On a hot, humid afternoon in August, I meet 75-year-old Kosala de Silva at the metal-roofed workshop beside the Ariyapala Mask Museum in Ambalangoda, a beachside town 107km south of the Sri Lankan capital Colombo.
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He keeps quiet as he works, meticulously hand-carving the face of a raksha (demon) from the light, durable wood of the wel kaduru tree that lines the rice fields and spongy marshes in the island’s south.
At the front of the workshop, a group of men and women add colour to completed pieces, painting them in bright yellows, strokes of pinks, and tinges of red.
The demon face Kosala is crafting is part of a series of vibrant masks that depict spirits and supernatural beings from local folklore.
A disappearing craft
For centuries, performers and healers in Sri Lanka have worn these bold creations during festivals, exorcism rituals, and healing rites to cure illnesses, ward off evil spirits, and invite blessings and good fortune.
Now, however, as folk rituals disappear from village life, they are increasingly being reduced to ornaments – wall decor for hotels and restaurants across the country; souvenirs for tourists to take home.
Photos: Zinara Rathnayake
Walking through the small but well-kept museum, I discover that the masks fall into three main groups. The raksha, with their striking, hyperbolic features like large, bulging eyes, protruding tongues, and snake heads, represent the powerful rakshasa demons in ancient mythology.
The sanni are another set of 18 different supernatural figures that represent different diseases in folklore. The last category is kolam, which portrays a set of characters in namesake satirical folk dance-dramas where myths and fables are retold.
While the origin of these masks is unclear, the museum’s owner Badrananda Wijesooriya believes their history is tied to the birth of kolam as folk drama. “Kolam probably began in the late 18th century during British rule,” he says, explaining that the characters which appear in these folk dramas resemble British-era officers.
According to a paper published by the University of Sri Jayewardenepura, cinnamon and coconut cultivation thrived during those colonial years, transforming the rural economy of Ambalangoda and the surrounding areas.
The Karava people, who trace their ancestry to South India and inhabited the southern coastal belt, emerged as the new wealthy class with social influence. They performed kolam to criticise social issues and express their views through a satirical lens.
Rise of the machines
Museum guide Sanduni Poornima explains that a few villages and temples still hold traditional festivals, processions, and rituals annually. But she’s noticed that younger generations are increasingly moving away from ancient belief systems. It’s also costly and time-consuming to organise these events.
Mask craftspeople now have to compete with cheap, machine-cut masks that have flooded the market, too. Depending on size and detailing, a large, 2ft-long, hand-carved mask can cost anywhere around USD$1,000 to USD$1,500. Those made by machine are much cheaper.
“But machines can’t give you fine details, sharp noses, or wrinkled lips. Many people don’t see the difference, so they buy those,” Badrananda says.
The Ariyapala museum, boutique and workshop serve as one of the country’s few principal institutions where visitors can learn more about these differences.
Photos: Zinara Rathnayake
Here, I also learned that masks were kept above the hearth in the past – the rising smoke helped preserve them by removing insects and humidity from the wood. Early artisans painted them with colours made from natural bark, husks and flowers; these days, masks are commonly left to dry in the shade or under the sun, and daubed with store-bought paints.
Although mask makers are spread throughout the country, it’s in Ambalangoda that the craft is most deeply revered.
The last generation
Traditionally, the art form was practiced by the town’s two main artisan families. Badrananda belongs to the notable Juanwadu family. His father was a prominent master artist and received funding from the German government to open the museum as a way to preserve and share the knowledge with others.
“My children are the seventh generation of mask makers,” Badrananda tells me with pride, sitting in his small office attached to the museum’s boutique.
All the same, as more people move to other jobs, the craft that has been so carefully passed down from generation to generation is at serious risk of disappearing.
At the museum’s workshop, there are only a handful of skilled artisans like Kosala. As I watch him add intricate details to a wooden mask with a chisel, the craftsman tells me that younger folk aren’t interested in the craft.
Photos: Zinara Rathnayake
Artisans earn from each mask they make. Kosala can finish eight to 10 masks each week, for which he takes home a monthly salary of 70,000 to 80,000 rupees (USD$232 to USD$265).
“It needs patience to master, and you don’t get paid for the first few weeks until you learn it,” he explains. “So whoever comes here leaves, because they want to earn quickly.”
According to him, there’s also little recognition for the craft. “When I was a school kid, we learnt carpentry as a subject, but now they don’t have it [in the education system]. Everyone wants a desk job,” he says. “If you make masks for a living, no one values you in society anymore.”
Across the street is another mask workshop owned by Badrananda’s brother, where I meet artisan Prasanna Indika. As a child, Prasanna would pass the workshop on the way to school. Keen to learn the tradition, he joined it at the age of 11, and spent most of his time after school hewing and chipping wood to fashion the faces of demons and spirits.
Now 45 and with 34 years of experience, he dismisses the idea of mask-making as a job with little respect. “Everyone has a different set of skills and work they like to do,” he says. “Not everyone is born to work in front of a computer.”
Both he and Kosala agree on one thing, though: their generation likely holds the last of Sri Lanka’s maskmakers. Says Kosala: “I want to continue this craft, but my hands will start trembling soon, and everyone has their time to leave the earth.”
