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Jak.art.a Under the Bridge

Once in a while, everyone goes through one of Those Days. Days when your brain is so overworked its constant buzz keeps you from resting, your heart is so weary its heaviness interferes with your breathing, and your courage is so deflated your composure is rapidly unraveling. Time is a constraint and a luxury during Those Days, but one needs to steal some to refresh to avoid hitting breaking point. On the two hours I could steal on a Saturday morning, I decided to take a hint from Red Hot Chili Peppers and literally went under the bridge for an up close and personal look at some Jakartan street art.

Together with Cosmic Boy, a new friend who uncannily is going through the exact same kind of Those Days, I scoured the underbelly of Gatot Subroto, Sudirman and Dukuh Atas… and it turned out that street art is good for the brain, heart, and courage.

Street art teases the mind. I expected to only see some Technicolor pop art explosion at first, but it turned out that the murals and graffiti all had a story to tell. It was hardly code-cracking for some. The usual mocking of politicians in newspaper comic strips, for instance, took the form of row of animal-headed men in suits with reference to current events in their speech bubbles. Others, like the Berbeda Merdeka 100% tag line seen in many pieces, needed more background to decipher. The tag line was actually a collective call by street artists across the nation to maintain diversity in Indonesia after a series of violent attacks against the Ahmadis last year, which took Twitter by a small storm but never got really picked up by the mainstream mass. A few are less straightforward, like the stencil poster asking ‘Have you checked on yourself and your family today?’ I would like to think that this is a poke at the workaholic automatons Jakarta has a knack to turn people into, but this could also be a discreet call for voluntary HIV testing. The anonymity of the artwork and our lack of knowledge on the street art scene in Jakarta made it challenging to do a proper contextualization of the art pieces, but it was tantalizing to try.

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The underbelly tour was also a pilgrimage to labours of love. Street art is not exactly a legal activity, with the few exceptions where the authorities actually invited artists to paint murals in certain parts of the city. In fact, a spray painter once told me that I need to be able to cry on demand in order to come and see him in action, in case the police busted us. Street art is a clandestine night time activity, self-funded, and risky. A poet performer friend of mine said that her art is not hers, it’s for the world to see… and these street artists may take all those risks to convey their message to the world. Who are actually listening, though? Millions of people pass the murals, spray paintings, and stencil posters every day, but even an intrigued person like me needed this walking tour to appreciate them and extract their meaning. Maybe this is exactly what labour of love means: it does not matter what the outcome would be because it’s unbearable not to try and express yourself. That you would rather crash and burn trying than never doing anything for your passion to see the daylight. Under the sun, I could feel that street art is a labour of love. And it warmed my heart a little.

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Ultimately though, it takes courage to do street art. Not just because of its questionable legality, but because the streets are a battleground. There is the Government, whose wish is to keep Jakarta’s protocol streets pristine and presentable and make exceptions only for the Corporate, who is willing to expend a huge amount of money for billboards and ad spaces to reap multiplied profits. Street artists are battling these actors, as evidenced by my favorite piece in the trip: a straightforward ‘Public space does not belong to the corporate’ statement spray-painted across an ad-space. The Corporate is fighting back, a huge Magnum billboard covers a mural just a couple of steps away, and so is the Government, who painted over street art every once in a while. The Non Governmentals seem to be a part of this battleground; there are some murals that carry a very NGO-ish message of the power of citizen journalism and look like they were commissioned pieces. But ultimately, street artists battle the public and one another. The underpass in Sudirman is a chaotic place, with murals and posters painted and plastered over older ones as each artist fight each other to reclaim space. ‘Demokrat bangsat’ (Damned Democrats – the ruling party in Indonesia) was scrawled with a marker over several posters marketing citizen journalism. A poster saying ‘Pray for Sukhoi’ got an additional letter and now reads ‘(S)pray for Sukhoi’. I would like to think that this is a hook at the tendency of the Twitterverse to #prayforsomething rather than talking about actually doing something. Not only street art is not immortal, it is also open for debate, critique, and transformation beyond the artists’ control. And it takes courage to face this.

