works to particular occasions—the times when and places where the paintings were displayed. Illustrations of the Bimaswarga, for example, with its images of hellish punishment on the ceiling of the Kertaghosa in the former royal palace of Klungkung referenced the pavilion’s use as a hall of justice24 and the display of two spectacular ider-ider hung about the eves of the pavilion in which the Dewa Agung was seated during odalan rituals at the Pura Bale Batur in Kamasan also had a point to make: they illustrated scenes from the Adiparwa exploring the disastrous consequences of conflict and then the benefits of reconciliation between kings and brahmana priests. 25 These two examples remind us of the strong sense of occasion that Balinese attach to the time when and place where an event takes place (kaladesa) for the consequences it might have for those involved. Interestingly, Sastrawan in a discussion of the technologies of time which are deployed in historical works in equatorial Southeast Asian including the Balinese dynastic genealogy, the Babad Dalem, reminds us of the prominence of occasional time in these works and the quality that it attaches to a ruler and his reign.26

Balinese painters, like the authors of these historical works, had bones to pick. Variation in the choice of narrative subject matter and variability in its visual presentation strongly suggest the bones they chewed on were of different kinds, and dependent on factors such as status group, class or gender.27 In a number of papers and publications I have argued that the painters of these works did not set out just to recount stories. Consideration of their works and the stories they illustrated reveal that the painters were intent on drawing to the attention of their viewers shared and socially important understandings about the world in which both painters and their viewers lived.28 In the paintings I have discussed, the efficacy of ritual, distinctions of gender and between the authority and power of kings and priests were, for example, among the issues to which painters sought to draw the attention of their viewers.

A rhetorical history of paintings In the light of what I have been arguing, one might be inclined to conclude that attention to the effects of the rhetorical design of paintings has enabled us to identify at least something about what nineteenth and early twentieth century painters had in mind when they produced the works which we have been discussing. But how are we to judge the truth-value of these postulated intentions? How likely are they as reasonable explanations of the intentions of these painters and viewers’ reception of their works not just at the historical moments of their conception but throughout the period of their reception by audiences whose different social and cultural identities and viewings of paintings traverse several generations. My own discussions of the

24 Pucci (1990). 25 Two of these ider-ider from the Pura Bale Batur are presently housed in the Gunarsa Museum of Classical Balinese Art in Klungkung Bali ( and compare 003/L/MSLKB) and another older one in the American Museum of Natural History in New York (70.2/1121; see Vickers 2012:71–73). 26 Sastrawan (2016:38–41). 27 Vickers (1985) discusses the sudra/jaba identities of painters and its implications for their paintings. 28 See Worsley (1984), (1988), (2011a), (2012), (2013). (2014), (2016a), (2016b), (2017a & b) and (In the press).

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paintings of course are informed at every turn by previous and repeated viewings of the paintings themselves, of other illustrations of the same stories, and of paintings of other narratives, my knowledge of the stories from other sources, and of course, the categories of understanding of the world I have learned to apply to produce meaningful interpretations of paintings. In the end, of course, we shall have to judge whether these interpretations identify those which nineteenth and early twentieth century painters and viewers themselves held about the illustrations of the stories we have been considering. Indeed, we might well wonder what a member of a Balinese temple congregation could make of the glimpses caught of paintings displayed amidst the elaborate decorations and varied activities on ritual occasions—the circumstances in which very many Balinese would have viewed paintings.

An example here might serve to clarify at least one matter I want to highlight: the relationship between a painter’s intentions and his viewers’ reception of his work. Hobart has discussed a performance of the shadow play Sang Nata Kawaca attacks heaven given by the dalang Anak Agung Petemon on 18th January 1989. He gives an account of an amusing interchange between one of the parekan, Sangut, and Sang Suratma, the record keeper of souls, who determines the punishment due to souls as they enter purgatory (swarga), and who inspires great fear in most Balinese. The performance of this exchange, says Hobart, reveals Sang Suratma’s venality and corruption. Hobart’s interview with the dalang himself confirmed that this had been his intention. He wanted, the dalang said, to confront the civil servants in his community who abused their power and to ‘galvanize his spectators out of their resignation at injustices.’ However, in conversations he had with others who were at the performance, Hobart discovered that there were in fact a number of different responses whatever the dalang intended. Two young men, for example, simply found the idea of a servant bribing a god to be funny. On the other hand, some older men were aware that the exchange had something to do with corruption while others ‘understood [...] more or less precisely what the dalang intended and appreciated the logic of the argument and the point in saying it.’29 As I have suggested, the case makes clear that while the performer, the dalang in this case, had a clear purpose in mind when presenting the scene, his audience did not always understand his intention and indeed were not all at one in their interpretation of the performed scene.

