IT all started with a generous offer from a close friend. "Can you choose something from this link?"
My WhatsApp pinged with this rather intriguing message. Choose what? I wrote back, curious.
"Some pretty nice jewellery. I no longer wear such things but I could only think of you," she wrote back promptly.
She continued: "I want to help out artisans who are going through tough times because of the pandemic."
Curious, I clicked on the link. Vuhanut Craftwork, it said. Vuhanut? I wondered what it meant. But the Instagram page leaves me pleasantly surprised.
Sabahan artisan Jason Labunda's dreamy brass jewellery pieces have it all: romance, structured whimsy and versatility. "It's exactly the same as in all kinds of art," my friend tells me. "They're just beautiful and they all have something to say."
Indeed, each piece has a story to tell. The sleek Brass bangle is Labunda's take on the Tribal Oath Ring inspired by Aztec and Polynesian designs. The teeth running through the sides mimic the obsidian blades found on the Aztec Macuahuitl — a weapon brandished by the ancient Aztecs during battle.
The metal that Labunda works with almost exclusively is brass, which can be given a patina in a variety of shades, from the bright yellow to red gold, and the dusky black of fire irons, either highly polished or with a matte sheen.
The beautifully crafted spiral ring and swirls on yet another pair of brass earrings represent the movement and motion of energies, in particular within a Celtic symbol, the Triskelion, the motion of action, cycles, progress, revolution.
Another spiral symbol, the Koru (Maori for loop or coil), writes Labunda, is based on the appearance of a new unfurling silver fern frond. It's an integral symbol in Maori art, carving and tattooing, where it symbolises new life, growth, strength and peace.
So whether you're a fairy who's left her sun-dappled forest for the urban jungle or a princess-assassin in hiding, these beautiful and painstakingly crafted pieces are yours to own.
But there's another plaintive post on Labunda's Instagram that catches my attention — and sympathy.
"My name is Jason Labunda, a self-taught craftsman from North Borneo, Malaysia," he writes.
"I chose to practice craft-making as a way to express myself, and for me to keep alive my roots and the cultural heritage that's tied to the land and my ancestors."
With the current situation of the latest nationwide lockdown in Malaysia, he shares that he has been out of work for a while.
"I do not know how much longer this is going to go on for," he says, adding: "Having frequently gone in and out of the Movement Control Orders (MCO), many uncertainties and difficulties have come about and I've been struggling to keep my head above water this time around."
Labunda's plight echoes the plight of artisans and craftspeople everywhere. It's a curious time. Not just the paralysing fear of a possibly mortal disease, but a lockdown of all social and economic activity.
For craftspeople, dependent on daily production and sales, life has come to a halt. There are no sales, no raw material, no money to feed their families.
With Covid-19 having affected every industry in some form, many small businesses are still in danger of closing under the economic recession it has caused. One sector which was already at risk before the pandemic struck is that of heritage crafts.
With many being supported by only one or two makers, and facing extinction entirely, this has now exacerbated the threat with many artisans unsure of the commercial viability of continuing their businesses.
"I cannot bring myself to put up the white flag," he goes on to write, speaking of the Bendera Putih campaign calling those in need of food or essentials to raise a white flag outside their homes.
"There are people who need more donations than I do. But I'd kindly ask for your help to 'like, share and comment' on the content of this (Instagram) account."
It's a small request from someone who's facing the uncertainty of finding a regular income stream during a season when artisans are facing yet another blow. As the pandemic wreaks havoc on millions of lives, it has had a devastating impact on the livelihood of artists and artisans who, like Labunda, are responding with a creative resolve born from centuries of adversity.
"I want to keep the tradition of craftsmanship alive," he confides resolutely when we finally "meet" via a Zoom call.
"It's hard not to be creating," he explains softly. "In a lot of ways, my practice is my grounding, my sanity, where I feel best."
JOURNEY OF BECOMING
Everything about Labunda's life speaks of his devotion to an extreme personal aesthetic. Clad entirely in black, he appears both severe and at ease.
"I've been occupied in the workshop most of the time," he says, with a slight smile. "I have a few orders that came in… so it's greatlah!"
He exudes such simple gratitude over the small orders he's received, but it's not been an easy ride. "Everybody's pretty much struggling," he says simply. "There's no income. It's a scary and sad time."
It had been a healthy side business in the past with Labunda's crafts being peddled to tourists who visited the state. The pandemic had upended that business, he shares pointedly. "No tourist, no crafts. It's as simple as that."
Most native artists rely heavily on principal markets (like tourism) as an economic lifeline. To have it all come crashing down has been tough. The crash reflects a deep cultural tradition in which the vast majority of artists rely on communal, up-close-and-personal markets to sell their work. Now that tourism has come to a grinding halt, many of these markets have been shuttered.
