Pakakeh

"Pakakeh" Illustration by Novian Arif

When I arranged these tools for this artwork, I thought I was documenting objects.

A hammer.

A saw.

A chisel.

A screwdriver.

A collection of worn tools that had spent decades building, fixing, measuring, cutting, and solving problems. But somewhere between arranging the last tool and stepping back to look at the composition, I realized I wasn't documenting tools at all. I was documenting the first creative director in my life. And he wasn't a designer. He was a handyman. Or as I call him, Apa.

Pakakeh is a Minangkabau word for tools, equipment, or utensils. Growing up, these tools were always around me. Some hung on walls. Some lived inside old wooden toolboxes. Some traveled from one construction project to another. They were as much a part of my childhood as school books, television, and toys. Especially toys. Like most kids, I wanted the toys everyone else had.

The shiny ones.

The cool ones.

The ones advertised on TV.

I remember visiting my grandmother's house one day and spotting a brand-new T-Rex toy sitting on top of a cabinet. I pointed at it immediately. The moment it landed in my hands, I didn't want to let it go.

Unfortunately, it wasn't mine. It belonged to my cousin. I cried. Someone eventually tried to calm me down by giving me a toy car instead. Surprisingly, I loved the car even more. I brought it home and played with it constantly. Then one day it disappeared. Returned to its actual owner.

I remember feeling completely devastated. Looking back now, I think Apa was paying attention. Because instead of buying me toys, he started making them. A wooden airplane. A wooden car. A rocking horse. A toy electric guitar. Wooden swords. And many other things that only existed because his son wanted something to play with. The funny thing is that I didn't appreciate them. Not really.

They weren't the same toys my friends had. They didn't come in colorful boxes. They didn't have famous logos. They didn't look like the toys I saw in stores. They were different. Years later, I finally understood what my father had actually given me. They weren't toys. They were prototypes.

Long before I learned about design, branding, creativity, or innovation, I was watching someone create solutions from nothing more than imagination, experience, and whatever materials happened to be available. If a toy didn't exist, he built it. If something broke, he fixed it. If a problem appeared, he figured it out. Today, that sounds a lot like the creative process. Back then, it was simply what Apa did every day.

As a child, I spent countless hours watching him work. As a teenager, I sometimes joined him on carpentry and house-building projects. Occasionally I even got paid weekly. At the time, I thought I was learning how to work with wood. What I was actually learning was how to think. Most people assume craftsmen work with their hands. The best craftsmen work with their minds first. Every project begins with a problem. Someone needs a door. Someone needs a cabinet. Someone needs a repair. Someone needs a solution.

The tools are important, but they are never the answer. The person holding them is. Years later, when I studied Visual Communication Design at the Institute of Art Indonesia Padangpanjang and eventually entered the creative industry, I discovered something unexpected. The gap between a workshop and a creative studio is much smaller than people think.

Clients arrive with problems. You listen. You observe. You ask questions. You sketch possibilities. You build solutions. You revise. You improve. You deliver. And hopefully, they come back. Which brings me to another lesson I learned from Apa. Trust.

My father had customers who kept returning for years. Not because he advertised. Not because he had a personal brand. Not because he understood marketing. They came back because they trusted his work. His reputation wasn't built through promotion. It was built through consistency. One project at a time. One customer at a time. One recommendation at a time.

As I grew older, I realized the same rule applies to creative work. Whether you're building furniture, designing identities, creating campaigns, or making artwork, trust remains the most valuable thing you can earn. People return because of the quality of your work. And quality was something my father talked about often. I still remember his admiration for German and Japanese products. He loved tools and objects that were thoughtfully made. Products that lasted. Products that respected the people using them.

He wasn't interested in trends. He was interested in craftsmanship. At the time, I thought he was simply talking about tools. Now I realize he was talking about design. Good design isn't decoration. Good design is care. Good design is responsibility. Good design is making something properly, even when nobody is watching. Perhaps the lesson that stays with me most, however, had nothing to do with quality.

It had to do with confidence.

Whenever I encountered something difficult or intimidating, Apa would remind me not to be controlled by things around me. Learn them. Understand them. Master them. You control the tool. The tool doesn't control you. Back then he was talking about machines, equipment, and workshop tools. Today, I think about that advice whenever new technology appears. Software. Platforms. Artificial intelligence. Whatever comes next. Many people approach new tools with fear. Apa never did. His instinct was always curiosity. Pick it up. Figure out how it works. Then use it to make something useful.

The tools in this artwork are retired now, much like their owner. They still sit with our family, carrying decades of scratches, repairs, projects, and stories. But in a strange way, I don't think they've stopped working. Every time I approach a creative challenge. Every time I search for a solution. Every time I choose quality over shortcuts. Every time I learn a new tool instead of fearing it. They're still doing their job.

Looking at Pakakeh today, I don't just see a collection of tools. I see a way of thinking. A philosophy of making. A blueprint for creativity. And the realization that everything I do today as a creative specialist began much earlier than I ever thought. Not in design school. Not in an agency. Not in front of a computer. But beside a handyman holding a hammer.