Hobart of course had the dalang to talk to and members of the audience at the performance to consult. But how are we to assess the reception that historically distant viewers gave to historically distant paintings? The German medievalist, Hans Jauss (1982a and b) suggests a starting point for an answer to this question. In his attempts to understand the generic distinctions between epic, romance and novella in medieval literature Jauss argued that historically distant works had to be interpreted in the context of what he termed their ‘horizon of expectations’, that is the expectations which a work’s author explicitly or implicitly presupposed contemporary audiences had—that is in the context of the interrelatedness of the different facets of a work itself and its involvement in wider sets of ‘historically determined, delimited and described’ generic and cultural relationships. In pursuing this task, Jauss insisted, the historian of literature was to work inductively from existing contemporary works rather than

29 Hobart (2017:12–14).

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imposing preconceived Western categories of literature.30 Jauss was primarily interested in the moment of a work’s genesis and its author’s anticipation of its contemporary reception and sought to overcome traditions of misunderstandings on the part of previous generations of medievalists—he mentions classical philologists and structuralists in particular—in order to recover medieval genres ‘in their historical contemporaneity and sequence’.31 However, as we seek to understand painters’ intentions and viewers’ understandings of the paintings we have been discussing, we need to be mindful of the fact that works survive the moment of their creation to be viewed by later generations, whose expectations may well not be those of the audiences for whom the works were originally produced. The historian, therefore, will be required to explain paintings in the context of a dynamic process of historically shifting ‘horizons of expectations’ presupposed by successive generations of viewers—what Fox (2005:90–91) referred to as the ‘performative reframings’ which a work undergoes in the changing social conditions in which its reception takes place over time.

There are obstacles in the way of realizing this goal. The first is circumstantial. Very often we know little about the dating of paintings or the identification of painters and the communities in which they lived and worked and the individuals and institutions who patronized their work and for whom their works were painted.32 Commonly this has been explained away by reference to an imputed ‘anonymity’ of painters, which in my view is highly unlikely in the face-to-face kind of community in which painters, their patrons and the viewers of their works lived. Certainly, today’s Kamasan painters are known to each other and to their patrons and, if not to every one of the villagers who view their works, certainly to those who live about them. A more likely explanation for our inability to identify the painters of the works we find in collections and to date them, is that many, perhaps most, of the nineteenth and early twentieth century paintings available to us are deracinated. 33 They are removed from the original social and cultural context in which they were once created and then viewed on ritual and other occasions and become part of museum and private collections cherished as part of national and ethnic heritages or as commodities to be bought and sold. Information about their origins is frequently scarce, even non-existent, as are dates on paintings, and signatures in the period before the 1930s rare indeed. Judgments about the date of a painting can often only be approximate and rely heavily on the identification of the materials used, the cloth and pigments, and identification of the painter by stylistic signatures.34

The second obstacle concerns the very nature of visual systems of communication, which contain within ambiguities and silences. The abstraction, which inhabits all art systems, Forge has argued, lends a multivalency to the elements of visual design of such a system. In one context they may be perceived to have one meaning but at the same time suggest other

30 Jauss (1982 a & b); Aoyama (1992:1–75) has made use of Jauss’s insights to propose a history of genres for fourteenth and fifteenth century Javanese literature. 31 Jauss (1982b:76). See also Pollock (2014:405) for comment on Jauss. 32 See Campbell (2013:1–43; 200–233) for discussion of patronage in recent years and Vickers (1985) for earlier forms of patronage. 33 Two useful publications on the subject of the deracination of Indonesian artefacts are Hardiati & Keurs (2005–2006) and Keurs (2007) which include chapters by Brinkgreven and Hout (2005–2006), Brinkgreven and Stuart-Fox (2007) on Balinese collections in museums in The Netherlands and by Lunsingh-Scheurleer (2011) on ancient Javanese artefacts housed in Dutch museum collections. See also Brinkgreven (2008). 34 Vickers (1979), (1982) and Worsley (1970), (2011b) for discussion of the dating of paintings.

