Pak ‘Gembok’ (Mr Padlock) leads Sanggar Widya Pramana, a Javanese traditional performance arts studio for underprivileged children. A self taught musician and a dancer; an ophiophilist (he has three pythons, he feeds them with live chickens).
He got his nickname because he has ways with padlocks and locks. He has a collection of knives and blades, some have been wetted by human blood.
Pak Gembok has shed his old skin. He lives a quiet life now with his wife and children, as an artist. His eldest son just got admitted to Universitas Gadjah Mada. School of engineering.
He’s good friend with Pak Edi, a healer. Like the Balinese counterpart, Javanese healer’s therapy involves massages, slicing your chakras with sacred keris, knocking your head with agate imbued with magic, or inflicting pain on other parts of your body that you forgot the original pain. Like many healers, he is also a purveyor of psychedelic potions and herbal cigarettes; a broker of antique collections.
Pak Edi’s agate ring
I became his willing patient (or subject?).
‘Your body shows you have a lot of repressed emotions,’ Pak Edi said.
‘Mood swings. You look composed on the outside but turmoils in the inside. Signs of PTSD.’
The mantras he performed, the parapsychology analysis, and the small talks about metaphysics made the healing experience ‘an intellectual decompression chamber’, a ‘high magic’—a LaVeyan Satanic Ritual. Being ‘read’ was scary for me, I felt vulnerable when someone could see through me. But it also made me relaxed and felt the human connection.
Pak Edi is not against modern medicine. His children are medical doctors. His wife, with her sharia views, wants him to abandon his ‘pagan’ practices though.
Pak Edi said that he and Pak Gembok were a band of warriors in their past lives, 3000 years ago. Fought side by side among or against the ranks of chariots and war elephants.
The sanggar provides training to children interested with karawitan, the Javanese traditional performance arts: dances, wayang kulit (shadow puppets), and gamelan.
Some of the kids have no formal education at all, some survivors of abuses. The arts may be the only luxury they have, something beyond survival needs. An existential outlet.
We had iftar with the sanggar at Iwak Kalen, courtesy of Tito as their patron. We all sat cross legged on plastic woven mats. The favourite dish was the grilled catfish, freshly caught straight from the ponds of the restaurant.
The menu
The smell of muddy fresh water and sweet soy sauce in hot and humid Jogja weather may be ‘anyep’, Pak Gembok said. But it is his favourite restaurant. His happy place.
We were graced with a welcome performance: a gamelan orchestra and a ronggeng dance. The dancer wore hijab, but the dance is sensual; the sounds of gamelan are mystical.
The performance arrested my attention. I pressed the shutter release. I was in the flow state: the subjects and the environments were aligned. Usually, I don’t like photographing Java’s tropical hues in colour—the light is either diluted by high humidity or flat bright under blazing sun. But I am pleased with the Kodachrome Classic based film simulation recipe I set on the X100T.
After the iftar, we shared a bottle of Bushmills Blackbush at Pak Gembok’s home. Pak Edi told us Javanese parables on drinking:
Eka padma sari: one shot, like a beetle suckling nectar;
Dwi amartani: two shots, humbled oneself–prone to any persuasion;
Tri kawula busana: three shots, everyone wears the commoner dress–becomes equal;
Catur wanara rukem: four shots, like a monkey fighting for rukam (fruit, Flacourtia rukam);
Panca sura panggah: five shots, fearless and shameless;
Sad guna waweka: six shots, paranoia;
Sapta kukila warsa: seven shots, like a soaked bird–babbling;
Nawa wagra lapa: nine shots, like an impotent tiger;
Dasa buta mati: ten shots, like a dead giant.
We stopped at third shots. We were officially friends by the first shot anyway. This year’s Ramadan’s blessings.
Sanggar Widya Pramana is one of the few sanggars with a complete set of wayang kulit. They hold regular performance every Kamis (Thursday) Wage. Honouring the arts’ heritage, the schedule follows the Javanese Calendar, the Anno Javanico—a mix between Gregorian, Islamic, and Saka calendar systems.
Yes, my day (and night) job is a dispute resolution lawyer. And yes, I am passionate about that—not just to make a living.
I’m human. I’m multifaceted. I am more than one thing, to quote David Whyte’s ‘Istanbul’.
