Shoes are indeed made for our feet, but one can say that their prestige is higher than that of head coverings. Shoes are even known as one of major fetish objects, as we know that there are cases of shoe fetishism, although it usually has to do with the shoes that are often linked with sexual fetishism or fantasy, such as the stiletto high heel shoes. Shoes are also a significant fashion item. The kind and brand of shoes signify the wearer’s social class, as insinuated by the expression “You Are What’s on Your Feet”. Shoes, therefore, also reflects the wearer’s lifestyle and identity, and often function as signifier for certain communities or sub-cultural movements, such as the boots-wearing punkers.
However, no other shoes are perhaps as important as the sneakers in serving as marker of the contemporary culture known as the sneaker culture.

The story of sneakers began from a pair of rubber-soled shoes sold cheaply and produced in 1839 by Liverpool Rubber Company. The shoes were initially called “plimsoll” and were in the form of simple rubber soles with coverings of canvas cloth. In 1892, the US Rubber Company made a higher-quality version and called it “Keds”. Since the 1900s, demands for the rubber-sole shoes increased rapidly due to the comfort they offered. The rubber-soles shoes almost never made any sounds whenever they were used, and the wearer could thus sneak in and out. That was why the rubber-soles shoes are subsequently known as sneakers. Sneakers then grew to become sport shoes, like basketball and tennis shoes. Sport sneakers, however, are also used in myriad of activities that have nothing to do with sport. The informal and casual nature of the shoes, as well as the comfort and “style” they provide, make sneakers the shoes of choice for the youth.

Sneakers become a mark of identity and the preferred fashion style for the urban youth. Like the jeans, sneakers have grown to become a fashion statement related to the spirit of freedom, the egalitarian and popular culture, and urban cosmopolitan lifestyle. Sneakers also become a part of the underground and street lives, and therefore often linked with the hip-hop culture.

Producers of sneakers shrewdly promote and heighten sneakers’ prestige. The passion and the fetishist attitude among lovers of sneakers are of course related to the identity construction surrounding the shoes, which are often linked to sub-cultural elements with the spirit of the counter culture. As usual, however, when huge capitals are involved, elements of this counter culture become co-opted and transformed into parts of the mainstream culture. Branded sneakers, therefore, have become representation of the middle- to upper class lifestyle. They do not come cheap, especially for most Indonesians.

Sneakers are the theme and subject matter in Dodit Artawan’s paintings. If we find ourselves stand face to face with Dodit’s paintings, we will immediately suspect that Dodit is crazy for sneakers. Such suspicion proves to be correct. Dodit is indeed a lover of sneakers; one can say that he is a “sneaker-freak” or a “sneaker head”. The range of sneakers that we see in Dodit’s canvases actually represents his personal collection. Scores of pairs of sneakers are neatly stored in a glass case in Dodit’s bedroom, like treasures. When he was still a high-school student, Dodit had the desire to collect branded sneakers. Branded sneakers, with their many kinds of designs, exert a strong appeal on Dodit—and to other sneakerheads in general, of course. In this case, we can say that they have a fetishist attitude toward sneakers. The term ‘fetish’ itself is defined as such:

“Fetish is a familiar word for an exotic thing. In ordinary usage everyone knows that it means an object of irrational fascination, something whose power, desirability, or significance a person passionately overvalues, even though that same person may know very well intellectually that such feelings are unjustifiably excessive.”

From the above explanation by William Pietz, we understand that the term “fetish (object)” was initially used for objects of worship in primitive societies, which are seen as having certain powers due to the spirits that reside within them. The term has a strong anthropological/ethnographic bias and at first only applied to objects in primitive societies according to the Western observers. Some observers, however, went on to say that the term “fetish” should also apply to the worship of objects or artifacts in the Western society, an act that is also far from being rational, as the above quote explains. The sociologist Pierre Bourdieu even said that in the modern society, manifestations of this fetish attitude can be observed in the peak of modern art: “While a sociologist like Bourdieu might have well written, ‘Greenbergian modernism was an apotheosis of fetishism in the visual arts in the modern period’.”