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cognate meanings. The ensuing ambiguity creates opportunity for the expression of ‘a very real and intense emotion in their [viewers]’ concerning ‘key associations and relationships that are essential to ritual and cognitive systems’. Forge goes on, ‘[f]rom the multireferent character of their elements such art systems can convey a wide range of often subtle meanings,’ which only ‘those who have been socialized into the society within which they were created’ understand, and we might add contest, (Forge 1977:31).35 For example, in the case of Kamasan painting and related styles, just as Forge argues, the iconographical template employed reduces character to a range of physiognomic and social distinctions which, however, at the various moments of their reception were open to interpretation and dispute in accord with the interests of individual viewers in the historical circumstances in which they lived.

When we return to the paintings, which have as their subject matter the representation of rituals, and by way of example in this paper, to paintings of the Brayut story which illustrate the rituals conducted during the festival of Galungan, we discover very quickly that different painters have chosen different aspects in the ritual process to illustrate and/or organized the same moments differently in the design of their works. One very striking difference is that while some painters have decided that the Brayut family’s celebration of Galungan should occupy the whole painting, others have combined these scenes with others from later in the story. In the first case we witness scenes of Pan Brayut carrying water from the village fountain, his preparation of offerings and decorations, the presentation of offerings at different places on the family’s houseyard—commonly in the cow stall and household temple—the consumption of the remains of offerings offered to the gods and ancestral spirits once they have consumed their essence (lungsuran, literally ‘what is asked back’),36 and finally, a performance of the Barong and Rangda. In the second, the painter has combined these scenes of ritual with depictions of Pan Brayut meditating on a graveyard under the tutelage of the Buddhist priest Pangeran Jembong, his consecration as a dukuh priest and the marriage of his youngest son, Ketut Subaya, all scenes of events from later parts of the tale of this commoner family that we find in manuscripts of the geguritan or ballad version of the story. As I have argued, the selection of particular ritual moments rather than others to illustrate and their placement within the design of a painting has the potential to lend sometimes subtle emphases to the rhetorical configuration of a painting.

To judge the truth-value of the postulated sometimes subtle emphases which these painters have given their illustrations of ritual and what their audiences made of them we must turn to contemporary accounts of these rituals, to the nineteenth and early twentieth century corpus of Balinese manuscripts as well as to contemporary European descriptions of Galungan. Contemporary European accounts of the festival of Galungan include those of van den Broek (1817-18), Dubois (1828–31), Bloemen Waanders (1855–56), van Eck (1866–77), and Goris (1927–1965),37 among other visitors to the island in the nineteenth and early twentieth century. In the case of the latter we wonder how correctly these foreign visitors on their sometimes brief

35 This is a view quite consonant with a more general observation Hobart has made concerning communication: ‘[w]hile lack of ambiguity is carefully engineered to be a feature of computing, it is notably absent in human communication, where inexactitude, equivocation and opacity—let alone muddle and confusion—are common conditions in social life’ [Hobart 2017:4]. 36 Belo (1966:5). 37 van den Broek (1834), Creese (2016), Bloemen Waanders (1859), van Eck (1878–1880), Goris (1933/1960).

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sojourns on the island comprehended what they saw with their own eyes and how well they understood the information conveyed to them by their informants. Amongst Balinese manuscripts the most relevant are manuscripts of the geguritan version of the Brayut story itself,38 others which describe the liturgy of Galungan rituals39 and also manuscripts of the Usana Bali a work to which Balinese turn to explain of the origins of this important festival.40 In the case of works in the corpus of Balinese manuscripts there are also difficulties in the way of their interpretation. As was the case with paintings, manuscripts too have been removed from the cultural and social context of their use. Then there is the presence of variable readings amongst manuscripts of the same work and the consequences they have for a work’s comprehensibility.