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The two stolen hours spent under the bridge was followed with me and Cosmic Boy spending triple the amount of time for a reading and writing mini workshop for our individual projects, accompanied by a never ending flow of rice crackers in an old Dutch house in the Cikini area. It was, after all, still one of Those Days, but it’s my labour of love – a passion that occupies my being beyond a day job. At least now I know I would go through this all over again to give my passion a chance to see the daylight. Because it is more excruciating not to try at all. For the time being, the street art has given my overworked brain a pleasant hum that allows me to work at a more relaxed pace, my weary heart got a little lighter so breathing comes naturally once more, my deflated courage was puffed up… and I am ready to charge ahead.

Jakarta, 16 June 2012

Gypsytoes

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“Gila Rip! Kita di New York!”

Saya dan Arip Syaman, sahabat saya yang ajaib, ada di New York. Terdengar ganjil. Tapi begitulah adanya. Kami pun masih sering tidak mempercayainya. “Gile men! Kita di New York! Becandanya parah ni!’ kata saya kegirangan. “Gile men! Kita di New York! Becandanya parah ni!” kata Arip Syaman, yang saking girangnya tidak bisa mencari ekspresi yang lain. Dan kami masih mengulang-ngulang ekspresi yang sama kepada satu sama lain sepanjang perjalanan. Saat kami melihat patung Liberty, saat kami keluar dari stasun kereta dan melihat Times Square yang gegap gempita, atau saat kami melihat Manhattan di malam hari sambil berjalan menyeberangi Brooklyn Bridge.  Kami tak percaya, tapi begitulah adanya. Kami ada di New York. Hari-hari yang akan selalu kami kenang dan ceritakan kepada anak cucu kelak. “Screw you grand kids! Kakek ancur-ancur gini pernah ketiduran di Central Park!”

Dan kami pun berjalan, melihat Liberty di pagi hari, melamun di Central Park, berjalan kaki di Brooklyn Bridge melihat lampu-lampu Manhattan yang mulai menyala. Ah, begitu banyak film yang menampilkan adegan melankolisnya di jembatan itu. Pria yang tersadar akan cintanya lalu menghentikan taksi kuning khas New York dan berpacu menuju sang kekasih melewati gemerlap jembatan ini. Berjalan di atasnya rasanya sureal. Di banyak tempat kami masih terkesima dan nandak-nandak kegirangan. Norak minta ampun. Siapa pun kalian, akan ada saat-saat dimana kalian tidak akan mengakui kami teman.  Namun di atas semuanya, ada beberapa hal dalam perjalanan itu yang sungguh sangat berkesan dan sulit dilupakan.