Using Bourdieu’s opinion above as our basis, we can say that Dodit’s paintings displayed in this exhibition are a form of double fetishism, as they depict fetish objects (i.e. the sneakers) while the paintings are themselves fetish objects. Dodit seems to combine two kinds of fetishism, just as George Bataille has once commented, “to love a canvas as much as a fetishist loves shoes”. The two aspects are evident in Dodit’s paintings. They strongly reveal how Dodit is a true sneaker-fetishist. Observe how he is almost drowned in a sea of his beloved sneakers, in Colourful Sneakers. The colorful sneakers appear strong and life-like, and we almost forget that we are actually looking at a painting. With highly sophisticated and detailed photo-realist techniques, Dodit is able to make the paintings look “alive”. Sneakers, as fetish objects in Dodit’s canvases, make for enticing images.

Dodit’s paintings are interesting as they explain to us two matters that are actually separate or detached: the territory of high art and its rival, i.e. that of popular art or popular culture. At the same time, many parties are of the opinion that the boundary between the two realms has become increasingly blurred; in many cases they even seem to merge. The mechanism involved in the production and consumption of Dodit’s paintings is nevertheless far removed from that found in the production of sneakers, as Julian Stallabrass explained:
“The art market is still dependent upon the buying and selling of rare or unique objects far removed from the mass-produced commodities found in ordinary shop. In most markets a few dominant companies control production, but there are few in which consumption is regulated. The commercial art world tries to hold both reins tight, for the buyers of these objects are few and known to the sellers, production is often artificially limited, and patronage often has a personal dimension.”

One thing that often seems to obscure the boundary between popular art and high art—so much so that many often believe that the two territories have merged—is the fetish drive that the two regions of art can create. Many producers of fashion products often take advantage of this fact. The fetishist attitude toward sneakers is brought up by giving personal touches on the sneakers, for example by means of special-edition products or limited edition linked with certain famous athletes or celebrities. The limited edition sneakers gain thus higher values and become precious collectibles. This is reflective of what Karl Marx has explained about commodity fetishism.

“The theory of commodity fetishism therefore suggests that capitalism reproduces itself by concealing its essence beneath a deceptive appearance. Just as quality appears as quantity, so objects appear as subjects and subjects as objects. Things are personified and person objectified.”

Special edition sneakers like Nike Air Jordan—a product of collaboration between Nike and Michael Jordan—are highly successful in the market and reflects what Marx said, “things are personified”. Nothing, however, beats works of art in reflecting how “things are personified”, as obvious in Dodit’s paintings. One cannot separate Dodit’s paintings from the artist himself. The works exist because they are seen as representing the artist, while at the same time the artist gains credits in the world of art through his works—just as explained in the quote above about commodity fetishism: “things are personified and person objectified.”

However, there is still separation between high art and popular art; between art and non-art—although the two are sometimes represented by the same images or visual methods. Stallabrass further confirms:
“Above all, while ordinary commodities live or die by millions of individual decisions to buy or not to buy, the feedback mechanisms which determine the track of contemporary art are regulated and exclusive, and the ordinary viewer of art is permitted no part in them.”

Stallabrass goes on to show that there are different spaces of consumption and production between branded consumer goods and works of art. The separation between the two remains, no matter how strong the efforts are to obscure it.

“Separated from the full rigour of the market, art can flirt with consumer culture while remaining assured of its safe demarcation. Indeed, those works that appear to threaten such a merging of art and the commodity actually reinforce the boundary by making it visible.”

Nike Air Jordan refers to mass-produced sneakers, while every one of Dodit’s paintings—just like any other work of art—is a unique “product”, the only one of its kind in this whole wide world.

Athletes or celebrities from the territory of popular art gain their recognitions based on certain standards of achievements, and this is especially true for athletes. Meanwhile, we can judge how popular artists perform by observing their record sales, for example. For artists like Dodit, however, it is rather difficult to determine the parameters with which we can assess their qualities—although lately their financial or market success, with their works being sold in high prices, has been considered as one of the hallmarks of a successful artist.