There is not the time now to take up all the issues involved in a critical appraisal of these sources. So, I want for a brief moment to take up the issue of the representation of rituals in paintings in ritual manuals and to raise some general issues concerning the role of philology in the business of the historical interpretation of such manuals found in the corpus of Balinese manuscripts. However, first we should point out that the rituals we see illustrated in paintings of the celebration of Galungan in the Brayut story are not rituals for which Balinese always or even frequently required the services of padanda, considered in Bali the repositories of religious learning. Commonly they are conducted by commoner householders themselves and their family and by pemangku priests, who are of lower social standing and, at least in the eyes of Belo and Hooykaas, notable for their lack of literacy.41

So, it is to the ritual manuals of pemangku that we turn. When we do so, we discover there is very apparent variation in the performance and the recording of ritual in the manuscripts. Belo and Hooykaas, for example, describe the celebration of an odalan—an anniversary ritual calculated to occur every 210 days—which a pemangku conducted in the temple Pura Nagasari in the village of Sajan between 21st and 25th April 1937. Belo, in her monograph,42 and Hooykaas, writing much later in 1977, both draw attention to observable local variation in the performance of odalan between one pemangku and another.43 They also remark on errors in the enunciation of the litany by pemangku, and what Hooykaas identifies in the manuscript record as ‘homely corruptions’—passages of text which he say often make ‘no sense, either to [the

38 The story of Pan and Men Brayut appears to have been known widely in Bali in the 19th and early 20th centuries. The ten manuscripts which I have read to date come from Padangsabian in Badung; Tembuku in Bangli; Negara in Jembrana; Penaban, Sideman, Subagan, and Taman in Karangasem; and from the Puri Gobraya in Singaraja, Buleleng (See Kidung Pan Brayut, Pusat Dokumentasi Provinsi, Internet Archive, Bali, Lontar and Video on (http://www.archive.org/details/kidung-pan-brayut ), LOr 3613. 3773, 3823, 3883 (2), 3911 (2), 3948 (4), 3968 (2), 3982 (2), 4380, 4381 (1/4 3823), 4382, 13.608, 15.229, 16.327, 16.432, 19.459, 19.851, 20.000, 21.771, 21.877, 24.244, 24.625, 24.845. For a Dutch translation of the story see Grader (1939) and for a text and translation into Indonesian see Ardika (1980). According to van der Tuuk (1897–1912 IV:894–95) paintings of the Brayut story were traded by people coming from Klungkung in Bali towards the end of the 19th century—apparently as far as Singaraja where van der Tuuk was living. 39 Arwati (1992), Sirikanden (1982), Sugriwa (1957), Surpha 1972), Wiratmadja (1969). 40 Hinzler (1986). 41 Belo (1966:4) claims that the village temple priests (pemangku) who performed rituals were often illiterate and of low social standing, ‘simple officiants and guardians of the temples’, and not to ‘be confused with the Brahmana high priests (pedanda) to whose province belongs the study and understanding of the classical texts.’ See Rubinstein (2000) and Zurbuchen (1987) on the question of literacy in Bali. 42 Belo (1966). 43 Belo (1966:9–12) and Hooykaas (1977:1–7).

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pemangku] himself or to his fellow villagers, presuming that they try to comprehend.’44 Despite the variation in liturgical performances, Belo claimed that it was still possible to identify ‘a sort of skeleton common to all of them, a pattern whose broad lines are the same regardless of local variations,’ of which she provides a summary before proceeding to her detailed description of the ritual in the Pura Nagasari. To deal with errors in the litany, she incorporated corrections, fashioned by the Dutch scholar Goris, into her description.45 Hooykaas was also confronted with the problems of variation between manuscripts, 46 when he turned his attention to some 33 lontar and mimeographed manuscripts, principally of the Gaglaran Pamangku or Kusuma Dewa. He decided on an edition of a single manuscript, one entitled Tingkah ing Pamangku collected in Bali by the Dutch scholar van der Tuuk sometime between 1870 and 1894, to provide what he termed ‘a satisfactory composition of a text’ of the litany pronounced by the pemangku during the ritual in the Pura Nagasari in 1937. 47 However, he found himself compelled to correct the copyist’s ‘homely errors’ and to introduce readings from other manuscripts into his text to eliminate misspellings and misreadings, to fill major omissions and to resolve a number of obscurities in the manuscript.