Photography is one of my long-time other passions. While I am not a professional, I am no dilettante. I hope this exhibition serves as evidence to support such claim.
I was paid, ‘on assignment’ arrangement, for my expenses in this documentary photography scholarship. 12 photographers were assigned to cover the stories of health volunteers in Depok, Bekasi, and Bandung.
These invisible health workers implement the public health policies and initiatives at grass root level: identifying Covid infections in their neighbourhood, assisting underprivileged patients with the paperworks for accessing public healthcare. They are working closely with public clinics and hospitals and local government apparatus.
Observing them and representing them in a visual story have been an exercise of the Good Life. To understand people outside my socio-economic bubble.
I travelled to Sri Lanka in 2018. It was a difficult time for me. While I did not suffer any financial hardship, it was the first time after 11 years of seemingly unstoppable career in private practice I became unemployed.
It was a debilitating experience. In this consumer capitalist society, we take our identity from how we make a living. Our self worth is measured by how productive we are. The main metric is how much money we make.
I clung to my identity as a lawyer like a flotation device. When I had to let it go, I sank. The profession which demanded much of me and given much to me was lost.
I travelled with this hanging anxiety. A blurry sense of self.
It’s true that you can’t escape your thoughts no matter where you go. At Ella’s Rock, I stepped closer to the edge. I was thinking of jumping. The idea of ending the mental sufferings in beautiful vistas seemed romantic.
But my self-preservation instinct kicked in despite bouts of nihilism.
Sri Lanka, a Buddhist country, is also a prime centre for meditation retreats. I had been thinking of starting meditation, but at that moment I knew it was urgent to start. Just like a serendipity, I found a copy of Hermann Hesse’s Siddartha in the bookshelf of Highest Peak Bungalow guest house in Nuwara Eliya.
South Asia is photogenic. However, I was not ready to brave the intensity of the second most populated country in the world. A friend recommended Sri Lanka. Smaller in size and population density.
India Lite.
The two South Asian countries, being neighbours, have had a rather tense relationship since ancient times. In the Ramayana myth, Lanka is the kingdom of giants. King Ravana kidnapped Queen Sita of Ayodiya (India). His husband, King Rama, waged war to reclaim her.
In modern times, tension between the ‘native’ Sinhaleses and the Tamil minorities–brought by the English colonists to work on tea plantations–is still present. Unlike their Commonwealth peer Singapore, which adopted English as lingua franca, the modern Ceylon insisted on Sinhalese to assert cultural primacy of the majority population.
The Sri Lankan people are not camera shy. In convention with the stereotype of South Asians, they were happy to pose. I may be guilty of voyeuristic exoticism, but I am genuinely interested in my subjects. Their willingness to trust me in recording a piece of their soul is something I do not take for granted. Some of them lend a helping hand to me as a traveller. I try to be a mirror when I am photographing: a magic mirror, reflecting with my sentiency–connecting, sharing a brief moment of shared time space.
I am sure that my subjects have their woes. Most of them are not as well off as me, economically. But in our interactions, we were both happy. Just to smile at each other. Maybe we distract each other’s miseries with our foreignness.
I read the news that Sri Lanka is bankrupt–the government is bankrupt. The economic collapse led to institutional collapse. I wonder how my subjects are now. I hope they are persevering.
Arkademy Project is a photography collective focusing on critical and reflective photography with an interdisciplinary approach. Translation: documentary, street, travel–human interest photography. My kind of genres.
I browsed their website, the mentors’ portofolio. I knew instantly that I wanted to join their tribe. These are the photographs I am drawn to; the photographs I want to make: not just aesthetically pleasing but also meditations on human experience.
To be a photographer as an intellectual and an artist.
I only had one day to curate and submit my photo series. I got the information two days before the deadline (from an Instagram post, sponsored). I was not sure if I’d get the award. I have made entries to photography competitions before. Never successful (rightfully, when I saw the winners).
I am not a professional photographer, but I am no dilettante. I am always wary of using the word ‘passion’. They have been overused by us, millennials. But I am passionate about photography.
I may not turn this into a profession. I don’t need to make money from it. Maybe I’d progress faster if I choose to make a living from photography. But this financial detachment makes me unencumbered by the ‘market demand’. Of course, I risk being too self indulgent.
