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span class="caption" style="width: 398px;">Barong: These masks harken to the continuity of a community.Not long after Indonesia declared independence from the Dutch, a young teenager stepped through the gate of his Singapadu home to begin a career spanning more than 60 years.

Today, 77-year-old Tangguh — which in Indonesian translates to tough and resilient — still sits yogi-like in his workshop carving the masks he began to understand at his teacher’s knees back in 1946.

Tangguh learned the joy of work well done from his guru, and all these years later the wizened fellow is almost incandescent with the stuff of happiness. His lightly lined face splits in a grin exposing a full set of teeth reddened by beetle nut, in his gnarled workman’s hands he tacks white fur to a mask almost as full of life as the sculptor, who has crafted “thousands” of masks during his lifetime.

“I was still young when I started — that was down at the temple where I was taught by Cokorda Oka Tublen in Puri Saren Kangin. I was his first student back then,” says this man from behind the masks he has carved for use in Hindu religious ceremonies and later as art for sale to Bali’s then burgeoning tourism market.  

“I still enjoy making masks and I still make them for ceremonies and some to sell, but I make them more because of my emotions — after all this time I feel united with the work, which is not of my choice, but is of my life,” says Tangguh.

His most important works are the creation of the giant Barong figures that emerge from temples across Bali on festive days and also the making of the hoary headed Rangda mask because “these are part of our continuity, are the most important for our people,” says Tangguh of the great beastly forms that ward off evil and protect communities.

Under his hands, Tangguh’s masks come alive. Clear skinned with eyes that follow the viewer, the masks seem to laugh with the joy of being brought to life or howl like spirits disturbed. But, Tangguh has yet to be frightened of his creations. “Before I start work I have a ceremony, but I have never been scared of the masks because I have prayers,” says this grandfather of nine, who, he hopes will follow him in his extraordinary way of life.

An extraordinary way of life that has for eight generations been the ordinary for the people of Singapadu or Lion Twins village, just north of Bali’s capital Denpasar.

Less than 100 meters from Tangguh’s home, master sculptor and mask maker, 67-year-old I Ketut Muja, sits in a yoga position like his ancient neighbor and teacher.

At Muja’s feet are a massive Rangda mask still forming under the chisel. From its fanged mouth extends a 4-meter-long tongue embellished with the heads of Abimanya, Bisma, Gatot Kaca and more in this sculptured tale from the Mahabarata.  

In the artist’s hands is a miniature of the goddess of knowledge, Saraswati: Watching this sculptor work simultaneously on both pieces, the viewer understands that this man dressed in a faded sarong, wearing spectacles from the 1960s and puffing on a kretek is no ordinary artist, he is a master.

“I learned from old Tangguh. I started carving masks under him back in 1958. I was with his first three students – the others dropped out, but I stayed with the master. Later I started making sculptures, now I sometimes make both,” says Muja, who is currently the subject of a planned book on Bali’s great sculptors. “My time is running now. I am growing older so perhaps in the future I can no longer work. My pieces are housed all over the world, in Germany, Australia and many in Jakarta, so in the book they can be brought all together,” says Muja.

Back in his early student days, the idea of selling the masks made for ceremonies was still decades away into a future unknown.

Riding the wheel: Sculptor I Ketut Muja poses with the crushing wheel of life.“Here in Singapadu we have always made the masks needed by communities in ceremonies. We have made them for villages all over Bali. At that time we bartered the masks for rice and other staples, so it has always been our economy. At that time there were still very few visitors to Bali and the masks, the topeng, were still sacred. I make them now for the personal satisfaction of bringing an idea to light. If they sell, that’s fine, if not, that’s also OK. Making the topeng remind me of my time as a student, of this, the journey of my life in wood carving,” says Muja who communes daily with the giant, yet to be carved teak, frangipani and perfumed Gaharu roots and trunks that fill his workshop.

“I need to make contact with the wood before I can start. Each piece of wood speaks for itself, until the wood speaks I can’t begin. Each morning I bring my coffee and speak with the wood, sometimes it calls me in the night and I have to start right then, so I don’t forget. This piece of Gaharu here, smell its perfume, well we have not yet become jodoh [perfectly matched]. That sculpture of the wheel of life, that teak root took a year before we were talking,” says Muja of his need to know intimately the nature of his material before daring to take to it with chisel and axe.

He, like Tangguh, also prays before carving, because their art making is an act of devotion. The tiny Saraswati in Muja’s hands perfect evidence of that devotion.

“If it were not for prayers, I would not bother making this — it’s so small and it’s more difficult and takes longer to carve than all these others — yes, this little Saraswati that I will give as an offering is very, very difficult to carve, she is a prayer,” says Muja.