It would be wrong to suggest that either Belo was incorrect to describe one historically located ritual event or Hooykaas wrong to take one manuscript’s description of a ritual to examine critically. However, Hooykaas’ amendments to the readings of the manuscript he had selected, like those of Goris, which Belo incorporated into her description, introduce anachronisms into their record of a ritual, which was performed in Sajan between 21st and 25th April 1937. Fox, in the first of two articles, has critiqued aspects of the discourse, which framed scholarly discussion of ‘the Old Javanese text’ as an object of study between 1957 and 1983. Fox argues that scholarship in this period on the one hand judged Balinese positively for their transmission of the ‘Old Javanese text’ but on the other found fault with their command of the languages in which these texts are written, Old Javanese and Sanskrit in particular. Hooykaas, like Goris before him, shared this opinion and consequently judged Balinese knowledge of the religious ideas and practices recorded in manuscripts ‘to be only accessible to them through the judicious intervention of the philological scholar’ [101].48 It was for this reason that Hooykaas, and Goris before him, sought to restore a correct version of Balinese religious thought and practice to the Balinese through editions and translations of ritual manuals and other works relevant to their religious life.

In the case of the odalan held at Sajan, it would seem that Hooykaas’ edition of the pemangku’s liturgy was motivated not by some desire to restore the text of the ritual manual to some ‘originary moment’ or autograph—frequently the principal purpose of philological editions49—but had a much more pragmatic purpose: to provide Balinese with an example of the text that was fully comprehensible—a desire perhaps not at all that distant from that of the Parisada Hindu Dharma’s recent initiatives to standardize Balinese religious ideas and practices and make them accessible to all Balinese. However, as I have suggested, the introduction of

44 Hooykaas (1977:7) 45 Belo (1966:9, 11–12, 13–66) 46 Hooykaas (1977:1) 47 LOr 4560. 48 Fox (2003, 2005). 49 See Pollock (2014:401–402).

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anachronisms by Hooykaas and Goris into the text of the manual reduces its value as a reliable witness able to contextualize historically the representation of rituals in nineteenth and early twentieth century paintings, their rhetorical purpose and viewers’ reception of these works.

Sheldon Pollock50 has commented recently on the place of philology as a discipline central to the humanities. He argues that philology is a properly constituted discipline with an object of study, a theoretical foundation and distinctive research methods. Philology, he argues, is intended to make sense of texts — every kind of text ‘from oral to electronic, those of mass culture no less than those of elite, “everything made of language”’—and to explain their history, ‘their mode of existence, their textuality and of course their content’. Working out of a distinctive theory of hermeneutic interpretation, philology, Pollock argues, is multidimensional in scope interested in the texts in their genesis, their ‘tradition of reception and their presence to our [the philologist’s] own subjectivity’. Furthermore, philology possesses its own distinctive research methods of ‘grammatical, text-critical, rhetorical and historical analysis’.51 While Western philology has been focused on what he terms the historicist reading of texts and the tension between making sense of a text at the moment of its genesis and its presence in the consciousness of the philologist, Pollock is particularly concerned to promote philology’s legitimate interest in a text’s tradition of reception. He emphasizes the ‘historical malleability’ of texts as audiences respond to them over time and in different cultural contexts. Interpretations of texts, he argues, cannot be judged to be ‘correct or incorrect in their historical existence’ [my emphasis]. They simply exist, and the philologist’s task is to explain what about the text itself summoned particular interpretations into existence and how the world, as readers of the text imagined it to be, shaped such views of the text. In this task, he insisted, the philologist needed to be aware that some aspects of a text’s malleability were more worthy of the philologist’s attention than others, noting only that, ‘[p]eople in a tradition inherit bad textual variants, or make simple grammatical mistakes and these misunderstandings, unless they are productive of interpretation, carry a dimension of historical consciousness lower on the philological scale of value than others’. This I take to mean that some features of texts have a greater significance for our understanding of the textual history of these texts than others.52

