As part of a generation who has experienced growing up with both analog rituals and digital screens, I often find myself at a crossroad between the nostalgia of the handmade and the convenience of the fabricated. So when I chanced upon the Japanese term ‘mingei’ after reading The Beauty of Everyday Things by Yanagi Soetsu, I quickly took interest in this early 20th century movement. Mingei—meaning folk arts—focuses on the overlooked beauty of utilitarian art and crafts made by ordinary people and is deeply rooted in everyday life.

There are a few characteristics that define what mingei items can be. Among others, the object should represent the region in which it was produced but is usually not attributed to specific artisans. Mingei items arise naturally over time as a result of peoples’ needs so it should be inexpensive, simple and practical in design. Part of their charm comes from its actual usage. In his book, Yanagi goes on to explain how the modern landscape is becoming less interested in mingei despite it being a direct reflection of socio-cultural habits, perhaps because of its vernacular nature. “When one becomes too familiar with a sight, one loses the ability to truly see...for we did not possess the proper distance from these objects to see them for what they were; we were too taken up in simply living among them, too busy in creating them.” The sentiments Yanagi has towards mingei is universal. As I evaluated my own culture, I realised that I too, failed to recognise the value of Indonesian folk arts. While ornamental and performance arts such as the Javanese wayang or Balinese tari kecak is internationally recognised, Indonesian utilitarian crafts remain largely underappreciated.

The abundance of trees in Indonesia’s tropical climate have allowed locals to devise multiple ways to use various parts of the plant for a plethora of purposes. It is large, water-repellant, pliable, durable and fragrant when briefly exposed to fire. Growing up in the island of Java, banana leaf containers have always been a common sight in my everyday culinary landscape; from the humble nasi bungkus (takeaway meals) and jajan pasar (traditional confectionery) to the more extravagant and celebratory Tumpeng (a tower of turmeric rice usually served with a variety of meat and vegetable sides). Like a well oiled machine, food vendors take sheets of leaves and fold them up before securing everything with a few bamboo pins, all in a matter of seconds. The style and size of leaf containers range from palm sized bowls to larger plates, each with its own name and function. For example, sudi is a small container with a coned center—similar to the shape of a Mexican sombrero—often used to hold Klepon, a glutinous rice ball snack with palm sugar and grated coconut. The cone at the center separates each rice ball and prevents it from sticking to one another. Though leaf containers are created to supplement the presentation of food, their variety and craftsmanship can be considered a form of Indonesian folk craft, as different regions across the archipelago have their own version of leaf containers intended for local purposes.

It was only after moving abroad that I started to genuinely appreciate the ingenuity of banana leaves, which led to my dissertation project at Central Saint Martins called Future Folds (2019). I designed and printed custom templates displaying information and folding instructions onto fresh banana leaves that were then used in a workshop. Participants were asked to fold their own tableware with leaves I had printed on in order to obtain lunch. The project introduces the materiality of banana leaves not only as a cook’s ingredient but also as a utilitarian solution to packaging, encouraging discussions on how materials from the past can be used to design for the future.

Unfortunately, the past 10 years have seen banana leaf containers being replaced by mass produced plastic tableware—some even ironically printed with leaf motifs—so younger generations are not as exposed to this craft or even worse, are unaware of its existence. It occurred to me how Indonesians are drifting away from natural resources once abundantly present in their everyday landscape. The ease in which we obtain our groceries have made us pickier about our choices, and the industry’s handling of food has created a hypocrisy where we grow even more detached and even disgusted by what we consume. In larger cities, encounters with traditional markets become increasingly limited along with the advancements of grocery shopping offered by both physical and virtual supermarkets. Additionally, the habitual use of plastic has subliminally obscured our views on cleanliness where natural materials are seen as lesser than. Though the ban on single use plastic is making its way throughout Indonesia, plastic remains strongly linked to ideas of convenience and modernisation, making it hard to let go of.

I have come to appreciate ordinary encounters for they are insightful remarks on contemporary human experiences. With rural activation and revitalisation programs emerging, I am hopeful that Indonesian leaf craft will persist and perhaps start to be noticed as a subject of cultural and historical preservation. Folk crafts can be a chance to evaluate some of our modern habits and rediscover older ones. Afterall, these delicate unassuming containers hold far more than our snacks, they carry the heritage of a region, skills and traditions of its people.