I am glad that I decided to stay alive back in Sri Lanka. ‘To live the question’, as Rilke said. The photography scholarship is a tangible answer.
I have not yet been able to love myself in the way people without a complex PTSD can. I still feel the need to attach an identifier, labels, to myself. I just realised that those labels are not fixed and I can use more than one. I chose identities which are relevant to the situation present.
I would do photography despite not getting any award. But getting the photography scholarship, an external affirmation and recognition, feels nice.
The impostor syndrome within me asks: ‘Did I get the scholarship because I am good or because the other applicants are bad?’ I did ask how many applicants applied out of the selected 12 photographers: only 50.
However, when life gives you an opportunity you must seize it. It does not matter if the opportunity is a dumb luck.
When I met the other awardees and saw their submissions, I realised how competitive the selection was. I felt more inadequate. Most of them are younger than I yet their photographs show immense depths, which require maturity.
I knew that I’d learn a lot not just from the mentors, but also from fellow participants.
I sold my Canon EOS 6D MKII and the lenses. It was a difficult and emotional decision. I have travelled with the camera and made memories. It is an excellent camera, a very capable one. Ready for all circumstances. Except I only shoot in 35mm and 50mm focal lengths. This made the camera an overkill. Too bulky.
I often left it at the hotel and carried on with my iPhone or X100T. I hate to admit that I was wrong when I upgraded from the 500D; DSLR is becoming obsolete. The advent of mirrorless full frame digital cameras made sure of it. I held on to the 6D because of its low light performance and fast auto-focus. But physical size does matter, not just technological performance.
Leaving the 6D unused is a waste of a great camera. Somewhere there is someone who can benefit from owning and using it. I had a good run with the EOS system. It is the system I learned photography seriously with.
My dry box looks so empty. But when you let go, you do not just make physical space. You are making room for changes in your life. Hopefully, for the better.
The EOS system made me a proper photographer. It is by Canon I know my aperture, shutter speed, focal lengths, compositions and bokeh. Wielding a DSLR makes me look like a photographer—despite I don’t have fancy hats and scarfs.
Self-portrait, 2015
Now I am at the stage where I don’t want to look like a photographer. Just an individual living or travelling, casually. Trying to see places and people; to be interested and pay attention.
When a photographer changes a camera system, he changes his religion. Adopting the Leica M-system is a great leap of faith. No one needs a luxury camera. How do one justify the stripping down of features and the increase of price? By measuring and re-evaluating what really matters. Do you ever use or even touch camera settings other than dialling up to ‘P’, ‘Av’, ‘Tv’, review playback, and white-balance? How often do you use the video recording feature?
The M-system reduces everything to basic necessities. Drawing with light is the art of seeing. You are not merely documenting. You are sketching your perceptions, reflecting your views to the world.
The system’s architecture of choice makes the photographer assume a correct posture in photographing; to be intentional in the exposure triad—the holy trinity of photography: aperture width, shutter speed, focus and composition. This is not friction, this is traction.
The small size makes the rangefinder inconspicuous. The shutter clicks are discreet. The photographer can easily carry it anywhere, the subjects can see his face.
Purist, minimalist. Unobtrusive.
I can argue about the engineering and built quality. The M cameras are made of brass and iron. It can withstand extreme environments and weather. From the arctic tundra to deserts, warzones and ballrooms.
The vanity factor is also an appeal. The pride of owning a luxury item without being loud. The “look-at-me-but-don’t-look-at-me” brag. In this social media era, where “likes” are validation to good photography, Leica is a reminder of what matters the most in photography. When I am photographing with the M-system, I can let go of the idea of getting “likes”. I have owned a Leica, the most premium camera system for small format. I do not need the opinion of the masses.
Leica’s price point forced me to be more serious in my photographic endeavours. Now I have spent significant money on tools. I need to improve my skills. I read more books, I took courses and workshops. I got to know more about Henri Cartier-Bresson and, most importantly, the Tao of Photography. I got the validation I needed: that you do not need to be a commercial photographer to call yourself a photographer. I may be an amateur, but I am no dilettante.