In art, myths about the artist becomes important. Modern art considers important artists as creative geniuses. Recognition and awards are hard to come by in modern art, and that is why we know only a few modern artists in the world (all of them coming from the West). Sometimes the recognition is given posthumously. This, for example, is obvious in the myths about van Gogh:
“In this family of artists, figures whose ‘art and life are one,’ Van Gogh is the absolute champion, in all categories. Madness, the severed ear, unlucky in love, unsuccessful commercially—Vincent was no winner, and not even a moral example. But he did suffer, and that is a serious point in his favor. You can imagine the high priests of the artist cult having replaced Christ’s words ‘for this is my body’ with ‘for this is my canvas’.”

As Judith Benhamou-Huet points out, the fetish for van Gogh’s paintings has been inseparable from the myths regarding van Gogh’s torturous life. Van Gogh’s suffering became a myth that could “sell” and “advertise” van Gogh’s paintings—after his death. Van Gogh’s canvases serve as the reification of the artist’s suffering. What we see happening with van Gogh’s paintings is the example of how “things are personified” in the context of commodity fetishism.

Of course, the myths regarding the contemporary artists are an altogether different thing. The “myths” of the contemporary artists must be constructed while they are still alive, and they can immediately perceive the results—while they are still young, if possible. This is evident in the case of the Young British Artists (YBAs), with Damien Hirst as its “forward propeller”. The success of the Young British Artists show that myths regarding the “greatness” of young contemporary artists have to do with their market success and celebrity status. The same is true on the global level: the Indonesian contemporary artists today enjoy the fruits of their artistic career—in terms of successful market reception—more so than their seniors, and earlier, too.

The success of many young artists all over the world reveals that the plurality of contemporary art still requires “heroes”. The world of the contemporary art is nevertheless the continuation of the patterns of production and consumption of modern art—but without the absolute parameters of formalist modernism. Heroes in the contemporary art thus appear with many different parameters, but one thing remains the same: the artwork is the object of the elite’s fantasy.

“Sotheby’s, Christie’s and, now, Phillips, take twofold approach to their key customers. They arouse the desire to possess a painting or sculpture by transforming it into fantasy object… If such an excessive price was paid for this lot, then there must have been a good reason. And that can only be the quality of the work. The work, it is assumed, is unique and irreplaceable, and, therefore, priceless.”

Fantasy object, of course, is none other than fetish object. In this case, Dodit’s paintings open the path for us to understand the kind of fetishism that is different from other kinds of fetishism that are related to fetish objects such as sneakers. Dodit’s paintings—like many other modern or contemporary paintings in general—are works of oil paints on canvas and exist as works of art. Today we are sustaining a massive assault by elements of the mass culture.
The visual appearance of digital technology such as the LCD screens or the gigantic advertising banners naturally threaten the visual potentials of works of art. Art must compete with all these elements of mass culture. Dodit, however, takes the path that goes in the opposite direction from that of the ease offered by digital technology, by creating photo-realist images through paintings.

This is an old technique—some even say primitive. Our foremost fascination with Dodit’s paintings do not originate from the visual aspect—which we can easily produce using photography—but from the fact that the images were hand-made. An image that looks like a work of photography but is in fact a painting surely catches people’s attention. In this case, Dodit’s paintings are able to “entice” the audience to keep on looking at the collection of shoes in his canvases. Apparently the method of photo-realism is the most logical method to take. One can say that it is even the logical consequence of his choice, and one that he must take advantage of. It is only by employing this method that the characteristics and the quality of the sneakers as the object of desire can be brought to the fore.

The theme of sneakers in Dodit’s paintings is an “alibi” for him to create (or to produce) paintings (i.e. works of art). Isn’t it true that contemporary painting always has to deal with “something”? Of course, for a painting to be considered significant, the content, or the alibi, is also important. This significance (the content or the meaning) is what the audience will “read” in the work. The quality of such an effort of reading—and how well the audience enjoys the work—mainly has to do with the selection of visual methods. In this case, Dodit has chosen to present sneakers with the technique of photo-realism. That is why Dodit’s sneaker paintings are far removed—in terms of the context and the appearance—for example with Van Gogh’s shoe paintings that are highly expressive in nature.