There's a need to go virtual or allow such craftsmanship to fade quietly in the night, spawning ripples of anxiety among artists untutored in e-commerce or living in isolated areas with little or no Internet connectivity. Labunda admits to being luckier than most. After all, he's managed to start an online business to showcase his brass handiwork.
The struggle now, he adds, lies in trying to make ends meet. "The cost of shipping is increasing," he laments quietly. "So that's a challenge." But being a craftsman is what he's passionate about, and he doesn't want to give that up. "It's my passion," Labunda explains, shrugging his shoulders. "I enjoy working with my hands."
Still, it's been a rather lonely journey for the 28-year-old. "Becoming a craftsman isn't for the fainthearted," he avers, chuckling wryly. It's a long road towards being respected as a craftsman. You can't always count on family support, he adds quietly.
It's hard to understand the choices he had consciously made, he acknowledges. "Of course, you have the hopes of your family pinned on you from a young age. They want you to get on the tried-and-tested path of being a doctor, lawyer or engineer. Job security, a steady income — these are the milestones your family would hope you'd achieve when you grow up," he muses, head propped on his folded hands.
Certainly not becoming a craftsman making jewellery! I chip in, which elicits laughter from the serious-faced young man. "Definitely not!" he agrees.
The youngest in a family of five, Labunda's early blissful childhood was spent in a once-remote village on the outskirts of Penampang. "Oh, I loved those days," he remarks, a wide grin breaking across his face. "We lived on a hill surrounded by forest!"
The young Labunda would venture into the forest, collect wood and sneak into his father's makeshift workshop to borrow the older man's tools to build wooden spears. "I'd pretend to be a warrior out in the jungle, brandishing my makeshift wooden spear!" he recalls, smiling.
He was around six then. There were local artisans in his village who "… made functional things to use. But they also put their energy and soul into the things they created". These artifacts created were made for use within the community and were very seldom seen outside the area.
"We believe that anything we make, be it a sword or a parang (machete), the creator's energy gives it life," he confides.
The sound of metal being beaten on the anvil was a familiar one when he was growing up. "It resonated with me from a very young age," he says softly. The aged craftsmen of his village impacted the young boy deeply.
"I always loved creating things with my hands. And seeing them pour their heart and soul into creating simple things like a machete struck a deep chord within me," shares Labunda, dark eyes glinting with hidden emotion.
It was a discordant chord where his family was concerned. "They couldn't understand why I was so determined to veer off the beaten path." Be a doctor! Study at the university, get a degree, get a decent job! Those were the advice thrown at him.
"For a while, I really tried to listen," he says quietly. "But deep down, I honestly felt alone and misunderstood."
OFF THE BEATEN TRACK
But the universe has a way of setting things into motion. Finances grew tight, and Labunda was somehow forced to quit college midway. "I took on different jobs to earn a living, but in the meantime, I started to explore crafting on my own," he recalls.
It's an expensive hobby, he acknowledges with a laugh. "And time-consuming too!" he remarks, shaking his head. "I didn't formally train with anyone. Instead, I'd spend hours poring over books and even YouTube videos learning how to hone my skills. I also met up with fellow artisans at cultural shows, workshops and even through my travels," he says.
He'd meet up with fellow craftsmen after work and played around with metals and wires, gleaning knowledge while exploring his creativity. "This feeling inside kept building and building over the years," he recalls. "I found such joy in working with my hands and creating. My day jobs were varied. They certainly paid the bills, put food on my table and supported my hobby on the side!"
There's a category of artists-with-jobs: people whose two professions play off each other in unexpected ways. For creators like Labunda, a trade isn't just about paying the bills; it's something that grounds them in reality.
From taking on corporate jobs to venturing into the hospitality industry, Labunda's primary job lent wings to his burgeoning craftsmanship on the side. "I was creating and selling my jewellery at art fairs. I was slowly gaining confidence and grew deeply entrenched in that artistic world. It was exhilarating."
That feeling, he says, led him to quit his full-time (and secure) job. "I just felt that it was time to jump in with both legs!" he says, smiling. How did you support yourself? I wonder aloud. He pauses before replying pointedly: "Honestly, if I could go back in time, I'd probably stop myself from resigning first and slowly get into it!"
It was definitely difficult, he acknowledges. "Only at the end of the month did I realise, 'Hold on, I'm not getting a monthly salary. I can only earn once I sell what I make!'" he recalls, wincing.
So he decided to take up part-time jobs to support himself. "I'd work as a bartender in some places. I also took on construction jobs here and there. Anything I could find to pay the bills," he reveals candidly.
Were your parents aghast at your decision to go into craft-making full-time? "The same parents who wanted me to become a doctor?" he retorts in reply. "The simple answer is yes, of course."