I have come to the realisation that photography, as with writing, is my self-expression. I ceased to see photography and writing as separate. The great photographers are readers, first and foremost. They are capable of expressing themselves through words, spoken and written. Cartier-Bresson was a writer and a painter. The only way to train your observations is to read great books and to immerse yourself in art.
HCB embodied photography as the art of seeing. “Taking photographs is a way to understand and a way to live more intensely.”
A photographer is also a witness. We have our biases. We tend to see what we want to see. To be partisan in the event we witnessed. To give narratives—testimonials—according to our prejudice. An image, a photograph, is a representation of reality which can be worth a thousand words. It can be manipulated or used for manipulations; the real event captured can be contextually different than what is presented to the viewers. Consequently, there is an ethical aspect of photography. A reliable witness, despite their biases, must strive to tell the truth.
Yes, truth can be subjective and debatable, but witnesses shall not deliver false testimonials intended to mislead or misrepresent. Even when one practises salon photography, the sculptor-kind photographer expresses his surreal art by making photographers akin to fiction. He is trying to tell the truth by lies. This is different from propaganda, in which one twists the truth to tell lies.
I look forward to travelling with my new camera system. It is when you shoot you are practising photography. I am most inspired to make pictures whenever I travel. I have new thoughts, stimulated by new environments and novel subjects. I am escaping, no—wandering—beyond the banality of everyday life.
In the words of Ratna Mohini, “Yes, it is good to travel the world, but above all the world has to travel in us.”
Erik Prasetya photographs Jakarta with a Leica M. Cartier-Bresson, Salgado, and a long list of Magnum photographers’ works testified its prowess. The original rangefinder camera. Classic timeless design with the iconic red dot (or subdued, if you don’t want to announce ‘expensive camera’).
I have always had a crush with the M since I saw Blood Diamond; Jennifer Connelly wielding the M among hard men with Kalashnikovs and Armalites. I may never cover an armed conflict, but I practice photography the most when I am travelling.
Rangefinders are the happy medium between size and performance. Bigger firepower than smartphones, smaller than DSLRs. The ergonomics of a real camera is always better for making pictures. Smartphones’ features are distracting. When you’re travelling, you want to save your phone battery for navigating—and posting those pictures.
Never a best value camera. M’s lack of auto-focus at that price point was a deal breaker for me, a mere photography enthusiast.
Settled with the poor man’s Leica, Fuji X100T. Not exactly a rangefinder, a premium point and shoot. Beautiful retro (Leica-like) design with a pancake lens equivalent to 35mm and f2.0 aperture—an ideal street photography camera. Attached Lensmate’s thumb-rest and red lizard soft release button for better stability and look.
My EOS 6D and X100T are all that I need for travel photography. I have realised that when a picture is not good enough, it’s usually because you’re not close enough. Bang Bang Club. I use 50mm and 35mm lenses.
I was a contented traveler-photographer. Until the pandemic.
In the last months of 2020, I was demoralised—perhaps even depressed. I was burning out from the dullness of isolated days. I was running out of my resiliency in enduring the pandemic days. I found it hard to finish books I am reading, to choose which film to watch, or even to decide where to eat when dining out.
I wanted to write a New Year post. Something about surviving 2020. I had so much insights from 10 months of ‘house-arrest’. But I was unable to find the words. I sat and stare at the blank word processor page. When I force-typed the words, they were vapid.
I tried photographing my neighbourhood: potholed and cat shitted roads; government or community sponsored banners with vapid jargons (‘Bersama kita lawan COVID-19’); rows of ruko(shophouses) housing SMEs with alay copywriting: ‘Alpucok’ (alpukat kocok), ‘Kedai Netizen’. Digital images are extremely low cost to make and store, but they are not even worth to be captured.
Naturally, I was not alone. Even creative professionals felt similar burnout. My London host brother, Adithio Noviello, lost interests in photography—a career threat for him. He decided to return to film photography. He picked up his old Bronica ETRSi and started shooting again. He said analog photography allowed him to slow down, to savour more the process of making a picture.
Photography as therapy.
Iyo’s posts piqued my interest in analog photography. In pre-pandemic times, it felt senseless to revert back to impractical photographic equipment when you can spend your resources for travel.The subjects and the environment are always the more decisive factors in making a picture than your kits.