Philology has an important role to play in situating the understanding ritual practitioners in nineteenth and early twentieth century Bali had of their liturgies. Extant manuscripts of a work are the traces left at particular moments in its textual history and evidence of its reception in particular places at particular moments in time. The editor of the text of a work, not focused singularly on the identification and edition of its ‘autograph’ or ‘originary moment’, but intent on identifying and explaining the differences between one manuscript and another and judging the comprehensibility of each, is in a position to investigate the extant manuscripts as the historical record of a work’s reception at particular moments in its history. Indeed the starting point of any critical text editorial inquiry must be identification of the different readings of manuscript exemplars and the subsequent comparison and judgment of the consequence variant readings have for the comprehensibility of each manuscript. Hooykaas’ commentary in the introduction and in the critical apparatus attached to his edition of the manuscript he has

50 Pollock (2014), (2015). 51 Pollock (2015:19). 52 Pollock (2014:406). See Robson (1988:26–31) and his discussion of Proudfoot’s (1984) and Behrend’s (1987) comments on variation in Malay and Javanese manuscripts.

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selected to explain the wording of the pemangku’s litany when performing the odalan at the Pura Nagasari, does provide some indication of the kind of variations which existed between the manuscripts which he consulted, and the omissions and obscurities which he found when comparing one manuscript with another. He was also aware that some variations were of greater importance, pointing out that differences of spelling and misreadings were of minor significance, ones commonly made in the process of copying, while others were of greater importance suggesting differences in the order of the liturgy itself and/or understandings, which the copyist-ritual-practitioner and his congregation had of the purpose and nature of the ritual.

If we are to situate the manuscripts of the geguritan Brayut, the Usana Bali and litanies of Galungan rituals in their historical contexts as a first step in assessing the illustration of rituals in paintings, it will be important that we understand the textual practices of Balinese authors and scribes over the period of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Pollock notes that the first real defense of the correctness of a historicist reading of texts in the European philological tradition came with the publication of Spinoza’s Tractatus Theologica-politicus in 1670 and it is worthwhile here to recall Pollock’s summary of the coherent program of the Tracatus, if only to ask whether these same criteria were those which motivated the Balinese authors and scribes we are interested in as they went about authoring and copying their works. Good reading, according to Spinoza—one that would produce the singular true understanding of a text—was founded upon:

as deep a familiarity as possible of the text’s original language, based on usage in the corpus; the history of the text’s transmission and its current text-critical state; the salient features of the text’s genre; the history of its canonization; a form of discourse analysis that depends, not a priori on doctrine, but on the text’s coherence with itself; the assemblage of all parallel passages within the text and the author’s other works that can illuminate the obscure; a reconstruction of the historical context; the relevant biography of the author and the historical constraints of the authorial intention; the nature of the original audience and their thought-world; and all relevant intertexts.53

It is now the moment to turn to a discussion Balinese philological/textual practices in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries and to ask to what extent they accord with the founding practices of western philological practice summarized here by Pollock. In particular we will need to consider whether the hermeneutic project which Pollock has identified as fundamental to Western philological practice was shared by Balinese authors and copyists in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. There is evidence to suggest that Balinese copyists regarded the works they created and copied, whether they were narrative, historical or ritual as guides rather than fixed templates to present behaviour. Copyists felt that they enjoyed a level of freedom when copying works to enhance a work’s appeal to contemporary audiences and were not bound strictly to the hermeneutic search for the true form of an autograph. The freedom which copyists enjoyed appears to have varied with genre and explains both the level of inconsequential variation and enhancements of greater significance that one discovers in

