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IT was a
lazy afternoon in the
island of
Sitangkay,
the so-called “Venice of the South” of the province of
Tawi-Tawi. My research team and I just had a full lunch
of lapu-lapu (red grouper) and kamun
(lobster-like sea mantis) and were raring for siesta.
With the glaring sun and unbearable heat in the
un-electrified municipality (calling GMA and Rep. Nur
Jaafar!), what else was there to do? My local research
associate and informant Hadji Musa Malabong suggested
that we invite a relative of his to demonstrate the
local art form of coconut-frond basketry. Wanting to
maximize our stay, although I came to research in ritual
and dance, I relented, and the “art event” that ensued
was quite an eye-opener.
Local
leaf artist, Timanlasa Injak, 45, came with her elder
brother Girin Injak, 50, carrying young yellow green
fronds of coconut for their demonstration. After proper
greetings and small talk, the brother and sister team
lost no time in cutting and stripping the leaves of the
“tree of life.” I could swear, it took less than three
minutes for Timanlasa to fashion a kalis-kalis (keris
blade) out of a single-ribbed blade of coconut leaf. In
about the same amount of time—well, give a minute or two
to include skillful crosswise cutting up to the midrib—Girin
transformed a leaf section into a frilly fern-like
bunting called pekoh-pekoh in the Sama language.
Afterward he proceeded to construct a medium-sized cube,
a green Rubik, albeit smaller in size and simpler in
mathematical configuration (four squares per side).
PRECIOUS THINGS.
Two examples
of Philippine leaf art handed down through generations
in the south. Unlike the so-called “fine arts,” folk
craft is most unfortunately less understood and less
privileged by the ordinary Filipino.
As Girin
continued to make more buntings, Timanlasa showed off
her versatility by making five types of katumpat
(leaf wrappers for rice) in the shapes of tungkol
saging (banana heart blossom), bua pagong (nipa
palm fruit), pahi-pahi (stingray), karut-karut
(a small sack) and tabangga (puffer fish
species). These shapes hold importance in rites of
propitiation that send off Satan or powerful local
spirits in small miniature boats. After making the
katumpat, Timanlasa took some time to work on the
technically difficult shape of a salingkat, a
local generic name for basket.
Philippine leaf art is not at all confined to the South.
The lowland Palm Sunday palaspas is an example of
a vibrant leaf art. The leaf art temple offerings and
decorations in Bali echo the shapes and techniques of
Philippine leaf art. This indicates continuity in the
expressive genre of the leaf in maritime
Southeast Asia. Leaf art figures prominently in other samples of material
artifacts of folk craft in the islands. Salakot (Tagalog)
and saruk (Sama and Tausug) hats are made of
various types of palm leaves or some other local fiber.
Pamaypay (Tagalog) or kabkab (Sama) fans
are usually made of anahaw (fan palm) leaves.
This material artifact can be found in many variations
across insular and peninsular
Southeast Asia. The same can be said of sleeping mats
made of the leaves of pandan (Pandanus species).
Leaf art
in the
Philippines
is usually classified under basketry. This
classification holds even if the artifact does not serve
the function of a “basket.” Basketry refers to weaving
without the use of a loom. Basketry, in turn, may be
classified under “fiber art” which, in the Philippines,
is normally categorized under traditional art or folk
craft. Unlike the so-called “fine arts,” folk craft is
most unfortunately less understood and less privileged
by the ordinary Filipino. This position of folk craft in
the national imagination has as much to do with
educational programming as perhaps a general indication
of colonial mentality.