But I needed something novel to stimulate my mind. Thus begin my research.
I never used a medium format camera like Iyo’s Bronica. My search got me to Negative Feedbackrecommending Mamiya 7 and Romanas Naryškin’s review on Mamiya RZ67. Mamiya 7 seems to be better suited for travels, but you’d shoot from your chest with RZ67—allowing you to make better eye contact with your subjects.
Romanas reminded his readers that taking picture with analog camera will not make you a better photographer, but it will make you take pictures in a different way. He admits the impracticality of shooting with RZ67. It is a choice he made with heart, not head.
I spent weeks ruminating on the compactness of Mamiya 7 and the shooting experience of RZ67. However, when I saw the price of 120mm film rolls, I decided to start with 35mm.
The cheapest way is to use my father’s Nikkormat again. But I want a small format camera that I’d take when travelling. Negative Feedback recommended Minolta TC-1, a point and shoot with 28mm lens. It is not available in Indonesia. Another problem: it’s so hipster (try searching ‘#minoltatc-1’).
My further search led to ‘the best camera ever made’. Sounds heavy for a 1954 technology, but it’s a Leica. After watching Youtube videos and reading blogs about the M3, I knew that she’s the one. I have always been in love with the M after all.
Yet, I was worried that I won’t make good pictures; that I would be wasting money. What if this craving for analog photography is just a phase? Will I actually want to travel with a film camera, risking missed shots of priceless moments? 36 unreviewable-undeletable shots with full manual control seems to require so much skill.
The M3 does not have a built-in lightmeter. If I rely on my current light reading skills or the rule of the average from Kodak Pocket Guide to 35mm Photography, the learning curve would have large error margins (costly in terms of money and, worse, moments). Leicameter seems to be a complicated apparatus. Most modern lightmeters’ designs are not aesthetically compatible with the M3 design.
Thankfully, KEKS EM01 is an easy to use digital lightmeter. Its compact minimalist box shaped design is compatible with the M3’s. The hot/cold shoe attachment, unfortunately, is flimsy white plastic.
I found the justification for the acquisition of the M3 from Jillfit’s post (‘It takes a lot of courage to be willing to suck at something’) and Michael Ramage’s (‘Do something for yourself this year, get better at something…old. Find yourself again’). Digital cameras are my comfort zone photography, analog camera will drive me out of it.
So I went to Joelcam. They had two M3s for sale: a single stroke and a double stroke shutter release lever. The double stroke is the older version, more ‘vintage’ (I checked the serial numbers on f22cameras.com, the double stroke was made in 1955; the single 1962). Function wise, double stroke can better prevent accidental shutter release. Conversely, you can lost milliseconds for readying the shutter release.
The double stroke’s body is in better conditions. The single stroke has more wear and tear. I don’t mind cosmetic wear and tear as long as the camera works; the weathered look also gives that vintage feel (and makes it cheaper).
Arifin of Joelcam made his sales pitch: more and more photographers are turning to analog. Investment wise, analog camera price is not as depreciative as digital. He didn’t really need to pitch the M3. The moment I walked to the store, I already made my decision.
The M3 viewfinder is designed for 50mm lens. I’d love to get a Leica lens—the Summicron, Summarit, or Summilux. But I thought it is best to start with something cheaper: the Voigtlander Nokton 50mm f1.2.
Leica M3 with Voigtlander Nokton 50mm f1.2 and KEKS EM01 Lightmeter
Joelcam gave me a complimentary Kodak Gold 200 roll film. It became my first roll for my M3.
I walked out the store with the M3 single stroke. Anxious and excited, like successfully asking a lady for a first date. Hoping everything will work out yet knowing everything could be a disappointment. Downloaded and consulted the manual, watched video on how to load the film roll.
The M3 is heavier than it looks. The shutter speed options are limited from B to 1/1000. I never had to compensate the viewfinder parallax before. I was worried that I would only get a few good pictures or none at all. Dropped my first film roll at Rana Lab when finished it. A few hours later, the developed results were emailed to me.
Dapit the Builder (Kodak Gold 200)
I am glad that my success rate in making good pictures is not bad at all, especially for first time user. Matt Day is right. The Nokton produces visible vignetting in low light conditions. However, it is a great lens with good value.