Apart from the appearance of his paintings that entice the viewers, as works of art Dodit’s paintings contain rich meanings and messages, and are especially important in terms how the issues are presented. Observe, for example, the work Footwear and Fashion that clearly speaks of how identity and “value” of a person are often seen as depending on what the person wears. To stress upon this fact, Dodit deliberately does away with faces in his paintings, presenting a statement of sorts that what is important is not the person, but rather the attributes, or that someone becomes important because of the attributes he or she is wearing. In Low Rider, sneakers take a central position. The wearer seems proud and keenly aware of how special the sneakers are. Again, the wearer’s face is invisible, because what is important here are the cool sneakers that he or she is wearing.

The work Purple reveals how shoes—like other fashion items in general—often have far more important functions than merely their physical functions. They often have symbolic meanings. That is why the shoes here seem to be hanging from the user’s neck. Again, the face is not shown; what we see are only the tattoos that run through the person’s arm. It is as if Dodit is trying to say that tattoos and sneakers have similar function: to shape the wearer’s identity and character. Meanwhile, the work Look Up becomes interesting because it makes us feel as if we are standing under a cloud of sneakers. We are seeing the soles of a multitude of sneakers. Is Dodit actually talking about the superiority of sneakers? Is that why these sneakers are present above us, instead of existing merely as foot covers? Fetishism for mass produced objects has affected our frame of thoughts and our perceptions about objects. The modern human is one who is often proud of his or her rationality. The fetish attitude, however, reveals how the modern humans often become irrational simply because they want to have fun. Or perhaps the fetishism tendency constitutes an “escape” by the contemporary modern humans to run away from the burdens of modern life. One of the most accessible havens to which we can escape would be the “objects” produced by modern civilization. The world of capitalism gladly provides the fantasies that they attach to their products—or run toward works of art. The two aspects are present in Dodit’s paintings, which I think are representatives of the “double fetishism”.

Asmudjo Jono Irianto

Opening : Saturday, November 6 · 2:00pm – 8:00pm
Closing : Sunday, 21 November 2010
Venue : SIGIarts
Address : Jl. Mahakam 1 No.11 Jakarta, Indonesia

So, what way out did Ugo take to keep on painting, which eventually led to what he called his collection of doodles (corat-coret)? In the same text, we find the following extension of Ugo’s thoughts: “After that, I started to know how good it feels to paint … Without paying any attention to shapes, lines, colors, composition, techniques and –isms in the history of art. I paint anything in any way, and about whatever I find in me when facing the canvas. I’m sure that, whenever I’m hungry, everything I paint would show hunger. When I’m all by myself, lonely, in the dark, besieged by anxieties, can’t breathe, and cry out, my painting will honestly carry all those elements.”[2]

Apparently, for Ugo, painting along the traditional lines of modern painting provided no space for the contemporary painter to engage in invention or renewal. And, at the end of the long road of tradition, Ugo decided to go back “within himself”. And, with that, although separated in time by decades, it was as if he were echoing S. Sudjojono’s conviction about the artist’s “honesty” in channeling “himself” into each of his works, presenting his “soul” in every painting.

With particular regard to the issue that the arena of the practice of painting and paintings has been exhaustively explored by all the painters of past periods, Ugo is clearly not alone. All the painters in the US and Western Europe, who thoroughly developed the art of painting in the post-World War II period, eventually came to the same journey’s end in the 1960s. In his latest book, Painting Today, Tony Godfrey touches on this issue. He quotes Joseph Kosuth, who apparently got frustrated and broke with the tradition of modern painting and paintings: “Painting has become a naïve art form because it can no longer include self-consciousness (theoretically as well as that of historical location) in its program.”

