Batiklopedia
At the 9th Gelar Batik Nusantara, held from June 24–28, 2015 at the Jakarta Convention Center, three beautiful pieces of cloth resembling paintings—but created through the batik process—were displayed prominently at the front of the exhibition room. A bespectacled man with a thick mustache could be seen squatting, mingling with other traders, and occasionally approaching prospective buyers who had been admiring his batik works for a while. His demeanor was less of a salesman and more of a curator. That man was the batik artisan Sapuan.
“Does the teacher really want to make batik?” asked the artist. “I was confused. It felt like he was mocking me.”
If you’ve ever seen Indosat phone credit vouchers adorned with batik motifs, those were limited edition vouchers launched to commemorate National Batik Day in 2013. The batik designs featured on those vouchers belonged to none other than Sapuan, a batik craftsman from Pekalongan.
By profession, he is a civil servant and science teacher at Paninggaran 2 Middle School in the Pekalongan area. However, the deep-rooted tradition of batik in his community and his heritage as the son of a textile entrepreneur led him to embrace batik. Since 2005, he has been juggling both professions.
In his early batik endeavors, he drew from various references but favored direct observation. When he needed an illustrator to interpret his ideas, he found one not far from his home. Sapuan began brainstorming with this artist and continued researching themes for his batik designs. One day, the artist asked him pointedly about his commitment. “Does the teacher really want to make batik?” Sapuan recalls being taken aback, interpreting the question as a taunt.
“To me, batik is a spiritual path. There are many ways to reach God. The ultimate happiness is meeting the Divine.”
He was even more surprised when the artist compared batik-making to borrowing God’s hand. Their creative chemistry lasted until the artist passed away. “I haven’t found anyone like him since, but I must keep going,” he remembers.
His concepts often exceeded his technical ability. “I’m not good at drawing, but I’m great at critiquing,” he jokes. “To me, batik is a spiritual path—there are many doors to God. The greatest joy is to meet Him.” In essence, for Sapuan, batik is a divinely sanctioned journey.
Creating a batik design holds unique expressive power. Batikology.org notes Sapuan’s works as carrying emotional weight—restlessness transferred onto fabric. His batik tells stories. For instance, the motif Garuda Angkrem symbolizes the birth of a wise and just leader to restore Indonesia’s glory. Other themes include Bimasena’s quest for the water of life and his encounter with Dewa Ruci, illustrated in the design Toward Suwung, and Oath of Three Eras, inspired by Youth Pledge Day.
Impact, Not the Goal
“From the artisan to the trader or buyer, batik must be blessed.”
Sapuan’s batik fabrics fetch spectacular prices—ranging from millions to hundreds of millions of rupiah—depending on the time and complexity involved. “For me, a batik piece might take a year or two. Commercially, it may not be profitable, but the soul of the batik lasts longer,” he states.
“If a batik is made perfectly or near-perfectly, it can last centuries. Even torn ancient batiks are displayed in prestigious galleries,” he adds.
The commercialization of batik, to him, must still be rooted in spirituality. “From artisan to seller to buyer, there must be mutual consent. Whether profit is large or small, the blessing in that consent is what matters.”
Some say making batik like Sapuan’s could leave you starving.
He argues that if batik-making is purely for income, the value is misplaced. “Let the money chase the batik,” he asserts. “If people love it, they’ll pay. Ultimately, they’re paying for something within themselves.”
Assigning fair value to batik is crucial—akin to fine art. “As long as the price of batik rises, I can improve my workers’ lives. If they prosper, batik won’t die.”
His long production times often puzzle other artisans. “They say making batik like me means you won’t eat. That touches on faith—as if our sustenance comes from our efforts alone.”
“People are more drawn to 10-digit figures because the worldly is more appealing.”
He flips the question: “Am I not still eating? Can I still smoke, host guests, send my child to school?”
If his batik-making meant starvation, it implies batik is just a means, not a divine cultural gift. If someone values his work at 100 million, it’s merely a side effect—not the goal. “People just love big numbers because the material world is so seductive.”
To reach that valuation, he must be disciplined in production. A batik that takes two years consumes capital for wages and materials. And it still depends on the right buyer—not just one who can afford it. “Being able doesn’t mean willing. I still have many unsold pieces at home.”
Production Method
“…if the batik is sold, the money circulates back into new batik production. From batik, by batik, for batik. That’s the cycle.”
On his production system, he ensures fair wages aligned with Pekalongan standards to avoid undercutting other artisans. Drawing from his experience as a teacher receiving various incentives, he applies the same structure to his team of 15–20 artisans.
He maximizes efficiency too. “I count the minimum production cost. One kerosene stove serves six workers. If only three use it, my fuel cost doubles.”
To maintain quality, he estimates how many workers are needed per piece. “With 25 artisans, I break even. With 30, each earning IDR 25,000–30,000 daily for one or two years, I reinvest the sales into new production. From batik, by batik, for batik. That’s the cycle.”
“I want to be self-reliant, but independence isn’t easy. And being dependent isn’t pleasant either.”
He doesn’t hide that a government official’s wife once supported his long production timeline. “I want to be free, but it’s not easy. Yet being unfree isn’t comfortable.” Her support symbolized appreciation for local craft amidst the dominance of global brands.
Sapuan likens batik to a natural river. Even in drought, some water still flows. “True hand-drawn batik will never die.”
His presence among renowned artisans is a means to preserve the tradition. Thus, it’s disheartening when big businesses dismiss handmade batik in favor of printed versions. Batik isn’t just a commodity—it’s the soul of Indonesia’s textile industry, grown from deep cultural roots.
“Making batik is like playing music. The instruments might be the same, but everyone plays differently. They’re all heading toward suwung (emptiness). And that’s the beauty of batik,” he concludes.