The M3 is the first camera with which I do photography for the sake of photography. I read that the M3 is not a camera for working professionals but for artists. I am not at the level of an artist, but I am not a working professional. The fully mechanical functions and minimalist features, as well as the delayed gratification of seeing the results, allow me to enjoy again the thrill of shutter clicking and the excitement of anticipations. No white balance setting, no ISO adjustments. Just shutter speed, aperture, and focus.
My choice of the negative have direct and almost unalterable impact to the images. I found joy in experimenting with the negatives. After the Kodak Gold, I tried film rolls from a Ciamis firm, Lapan Film Lab: the BW400 and Cine200. They are half the price of established brands. My verdict: very grainy and inconsistent exposures in low light. The hidden costs of missing moments can be larger than expected. In anyway, I’m a Leica owner. I should be able to afford the investment of better (pricier) negatives.
Mini Cooper (Lapan BW400)
I am glad that I didn’t decide on Minolta TC-1. A point and shoot would have lessened my photography experience. If I am only looking for the analog look on the images, I could have used one of those filter apps.
I want my skills to match the fine apparatus I am using. I researched on black and white photography books. The first authoritative name appeared from my research is Ansel Adams, the father of straight photography, I acquired his trilogy The Camera; The Negative; and the Print, which unfortunately are too technical so I only skimmed them. Still, I was enlightened of my ignorance on many photography terms (and even the existence of large format cameras).
I bought Lambrecht’s Way Beyond Monochrome. The book focuses on developing and printing film. Too advanced for someone who have only loaded fewer than 10 film rolls in his adult life.
The references section, however, is a map to gold mines. Sontag’s On Photography is on the top of ‘Art, Perception, Composition, and Lighting.’ But another unfamiliar name kept reappearing: Mortensen, William. His books The Command to Look and The Model are mentioned as the classics.
I followed the rabbit down the hole.
Command is a book on how to make an impactful image with the anti-thesis of the straight (purist) photography. Adams dubbed Mortensen as the Anti-Christ and used his influence to exile Mortensen from the mainstream photography. Mortensen approach is to engineer a photograph in such a way using psychological nudges to make the viewer look, see, and enjoy.
The ‘pictorial imperatives’ constitute of shapes/patterns associated with our primal fear as well as universally appealing themes. The shapes/patterns are diagonals, S-curves, triangles, and dominant mass. While the themes are sex, sentiment, and wonder. Mortensen’s ‘pictorial imperatives’ are Roland Barthes’ ‘punctures’ in Camera Lucida.
Mortensen’s formula for two dimensional visual arts was adopted by Anton Szander LaVey in creating the rituals for the Satanic Church—rituals are aimed to satisfy the carnal desires of men and women, employing psychodrama theatrics which are often sensual and terrorising (like in Eyes Wide Shut).
LaVey’s The Devil’s Notebook feels like Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil or Hesse’s Demian, but with pagan carnivals. Perhaps, Satan is Abraxas. Satanism is not really about worshipping Satan or eating babies. It’s an alternative to mainstream religions and consumerism herd mentality. An atheistic philosophy of individualism based on responsible pursuit of pleasures.
I was a sixteen year old high school kid, sitting on a bench of a warung on a Saturday night; waiting for my friends who have cars to pick me up to party at one of the live music cafes in Kemang (was it Barbados?). The proprietor sat beside me, smoking a clove cigarette. He inhaled and exhaled nicotine and tar fumes. Contented in cancerous indulgence. He was illuminated by a dangling incandescent lightbulb powered by stolen electricity from the streetlights.
I wished I had a camera and the photography skills to take his portrait.
I couldn’t afford to pursue photography yet that time. But what really prevented me was Dazed and Confused teenage life. Gaining approval from my peers was more important. Spent my pocket money on cellphone credits, internet cafes, fast fashion, marijuana and cheap liquors (which tasted so bad you’d have to mix them). Got into a gang, but not a band; soft drugs and violence, but no sex other than masturbations.
Now.
I am reading books, on photography and other topics.
I have an outstanding promise to Erik Prasetya: to write an essay on his (then) newly published photo book Women on Street. I have written a rough draft and note sketches on my journal. However, I never follow it through.