Then, moving on from Kosuth’s statement, Godfrey describes the general problem faced by painters at the end of the golden age of Abstract Expressionism: “In other words, painting could no longer criticize the nature of art, because it had accepted its limitations as a type or genre of art, nor, by inference, could it criticize the world at large. Painting, Kosuth conceded, would continue because the market demanded it, but it had no significant role in the world of ideas.”[3]

It is precisely there, in the last part of the sentence—that painting no longer had a significant role in the world of ideas—that we shall encounter Mahendra Yasa and his paintings.

Mahendra Yasa is a painter. This we know for sure, as he has indeed been working for years as an artist who continues to pursue this very thing: the making of paintings. However, it should also at the same time be proposed that Mahendra Yasa is an artist who seems keen on treating his own paintings, or his own artistic practice in general, as a work of philosophy—the critical thinking endeavor of an artist, to continually test or examine his own art practice, within the limits of the history and philosophy of aesthetics that encompass it.

I hope that this brief introductory essay can explain the matter adequately enough. Because, so far, I have not discovered any other way to understand or explain how much the paintings of Mahendra Yasa deserve proper attention from the art public in Indonesia. And even more important, how the art practice of Mahendra Yasa can provide food for thought for the artists of Indonesia—especially those who still continue to pursue the work of creating paintings—that more than mere technical skill or an interesting theme are required to give birth to a painting that can reaffirm its own existence as a relevant practice in the contemporary fine art context.

*****

The paintings of Mahendra Yasa in the current exhibition can quickly attract anyone’s attention because, visually, all of their elements are so easily recognizable: faces, or self-portraits of the artist, smeared with colorful paint, or integrated with masks and stacked images of the self-portrait itself. Further, all of the paintings are made—or created—by hand, by the artist or some of his assistants, working as a whole to bring forth every detail on every existing millimeter of the canvas, working hard to rival the detail and precision of the mechanical reproduction of photographic imagery, which is the main reference for each painting. All the paintings are made using techniques of painstaking photographic realism—a contradictory term, which indicates the surrender of the practice of painting to the greatness of photography, and at the same time, an effort to reclaim the greatness and technical capacity of painting to rival the capacity of photography.

They are like visual appearances; this is all that we find in each canvas in the current exhibition. No more, no less. The titles of each painting—instead of helping us to enter the domain of narrative, symbolic, or poetic interpretation, as commonly happens when we come face to face with a work of art—just stop at the affirmation of whatever exists and is tangibly present on each canvas plane. The title simply stops there, as an index of the initial reality—the main object—now presented in the painting. Mahendra Yasa is presenting a set of paintings that he has designed and has executed in such a way as to emphasize the main idea of his painting up to now: that the painting is present and lives of and for (the painting) itself. In other words, it can be said that each canvas in this exhibition refuses any reading effort whatsoever by those of us observing it. The paintings—in this context meaning Mahendra Yasa as well—only say: What you see is what you get. Or: It is what it is; they are what they are.

This definitely sounds like an echo on the rebound from a statement of Susan Sontag’s, several decades ago, when she said: “The aim of all commentary on art now should be to make works of art—and by analogy, our own experience—more, rather than less, real to us. The function of criticism should be to show how it is, what it is, even that it is what it is, rather than to show what it means.”[4]

It is as if Mahendra Yasa, through his current paintings, were providing some concrete examples of how this might be done. Not through the epistemological disciplining of methods of interpretation, but by positioning the object of interpretation itself—the painting—so that it can stand on its own and refuse to be revivified by means of hermeneutic interpretation. And, simultaneously, it is spared from becoming the mere bearer of a sensuous visual experience. What is present before us is only the visual appearance of the painting—utterly physical and chemical: dye, oil paint, spread and stuck onto the surface of the canvas. What we see is the surface. None of these paintings show us any signs of a trail or process for channeling the thinking or emotions of the artist, as it would be appropriate for us get as a function of the general process involved in paintings created in the tradition of gestural painting (compare this to Ugo’s statement at the beginning of this article). Rather, what appear to us are procedures: the paintings are made based on certain considerations, along with following certain stages of work to bring forth paintings entirely constructed using certain techniques, while the painter himself maintains emotional and conceptual distance so that the paintings are clean of any traces of the artist’s selfhood. The procedures are carefully calculated, so that technically and physically, we can eventually be brought face to face with a set of paintings that are preoccupied with looking at and questioning themselves. The paintings rely entirely on their physical materiality, while at the same time leaning strongly on the tradition, history, and philosophy of modern painting itself. I shall gradually expand on this in the following paragraphs.

