The Collector’s Doubts – Children at Play, by I Made Kania

Children at Play by I Made Kania (signature on the underside), second half of the 20th century, 24 x 14 x 11 cm

Seated at his desk, computer glowing, the collector has placed his latest acquisition before him. He has resolved to write an article about it. Yet, concentration eludes him: in his old building, where the soundproofing is poor, the noises of the neighborhood are a constant companion. Judging by the thuds echoing through the ceiling, the young children of the couple living above are once again running wild. However, the root of his distraction lies elsewhere: in the perplexity he feels regarding this new piece. He undoubtedly appreciates the fullness of the volumes, the polished surfaces, and the beautiful ochre hue of the wood, marbled with fine black streaks. It is when he attempts to describe the subject that things become complicated. The sculpture represents… what, exactly? Four toddlers huddled together, engaged in a sort of childhood scuffle. But what this motif means specifically from a Balinese perspective, the collector has no idea. How is one to know, for that matter, if there is truly a meaning to be discovered? Children at play is a universal theme. Perhaps it is unnecessary to look beyond the immediate pleasure provided by the scene.

The rendering of the anatomy and the interlocking bodies is masterful. The forms are worked on all sides, and even underneath. It is there that the carver’s signature is found, inscribed across two anklets: “M. D. Kania – Mas Bali.” Born in 1948, I Made Kania was an apprentice to Ida Bagus Tilem before becoming one of his finest collaborators. Under the master’s direction, he specialized in the representation of children, young musicians, and maternity scenes. Like other carvers employed by the gallery, he placed his technical skill at the service of a soft, pleasing aesthetic designed to appeal to foreign visitors. His figures of toddlers, featuring a short tuft of hair at the crown of the head, became a hallmark of his work. Following "Rule No. 1" of the collector’s self-imposed guidelines, counting a piece by Kania in his collection is a good thing. It would be a pity to publish nothing regarding this acquisition.

But the ideas refuse to come, and the collector’s mind wanders. Certain irrational fears seem highly improbable when one does not experience them firsthand, he muses. Not long ago, he discovered the word “agalmatoremaphobia”** in a book—the fear that statues might start to speak. A strange affliction indeed. In a sense, what he occasionally feels before his collection reflects the exact opposite fear: that the statues will refuse to confide in him, that they will obstinately remain silent. His website bears witness to the efforts he makes to understand them. Drawing on his reading and observations, he has distinguished styles, categories, and types of motifs. Every piece finds its place there. This one, for instance, would fit into the “Realism” category for style, and “Scenes of Daily Life” for its motif. Yet, the collector cannot help but wonder if he is on the wrong track altogether. Is reasoning through styles and categories not simply the blunt application of a Western idea of what creation should be, and how one ought to speak of it?

The collector brushes these paralyzing thoughts aside. He must delve deeper into the subject matter. He opens his browser and types into the search bar: “Bali childhood beliefs.” Among the top results is an article from NOW! Bali magazine titled “The Childhood Rites of the Balinese Life Cycle” by Jean Couteau. A stroke of luck. This is exactly the kind of information the collector needs. He scribbles a few notes on a piece of paper: the cycle of reincarnations, which is not viewed as a burden in Balinese Hinduism; the child’s body inhabited by gods while in the mother’s womb; the arrival of the soul into the body after birth, which is also the return of an ancestor; and then, the various rituals marking different stages—the soul gradually detaching from the divine world until the complete incarnation, formalized by the three-month ceremony (Telubulanin), during which the child is permitted to touch the ground for the first time. But what is he to do with this information? It is all so far removed from his own landmarks, his way of thinking. What is the precise link to Kania’s depiction of this huddle of children? The collector sets his notes aside.

One would have to imagine, he tells himself, a very distant collector of European art. Faced with a sculpture of a few children, he too would suffer from "reverse agalmatoremaphobia": Putti? Cupids? Cherubs? Some religious or secular allegory? A simple decorative scene? It would likely be no easier for him to hear what the statues are saying. From a European vantage point, the voice of Balinese statues is muffled by what we might trivially call exoticism—which is but another name for the ignorance induced by distance. Yet, unlike certain works of so-called “tribal” art, torn from their original culture and diverted from their initial purpose, modern Balinese sculptures possess a voice addressed directly to the visitor for whom they were intended. To the visitor, they speak in half-words, appearing to keep their deepest thoughts to themselves. Just like the traveler who first acquired this piece by Kania, the collector can, by straining his ear, hear that simple word which is perhaps already there—yes, in the joy expressed by the scene. Above the collector’s desk, the children are playing now, and the thuds on the floor have given way to laughter. He can begin his article.

* I would like to thank Soemantri Widagdo for providing this information regarding Kania. ** Several mentions of this term can be found on the French-speaking web. This record suggest that its origin lies in an article by the Italian psychiatrist Eugenio Medea titled L'agalmatoremafobia. La paura della statua parlante published in 1952 in Archivio di psicologia, Neurologia e Psichiatria. On the other hand, I have found no occurrences of the term 'agalmatoremaphobia' on the English-speaking web. Could this be a specifically Franco-Italian disorder?