Carmita
J. Icasiano, founding president of Manlilikha, an NGO
dedicated to the uplifting of the status of traditional
crafts and artisans in the Philippines, pushes for the
use of indigenous knowledge in traditional craft making
in the teaching of art subjects in elementary and high
school. Indeed, compared with the use of industrially
prepared oil, acrylic, watercolor pigments, brushes and
special paper for a class in painting, the use of pandan
leaves, vegetable dyes and an ordinary knife or cutter
for a class in mat weaving can be more cost-efficient
and as effective in teaching principles of aesthetics,
coloration and materials use. Apart from economic
efficiency, Icasiano underscores the innovative
potentials and environment-friendly aspects of craft
practice: “It is noticeable that the materials needed
for the crafts courses are easily accessible and
low-cost. Crafts classes like mat-weaving and
costume-making leave plenty of room for innovation with
regard to potential materials. Synthetic material like
plastic or even paper may be employed for the
mat-weaving classes. Costume-making classes, on the
other hand, could make used of fabric from old clothes,
blankets or curtains. Neither craft is dependent on
expensive equipment or tools. The emphasis is clearly on
handmade products, which rely on inexpensive materials
and almost hazard-free tools.”
Icasiano
notes that art education through crafts would “heighten
the student’s understanding of the communities that
serve as cradles of craft traditions by direct contact
with these crafts and the dynamics involved in its
production.” Art education, therefore, becomes empirical
and experiential that more than adds on to the value of
pedagogy through secondary sources. Furthermore,
firsthand learning allows the student to value
Philippine crafts as products imbued with the dignity of
human effort, not items that can simply be purchased off
the rack. Icasiano notes that this can very well be
linked to “manifestations of what is national, giving
rise to national pride.”
I could
not agree more with Ms. Icasiano, and to paraphrase her
ideas to stress an important point even further, more
than anything else, before “national” or “global”
concerns, the teaching of leaf art or any other
region-based traditional crafts at the primary and
secondary levels, allows for the development of a
socio-psychological link between individual or groups of
students and the locale. [So, this is the marsh where I
got my nipa leaves. So, this is the bamboo grove where I
got my poles. So, this is a coconut tree from which we
get fronds...and so on.] This link serves as a basis
for forms of attachment to the land, people and all
things found within the territory of the so-called
“imagined community” of the nation. The teaching of
crafts as a central pillar in art education can
therefore not only become embedded (that is, actually
having some meaning and use to the people) in the
community or the locale, but also become embodied (that
means truly internalized values such as respect for the
environment) in the actions and practices of both
students and teachers. The creation of symbols and
meanings in the production and consumption of art is
therefore directly understood and directly felt. In
order to illustrate and to concretize the lesson, allow
me to cite examples. Japanese children are taught
origami (paper folding). Chinese children are taught,
among many others, the art of paper cut-out figures.
Therefore, does it not make sense—nationalistic,
aesthetic or otherwise—to teach Filipino children some
form of folk craft such as pastillas paper wrapper
cutting or basic mat weaving?
As
Timanlasa struggled to remember a particular technique
for weaving a coconut frond salingkat, I shifted
my gaze from her busy hands to the sea just outside
Hadji Musa’s house. The tide was ebbing and along with
its departure went a steady stream of plastics...candy
wrappers, shopping bags, skin-toner bottles and the
like. I wondered: have we really lost the meaning of
Rizal’s patria adorada? Have we really lost
respect for nature? Have we also turned myopic in the
face of our economic and moral poverty?
Timanlasa failed in her attempt at weaving a
salingkat. Instead, she made me two grasshoppers
with the coconut midribs serving as bouncing rods.
Natural, delightful and sincere...these are the words I
would use to describe her bunga (literally:
flower) or art—qualities that will, alas, perhaps be
lost in time.
That
evening, just before we were about to leave Sitangkay,
Timanlasa dropped by with a salingkat. It was
elaborate in both its ornamentation and production. It
showed at least five methods of basketry: braiding,
twisting, plain weave, herringbone weave and folding.
She had worked on it the whole afternoon upon taking our
leave. I thanked her profusely for her generosity. The
basket now occupies an exalted position on my
escritorio (writing cabinet desk) where it shall
stay to remind me of—slightly modifying O.D. Corpuz’s
words—our “...long road to becoming, or failing to
become, the nation that we can be.”
***Readers may visit the web site of Manlilikha at
www.manlilikha.org. |