Just look, for example, at the no less than eight paintings that display Mahendra Yasa’s paint-covered face: black, white, gold, silver, and multi-colored. These paintings were actually born of the following working procedures: First, Mahendra Yasa daubs acrylic paint on his face. This objective reality, the paint-covered face, is then recorded by a photographic camera, to later be printed on photographic paper. Based on these two procedures, we have already got two visual facts, manifested in two different physical realities. The first: there really are layers of gold or silver paint pigment, for example, which really adhere to the surface of the skin of the face. Second: on the photograph, what we see is an index of the former fact, which now features entirely as a photographic duplicate, printed, by the mixing of paint pigments modulated by a printer, on a sheet of paper.

Visually, we still accept the “fact” of the spreading of paint on the surface of the skin of the face, but physically, what we are facing is a totally different paint pigment. The gold or silver colors in the photograph are completely illusory; a set of informational data and visual signs of gold or silver, received by our visual perceptions.

At the next stage, all of the visual aspects of the photo are imitated and copied as closely as possible by Mahendra Yasa onto his canvases using oil paints. It is the outcome of this final stage of the work that we see in the paintings. Now, we are face to face with yet another visual fact: a painting the presents a paint-covered face, created with techniques of painstaking photographic realism. Does this not, in the end, lead us to the question: What was this painting made for, if it is entirely a copy of a photographic image that is precisely the same? Is the photo itself not enough to present the image of the paint-covered face? Why is it that the photograph to which it refers, featuring precisely the same image, does not become “art”, while the painting that imitates the photo is entitled to carry the title, “art”?

It is the answers to these questions that can lead us into the issues of painting, in the context of the philosophical ideas and history of art in general—the concerns that have underpinned Mahendra Yasa’s work in creating paintings over the past few years.

Believing that art (painting) today has already reached the endpoint of its journey—on the assumption that modern painting, which up to now has operated and thrived in a groove of its own, had the flow of a progression—is something that makes Mahendra, Yasa as a painter truly nervous and upset. The reason is simple. Because, in the course of that progression, the art of painting and paintings have actually reached an impasse—or stage of completion—as described by Ugo, or Kosuth above: the art of painting has come to the end of its story. As a painter, Mahendra Yasa endeavors not to stop, even once he fully agrees with and knows about the end of the journey of the art of painting today. Exactly there, at the end of the road, Mahendra Yasa is faced with a clear opportunity: the art of painting and paintings can now be done and be present only by grappling with various aspects of tradition, history, philosophy, even all the aspects of their materiality itself.

The easiest aspect for us to examine, of course, is the last. Let us take Mahendra Yasa’s work from the series he made before this exhibition, and showcased in two of his previous solo exhibitions: White Series: Allegory of Painting (Richard Koh Fine Art, Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, 2008) and The Painter’s Palette (The Aryaseni Art Gallery, Singapore, 2008)—his “white” paintings in particular.[5]

Of course, as many of us know, the matter of color in the tradition of modern painting has actually seized the attention and creativity of many artists. Yves Klein went to the point of making a special blue color, conclusively following his conviction that color is an adequate and sufficient element as an aesthetic reality in itself. International Kline Blue—whose main ingredient was a fixative resin called Rhodopas M60A, which he later patented—resulted from his experiments with Édouard Adam, a chemist and seller of painting supplies in Paris in 1955.[6] Then there was also Barnett Newman, who, as if to extend Klein’s idea, filled his canvases only with color fields. In the next period, Robert Ryman too occupied himself with “colorless” situations—or, one might say, the absence of color—in his all-white paintings, simply relying on different kinds of white pigment for his canvases.

Mahendra Yasa began his practice of the art of painting precisely at the point where the paintings of Ryman left off.