Pertama, kami ke Bronx! Ini agak tidak normal, tapi ide impulsif ini tiba-tiba muncul.  Karena pengaruh film,  kami selalu mengidentikkan bagian ini sebagai jantung kekerasan New York. Perang antar gang,  obat terlarang, dan sejenisnya. “Kita musti ke sana men! Paling ga kita bisa bilang udah pipis di Bronx!” kata Arip.  Dan kami pun naik kereta menuju ujung Utara. Bahkan di kereta pun, saat kami memasuki wilayah Bronx, suasana agak lain sudah mulai terasa. Kereta mulai diisi pria-pria bertubuh besar , dengan wajah sangar dingin, tubuh bertato, mengikuti irama hip-hop yang mereka dengar di earphone nya, dan berbicara dengan aksen khas. “You got the stuff? A’aight man, you chill, i’ll pick it up,” kata pria sangar yang sedang bertelepon di sebelah saya. Saya menoleh Arip dan saling membayangkan kira-kira the stuff itu apa ya? Kami turun di daerah West Bronx Park, melihat taman dan daerah permukimannya. Pemandangan memang tampak seperti di film-film, tembok penuh grafiti, pria-pria Afro American atau Latin yang mengendarai mobil bergerombol dengan suara musik mendentum dan posisi mengemudi yang khas, atau mereka yang duduk-duduk bergerombol di tangga apartemen. Mungkin sebenarnya daerah ini baik-baik saja, tapi kami tidak banyak riset sebelumnya dan terlalu banyak dipengaruhi film, jadi ya kami sedikit gentar juga.  “Yakin mau lanjut Ted?” tanya Arip setengah menggoda setengah ragu. “Bodo, bantai man!” kata saya sok yakin. Saya membayangkan kalau salah satu saja dari mereka menggebug saya, cukup dengan tangan kiri, saya akan mati di tempat. Kami bahkan segan untuk sekedar mengambil foto. Kami terus berjalan putar-putar. Sempat juga menonton permainan basket setempat, melihat seorang pemain yang memaki-maki pelatihnya karena di ganti di tengah permainan. “Yo coach man!! You told me to play D, I played D, and you pulled me out! what’s wrong with you, dawg?!!’ dengan aksen yang khas. Saya geli bercampur segan.  Menjelang gelap, kami kembali ke Manhattan.

Oh, dan kami tidak sempat pipis di Bronx.

Kedua, Times Square. The crossroad of the world. Tempat yang begitu gegap gempita. Lampu-lampunya yang gemerlap, orang-orangnya yang lalu lalang. Begitu banyak hal menarik yang kami jumpai di sana, mulai dari Batman yang termakan usia, orang tua yang membawa spanduk permintaan uang untuk membeli mariyuana,  seorang remaja yang menyebarkan pesan cinta dengan mengajak semua orang berpelukan, cowgirl tua yang mengamen sambil telanjang, sampai demonstrasi menentang pembunuhan anggota Falun Gong di Cina. Tapi dalam perjalanan saya di sana ada sesuatu yang menyita perhatian dan membuat kami duduk berjam-jam.  Sekumpulan pria Afro American dalam pakaian unik ala panglima perang jaman dahulu sedang melakukan demonstrasi. Mereka rupanya berasal dari kelompok yahudi kulit hitam garis keras. Kami baru tahu kalau ada yang seperti ini. Mereka sedang berbicara lantang menghina ras kulit putih dan umat Kristiani pada umumnya. Saya terkesima, ini adalah siar kebencian, dan dilakukan di Times Square New York! Dan mereka terus menghina, menghujat, dengan suara menggelegar.  Namun yang lebih menarik bagi saya adalah seorang pria kurus yang ada di dekat mereka. Ia mengacungkan poster bertuliskan LOL (laugh out loud) menunjuk pada para penyiar kebencian itu. Dan ia melakukannya sendiri saja. Sungguh berani. Dan ini berlangsung berjam –jam tanpa terjadi apa-apa. Saya sempat berbicara dengannya, rupanya ia tidak sengaja lewat dan mendengar siar kebencian itu dan memutuskan untuk ikut berdemonstrasi menyatakan apa yang mereka katakan adalah sampah. Terkadang ia berkata pada para pejalan yang lewat, “Live comedy, People!” Sungguh saya kagum. Saat demokrasi berjalan, kebebasan berekspresi terlindung oleh hukum. Saya teringat beberapa hari sebelumnya di Jakarta, FPI membubarkan diskusi buku di Salihara dan aparat hukum justru berada disisi mereka yang mengedepankan kekerasan. Membayangkannya saya menghela nafas sedih. Sebelum pergi saya menyalami si pria kurus dan mengatakan betapa ia sungguh pemberani.