A family intervention took place. Everyone in Labunda's family sought to speak to him and advise him on his decision to become an artisan. "'It's not going to be easy,' they told me, and they also helped define the term 'starving artist' to me!" he recalls, chuckling wryly. A beat later, he adds: "They were right, of course!"
OVERCOMING THE ODDS
"Were there any regrets?" I ask. "Oh yes!" he replies honestly. He'd managed to keep up his enthusiasm despite being financially strapped for the first year as a full-time artisan. "But after the first year, the enthusiasm dipped as reality sunk in. I kept asking myself if I made the right choice."
It felt like an uphill battle for Labunda. His art may be hard work, but it certainly wasn't paying enough for him to become fully immersed in his craft.
"When artists assert that they ought to get paid, and paid fairly, it's because they want to make a living, not a killing. They want enough to keep doing it. They still have bills to pay. You don't have to be doing something for the money to want to get money for doing it. You just have to be alive," he says bluntly.
The pressure was building up from his family who were concerned that Labunda was veering onto the murky path to becoming a "starving artist".
"Have you considered getting a 'real' job?" they constantly asked him. "It affected my thoughts towards my work for sure. I wondered, 'Is it really that bad that even my own family don't even support what I do?'" muses Labunda.
To compound his struggle further, there were also other artisans who sought to take credit for his hard work.
"There was another established craftsman in Kota Kinabalu whom I met when I first started my journey as a metal craftsman. We started out learning together. But over time, he started a rumour that I was his apprentice and that he taught me everything I knew," reveals Labunda.
The rumour hurt his business. "I found that people were less inclined to buy from me. Why buy from the apprentice instead of the master himself? That really got to me. It was so frustrating," he admits.
It was the straw that broke the camel's back. "I felt very much alone. I had little support from my loved ones and here was someone else who betrayed me and hurt my business," he adds. The disillusioned Libran decided to shut down his workshop and stop creating.
"I fell into a depression," he confides, adding: "I went travelling for about a year just to get away from Sabah and decided to move to Kuala Lumpur to start a new life. I didn't want to create anymore. I wanted nothing to do with the people I knew."
But the universe conspired again. Distant yet disturbing news about a new disease that had spread in a little district in China started filtering in to Malaysia. "I had a premonition that things were going to get a lot worse, so I packed my bags again and returned to Sabah," he says.
The depression didn't leave him. "The first lockdown was hard. I still hadn't recovered from my deep feelings of hurt. I stayed in my room and refused to talk to anyone," he reveals.
As the days wore long and quiet, he finally ventured out of his room into his little workshop that he'd built overlooking the vast ocean.
He hadn't entered that place for the longest time. Maybe it was time for him to sort through his instruments that lay buried beneath a layer of fine dust. Perhaps it was time to sell them off, he thought to himself.
He sat in his workshop and started experimenting again. "The fire deep inside me reignited," he says softly. He began creating again. "I found it made me happy," he remarks. "I decided that this was what I wanted to do. It makes me happy. I started again on a new footing."
Vuhanut, he says, means serpent in Kadazan. The snake, he explains, is a symbol of rebirth and transformation. This symbolism is closely related to the shedding process of the snake. The shedding of its skin represents rebirth and new beginnings. "It's also a deeply misunderstood creature," he points out. "Like you?" I tease, and he nods, chuckling.
Vuhanut Craftwork was birthed during the height of the pandemic; but Labunda is determined to see his vision of being a craftsman come true.
"It's definitely not the best time to start something new!" he quips, before confessing: "I've had to discontinue a lot of my products because it's hard to source for metals when the borders have all but shut down. I've also chosen to live a minimalist lifestyle anyway so I'm trying as hard as I can to pursue this dream of mine."
Your jewellery's beautiful, I tell him. "Thank you so much," he acknowledges the compliment with a smile. The amount of time and work put into each of Labunda's creations are strikingly evident. Surely these are enough reasons to support a metal craftsman like him.
My friend who alerted me to Labunda's body of art, certainly thinks so. In the meantime, he continues to work hard at the anvil with his trusted hammer and chisels, carving out beautiful designs that tell a story.
I find myself drawn to a pair of beautiful earrings with fine lines etched on the surface. This piece, writes Labunda in his Instagram account, is inspired by the ripple effect created from a pebble being dropped into a pond. When this happens, the initial disturbance propagates outward and disrupts the surrounding environment.
From this, says Labunda, we can observe that a simple action is able to affect its surroundings, similar to how one person's action has the ability to alter society. Everything happens for a reason and everything has a source.
Perhaps that's reason enough to keep him on the lonely path for just a little while longer.
To check out Jason Labunda's creations, go to www.instagram.com/vuhanut_craftwork.