I am fan of Erik’s works (I took his Street Photography Course). I just don’t have the same interests to Jakarta as him.
This is a sprawling kampung. It hasthe worst traffic jam in the world. It’s orthodox and homogenic. It’s superficial and a starkly inequal society. It worships anything Western (Hollywood, Louis Vuitton bags, Panerai watches, Supreme anything, and recently Taco Bell) but glorifies the so-called Eastern (Islamic) values; so sexual but laden with religious guilts. A society claiming to value individualism, yet imposes so much emphasis on social gatherings and, therefore, camps.
The aspiring metropolis is bearable to me only because of my close personal relationships and relative career success. In normal times (the pre-pandemic world), I could escape this city. To spend that money made here for travels. But the pandemic forces me to stay. Even worse, it even barred me from meeting my friends. Those video calls help, but not a substitute for in person meetings where we can just be silent in each other’s company.
However, as a knowledge worker, I can now work from home with little frictions. Being spared of Jakarta’s traffic reduces a lot of stress.
I live in Jagakarsa. A very middle class neighbourhood. An ugly one, almost suburban. Potholed roads, cat shitted, suicidal mopeds. The local mosques engage in daily shouting matches with each other when reciting prayers—at dusk, evening, and dawn. One particular muezzin is so bad, I wonder if he’s the son of the mosque’s imam to be allowed near the microphone. Kiosks and food stalls with bland or unaesthetic designs with alay copywriting. There is Gudskul, a cultural oasis by Ruang Rupa, but other than that you have to buy your own shalimar.
We tried walking around the neighbourhood to be less sedentary during the semi-lockdown, PSBB. I tried to see the aesthetics in the banality as Erik does, but failed. With no foreseeable travel plan, I didn’t touch my cameras for almost a year.
I miss taking pictures. However, for me, photography is about the subjects and the environments. I have been living in Jakarta for more than 30 years, yet I cannot ‘see’ my home. But even Brandon Stanton of Humans of New York failed photographing Jakarta. Erik himself said that Jakarta is difficult to photograph, the weather is either sunlight overexposure or grey overcast—always with humidity, diffusing the ambient lights.
There is such thing as ugly beautiful, but most Jakarta is ugly ugly. Just look at the bathroom tiles used for the exterior of local mosques. Sterile luxury may not be charming, yet it is always better than vapid poverty. In Humans of New York, Jakartans’ life stories are always about the struggle of the sandwich generation. Despite an aspiring metropolis, Jakartans’ life aspirations seem to revolve only around family and religion. The uniformity make them banal subjects.
I do not say this out of spite or unkindness (self-depreciating reversed nationalism, maybe). Indonesia is a third world country which was under authoritarian regime for most of its existence. We are not used to diversity of thoughts and ideas or original self-expression (whatever it is, given our memetic psyche); we stand out to blend in. Thus our love for uniforms and matching clothes within our peer group—e.g. sarimbit. The clannish communal social structure is a safety net since the state has not been able to provide welfare security.
The absence of stimulating subjects and environments muted my interests in photography for a while. Until Instagram ads forwarded me Greg Williams’ Candid Photography Skills online course. With the downtime and restriction on practice from the isolation, I thought maybe it is time to catch up on theories. So I bought the course and was inspired with Greg’s concept of candid photography (which corrected my misunderstanding, ‘candid’ is not just discreet observer’s view but can also be participatory). I never really read the photo books I owned, to look at the pictures slowly. I reread Women on Street and also Mysterious Happiness by Mathias Heng and Anna Bärlund.
Then it came to me that Greg, Erik, and Mathias/Anna worked with different subjects from socio-economic backgrounds: the members of the high society (Hollywood celebrities), the middle class (of Jakarta), and the marginalised people (denizens of Manila’s slums). All of them work in human-interests genre.
When it comes to socio-economic division, the middle-class is the most vulnerable to banality— the least interesting class. The sufferings of poverty can be painted as revolutionary, reactionary, or at the very least, romantic. One can find life’s meaning in endurance, after all. The high society glamours are the aspirations, the Dream (American or elsewhere). Give a humane perspective on success; bring the elites down to earth and they become relatable.
Everyone loves glitter and grit. The upper and the lower classes are high stimuli.