Dan yang ketiga, menonton musikal ‘Evita’ di Broadway. Arip menentang habis rencana ini tapi saya katakan padanya, jika saya belum menontonnya, saya tak akan bisa meninggal dengan tenang. Dan itulah yang saya lakukan, melihat Elena Roger memerankan Eva Peron. Membeli tiket dengan harga yang artinya saya memerlukan belas kasihan Arip untuk sewa penginapan malam itu. Tapi di sudut teater itu, saya adalah anak yang kegirangan minta ampun. Melihat Elena Roger, Michael Cerveris, dan Ricky Martin menari dan menyanyikan lagu-lagu Andrew Lloyd Webber yang begitu indah. Ada kesempurnaan di setiap detil gerak dan tarikan suaranya. Tersampaikanlah gairah, kesedihan, ambisi, dan keputusasaan dari perempuan yang pada suatu masa menjadi perempuan paling berpengaruh di Argentina itu. Saya terkesima dengan kisah dan lagu-lagu musikal ini semenjak saya duduk di bangku SMA. Lagu seperti High Flying Adore atau “I’d be surprisingly good for you” selalu membuat saya termenung atau tersenyum.  Dan hari itu saya melihatnya dalam versi terbaiknya. Di Broadway! Di akhir pertunjukan saya begitu terharu dan bertepuk tangan membabi buta.  Saya mengirim pesan teks kepada Gypsytoes mengatakan, “I’ll die a happy man..

Sebelum meninggalkan New York kami sepakat untuk sedikit minum-minum di bar nya para New Yorker pinggiran. Jadilah kami berjalan agak ke pinggir dan masuk ke sebuah bar kecil dan minum bir. Bar kecil dengan orang tua yang setengah mabuk, dua perempuan yang mampir untuk minum sebentar sebelum pergi ke sebuah pesta di daerah Brooklyn, bartender perempuan yang tampak perkasa, dan mesin pemutar musik yang memainkan lagu tua ‘Moon River’. Kebetulan sekali saya sangat menyukai lagu ini. Saya dan Arip bersulang lalu berkata riang, “Gile men! Kita beneran di New York!!”

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Twosocks, May 2012

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A Graveyard Morning in Jakarta

Graveyards have a special place in my heart.

It is no secret that I get particularly excited with ideas of the dead and the undead. I practically dragged my friends to the Capuchin catacombs in Palermo to get up, close, and personal with the skulls and skeletons of past centuries. I was grinning ear-to-ear in my picture with the skeleton of a Cypriot king. But most of all, almost two years ago in Paris, I learned that graveyards are a treasure chest. At first glance it may seem like a place for mourning, but in between the tombstones are stories of lives, how they are remembered, and even celebrated. I felt joy in discovering the love and affection in Oscar Wilde’s tomb, peppered with kisses in all shades of red from pink to vermillion, and laughed knowing that Jim Morrison’s grave is gated to prevent couples from fornicating on it.

I longed to be a tombstone detective again, to unearth stories of people past and how they are remembered. Finally for my birthday I went to Museum Taman Prasasti, the remnants of a Dutch gothic cemetery in Jakarta.

It was a hot, humid day, the grey clouds hanging low and the cracking red earth eagerly anticipating the shower. There were just the two of us in the yard, where statues of women wept side by side with praying cherubs. There were names and inscriptions, but they were mostly in Dutch, and between that the profane signs spray painted on some of the outer tombs, I felt lost at first. Where are the stories, the celebration of lives?

But then, we found Soe Hok Gie’s grave.

Gie was a student activist in 1960s, whose diary inspired generation after generation of Indonesians to look past their comfort zone and take up social and political causes. He died in his twenties, not from detainment or from drugs, the fate that so often befell people with passion as his, but from inhaling poisonous gas while mountain climbing.

I thought that his grave would be the star attraction of the museum, with signs and arrows highlighting its precise location. I thought that his tombstone would be the one of the greatest, grandest around, with flowers and letters placed lovingly around it. But no, it was small and simple and quiet, tucked away between other small and simple and quiet tombstones whose names I couldn’t even read.