53 Pollock (2014:402–403).

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manuscripts, in particular in the ritual manuals we have been discussing. Before examining two passages from the Geguritan Brayut, the first of which describes the conduct of the rituals at Galungan and the second which addresses gender differences—a subject frequently highlighted in Balinese paintings of the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries—we intend to examine what Arps (2016), Becker (1989), Robson (1988), Rubinstein (2000), van der Meij (2017), van der Molen (1983), Vickers (1984b) and Zurbuchen (1987) have to tell us about Javanese and particularly Balinese philological/textual practices in this period. Peter Worsley Department of Indonesian Studies, School of Languages and Cultures, Faculty of Arts and Social Sciences University of Sydney 16th August 2017

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1970 "A Missing Piece of a Balinese Painting of the Siwaratrikalpa", Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-, en Volkenkunde, 126. 1984 ‘‘E74168’.’ Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs 18:65–109. 1988 ‘Three Balinese paintings of the narrative Arjunawiwaha.’ Archipel 35:129–56. 2011a ‘Visual design in Balinese paintings from Kamasan.’ In the panel The art of knowing: abstraction, space and time, IUAES/AAS/ASAANZ Conference, Knowledge and value in a globalising world: disentangling dichotomies, querying unities, University of Western Australia 5–8 July 2011. [Unpublished manuscript]. 2011b ‘A new date of a painting of the Siwaratrikalpa’, ManjuShree (ed.): From beyond the eastern horizon; Essays in honour of Professor Lokesh Chandra. New Delhi: Aditya Prakashan., pp. 205–214. 2012 ‘Brayut paintings and Gender in nineteenth and early twentieth century Bali.’ Bali in Global Asia. Between Modernization and Heritage Formation, 16–18 July 2012, Denpasar, Bali, Indonesia. [Unpublished manuscript]. 2013 ‘Part 5. Balinese paintings of the Sumanasāntaka’. In: Worsley, P.J. et al. (eds). Mpu Monaguṇa’s Sumanasāntaka: An Old Javanese epic poem, its Indian source and Balinese Illustrations. Leiden/Boston: Brill. [KITLV Bibliotheca Indonesica 39]. 2014 ‘The History of a narrative. The Story of Prince Aja and Princess Indumatī in Nineteenth and Early Twentieth Century Bali’, Journal of Hindu Studies:1–26. 2015 ‘The games painters play: visual design and meaning in Balinese paintings of the Brayut story from Kamasan’, paper presented at the Seminar ‘Religious Manuscripts in Multiculturalism For Better Life (Humanity and Peace),’ Fakultas Brahma Widya, Institut Hindu Dharma Negeri Den Pasar, Den Pasar, 4–5th September 2015. 2016a ‘Kisah Brayut dalam Lukisan Kamasan dari Abad ke-19 dan ke-20’. Jurnal Kajian Bali 6 (2). 2016b ‘The Games painters play: visual design in Balinese paintings from Kamasan’, Second International Symposium on How Indonesians Argue, Oxon. Online at: http://www.criticalia.org/symposia--panels/how-indonesians-argue-2.html. 2017a Balinese Painting and Ritual, TAASA Lecture Series 2017, Sydney Mechanics School of Arts, Monday 3rd April 2017. 2017b` ‘Ritual in Balinese Paintings: a Balinese Brayut Painting from the Nyoman Gunarsa Museum Bali’, TAASA Review 3. In the press ‘Hadi Asmoro’s sculpture of Pan and Men Brayut’. Museum Pasifika, Nusa Dua, Bali, Indoneisia. Worsley, P. J. et al. 2013 Mpu Monaguṇa’s Sumanasāntaka; An Old Javanese epic poem, its Indian source and Balinese Illustrations. Leiden/Boston: Brill. [KITLV Bibliotheca Indonesica 39.]; translated into Indonesian as Worsley, P. J. et al. 2014. Kakawin Sumanasāntaka: Mati Karena Bunga Sumanasa; karya Mpu Monaguṇa. Kajian sebuah puisi epik Jawa Kuno. Jakarta: Ecole française d’Etrême-Orient; Koninklijk Instituut voor Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde; Yayasan Pustaka Obor Indonesia. Zurbuchen, Mary Sabina, 1987 The language of Balinese Shadow Theatre. Princeton: Princeton University Press.