The middle-class, with little or no cultural references and capital, are simply consumers—which experience is mediocre.
Seno Gumira Adjidarma, in his collection of essays Affair, described the middle-class experience of Jakarta. The superficiality, in which he coined the term ‘kibul-kibul’, of Jakartans who can look the part as cosmopolitans but subconsciously village people, e.g. smart professional suit and tie, but would change to sandals in the office. In Women on Street, a lady changing her stilettos to walk the streets of Jakarta after work—lest she’d trip from the potholes or easily elbowed and shoved away in Darwinian commutes.
The dreams of the mediocre, the basic, middle-class are simple: new mobile phones every year, new car every five years, weekend recreations at the malls, eating out at (not cheap but not so good) chain restaurants, and to pursue one or more trending hobbies (current pandemic trends: cycling, gardening, and Siamese fighting fishes).
How Erik see the aesthetics in such banality is impressive and puzzling.
Perhaps the answer can be found in his essays in Estetika Banal & Spiritualisme Kritis and his biography Cerita Cinta Enrico. Erik was not born in Jakarta. He came from Sumatra. He’s a perantau. For him, as other domestic migrants, Jakarta the capital is (or was) a metropolis. Yet, unlike most utusan daerah, he is privileged to have a mother with a good taste (despite she was a Jehovah Witness) and an intellect with vigorous activism (during his student years in ITB, he participated in many protests against the New Order).
Claiming to be a member of the middle-class, Erik could not nor wished to leverage the stimuli of his subjects with voyeurism or exoticism perspectives.
Maybe Erik loves Jakarta because the city gave him the chance to acquire cultural capital he could not have outside Java? He has travelled extensively, he has seen world great cities, but he became of an artist in Jakarta.
As a born and bred Jakartan, who climbed the socio-economic ladders both culturally and economically, I found Jakarta is easier to live now compared when I was younger. Erik’s anthropological visual records in Women on Street remind me that there have been improvements in infrastructures. Sudirman, the main boulevards, is more walkable now. The MRT, despite its limited reach, made the main business districts much more accessible. The advent of ride hailing apps make owning a car less of a necessity. E-wallets nudged Jakartans to be a more cashless society. While e-commerce platforms allows me to avoid shopping malls.
Perhaps one misrepresentation of Jakarta in Woman on Street is there are only few women in hijab. In Jakarta, the richer the area, the fewer the hijabi women (despite the Muslims are still the majority population). Inversely, in places where people from various socio-economic backgrounds rub shoulders—the bus stop and train stations and pedestrian walkways—and less affluent or suburban areas, the women cover themselves.
Maybe that’s why he titled a chapter ‘Looking for the faces of women who may disappear in the future.’ More and more women are covering themselves as a symbol of their faith. Glamorous and hedonistic lifestyle as portrayed by those artis ibukota is inaccessible to most people. Those who can afford them yet sensitive enough realised that the consumerist-exhibitionist pursuit of happiness is futile and spiritually barren. With little or no access to initiate oneself to philosophy and art, Jakartans mostly rely on organised religion as a panacea to their existential questions.
The hijabs have practical purpose of preventing sexual harassment, some say. Jakarta is a patriarchal city, women in public places are always subjected to the male gaze and catcalls. Jakarta women often wear jackets, shawls, or anything to cover their shoulders despite the heat and humidity; as well as earbuds to dampen those catcalls when walking. I, however, am skeptical the effectiveness of hijab as countermeasure to sexual harassment; a hijabi coworker said she is often catcalled by ‘Assalamualaikum, Bu Haji!’
In anyway, a photographer sees what he want to see and present what he want to present. Women of Street is intended to be a street photography project, not journalism. Erik wants a Jakarta that is more inclusive and female friendly. A less orthodox and, yes, more cosmopolitan, cultured, and liveable city.
Erik is among the few of Indonesian photographers who can write to explain his ‘art’. In fact, I don’t know any other Indonesian who does that. He posited that Indonesian photography scene is short on precedents. The Indonesian maestros rarely left literatures on their take to the art of photography. The younger generations have to start from scratch; no wonder most Indonesians stuck at craftsmen level. The artisan photographers are usually trained and educated overseas. Erik’s books, including Women on Street, are his dedication as an educator.