A small angel, her hands clasped in prayer with a somber look, stared at the quotes in his modest tombstone: “Nobody knows the trouble I see, nobody knows my sorrow.” That may be the saddest parting words to a life that I could possibly think of and my heart broke a little bit for him. But then, remembering his life and his diary, maybe that is exactly how he would want to bid the world farewell. He lived his idealism in solitude.

The graveyard caretaker told us that university students, especially the mountain climbers, come once in a while to pay tribute to him. Letters and flowers are rarely left, but most of them would come with a tattered copy of his diary and read it next to his resting place. Knowing this made me feel better. They might not be lipstick kisses of devotion, but maybe this is how the solitary Gie would prefer his company – those who share his thoughts.

When we were about to leave, about a dozen people in old colonial costumes came with their old Dutch bikes and started circling the place. One of them led the way, stopping in almost every grave and telling stories of the lives hidden under them without the aid of any signs or card from the museum. Graveyards always have stories to tell, and in Indonesia, their stories are hidden in people instead of being in plain view.

Jakarta, 17 May 2012

Gypsytoes

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On a Quiet Day in West Bali

Saya akan mengenang sebuah Jumat sore di Bulan April sebagai hari dimana saya menemukan salah satu tempat yang membuat hati rasanya damai.  Tempat yang ingin saya datangi saat bersedih. Tempat dimana saya ingin melamun dan mengenang hal-hal indah.  Di sana, di sebuah teluk di Banyuwedang, dek kayu itu menjorok ke laut yang tenang.  Barisan hutan Bakau di ujung utaranya menjadikan tepian laut itu menjadi semacam laguna yang berair tenang. Di sana, di ujung dek itu, saya merasakan damai yang tak ternilai. Melihat perahu yang didayung perlahan, burung yang terbang rendah, kumpulan ikan terbang yang kerap melompat di antara air laut yang hening, warna biru kemerahan saat matahari terbenam, warna kuning kemerahan saat matahari terbit, gunung Raung yang menjulang gagah jauh di ujung utara.

Perjalanan ke ujung barat Bali ini sebenarnya cukuppenuh dan menyenangkan.  Begitu banyak yang saya dan Gypsytoes lakukan. Trekking ke tengah hutan musim di Taman Nasional Bali Barat, mendengarkan suara burung diantara gemercik sungai kecil yang mengalir di tengah hutan, atau  melihat terumbu karang sambil snorkeling di pulau Menjangan.  Namun diantara semuanya, yang paling saya nantikan dari sebuah hari adalah saat-saat saya berada di ujung dek kayu itu. Menjelang matahari terbenam saya sudah akan mandi dengan bersih dan duduk di sana melihat laut.  Sampai hari benar-benar gelap. Keesokan harinya menjelang matahari terbit saya sudah melamun di ujungnya dengan teh hangat yang nikmat.  Bagaikan anak yang penuh pengabdian. Sampai matahari benar-benar tinggi. Begitu terus sepanjang akhir pekan yang panjang itu. Sungguh hening, sungguh menenangkan.

Diantara perjalanan-perjalanan, banyak tempat yang telah memberikan perasaan damainya pada saya. Matahari terbit dari puncak gunung, suara binatang hutan, lagu merdu di jalanan yang lurus, matahari terbenam di pantai-pantai nan indah, dan banyak lagi. Namun ada sesuatu yang ajaib di ujung dek tepi laut yang biru kemerahan itu. Ada sesuatu dalam suara riak air yang terbelah dayung atau dalam siluet nelayan yang menambatkan perahunya di  teluk itu. Sesuatu yang menciptakan perasaan tenang yang belum pernah saya alami sebelumnya. Sesuatu yang tak kuasa saya jelaskan. Teduh, hening, damai. Mereka yang melankolis selalu mempunyai tempat pribadinya. Tempat yang memberinya ketenangan yang tak ternilai. Tempat untuk mereka pergi menyendiri. Senja itu, di ujung barat pulau Bali, saya menemukan tempat saya.

Twosocks, April 2012