If, with Ryman’s all-white paintings, we are physically confronted by canvases whose surfaces have been smeared with white paint, Mahendra questions whether what we receive visually—or more precisely, optically—can be separated from the physical reality of completely white paint pigment. This, he put to the test in a straightforward manner: by taking Ryman’s white paintings, or palettes smeared with white paint only, as the objects of his paintings. He captured and recorded all the visual-optic facts of these all-white objects, to later be turned into paintings using conventional and realist painting techniques, by applying layers of oil paint onto canvas. And, indeed—as we will soon see in Mahendra Yasa’s paintings—to replicate even the whitest of objects in a painting takes more than just white paint, does it not? Yet, in the end, we still accept it as a painting that is “all white”.

The same procedure recurs in the current paintings of Mahendra Yasa, featuring his paint-smeared face. It takes more than just the same paint to re-present that paint—in our visual-optic perception—in the painting. If photography could fully record the reality of Mahendra Yasa’s paint-covered face as an image that is an analogue of the reality recorded, then Mahendra’s painting would indeed not wish to be a mere analogue of that reality. Mahendra Yasa’s paintings actually only render the materiality of painting—oil paint as the chemical vehicle that conveys the color of the optical reality of color as pigment—which he then presents as the main aesthetic issue in his paintings. Thus, Mahendra Yasa’s problem is not merely a matter of how to present his paint-smeared self-image. A task and goal of this sort could very easily be accomplished by photography. Painting—with all of its traditions and aesthetic issues—indeed provides him with an opportunity to conduct a re-investigation of the aesthetic issues—which may still remain—in the contemporary practice of the art of painting.[7]

Expressed in another way, it could be asserted that what Mahendra Yasa is doing this time really falls within the trajectory of issues of the philosophy of art, as once described in a set of essays by Arthur C. Danto on the end of art. For Danto—when he was reviewing Duchamp’s Urinal as well as Andy Warhol’s Brillo—contemporary works of art have reached the endpoint of the aesthetic journey when the artwork: “… raises the question of the philosophical nature of art from within art, implying that art already is philosophy in a vivid form, and has now discharged its spiritual mission by revealing the philosophical essence at its heart.”[8] And, for this reason, he added, the time has come to surrender the practice of art to philosophy. To the point that in the end: “… [what] art finally will have achieved as its fulfillment and fruition is the philosophy of art.”[9]

This certainly does not mean that Danto thought that all contemporary art practice has shifted to become, or is unvaryingly the same as, the practice of philosophy. What he meant, I think, is that art can no longer rely solely on itself alone to redefine itself as art.[10] Mahendra Yasa’s practice of painting—ironically—is an affirmation of exactly the contrary. Almost the opposite of Joseph Kosuth, who considered painting no longer capable of being “self-conscious, of its own history and theory”, Mahendra Yasa plunges himself into the practice of an art of painting of exactly this sort.

****

This sequence of aesthetic procedures he tries out with a number of different visual-optic effects, the results of which we can also see in the current exhibition. There are a number of “self portraits” that he has made based on the visual reality of the self portrait resulting from the stacking of two visual realities: his real self in addition to his self portrait illuminated by the lens of a projector. In another, the self-portrait overlaps with and hides behind a mask that features his own face. Still more complex, he also tries to present color as waves of (projected) light later turned back again into paint pigment on canvas (Projection: Paint, 2009).

The paintings occupy themselves with aspects of the materiality of painting, attempting to transfer and mimic various visual-optic aspects of form and color in the reality of painting, relying completely on the mixing of paint pigments to arrive—or stop—at a visual-optic reality that is the same as, and congruent with, the main object of reference at the level of our visual perception. This is what I mean by paintings, which, at the end of their aesthetic journey, take themselves as their own subject matter, look at themselves in all aspects of their own materiality as paintings. This is most clearly and vividly evident in the works, Watercolor on Paper (2009) and Pointillism (2009).

Finally, one question may remain to tempt us: What is the use of presenting all of that in the form of self-portrait paintings? Is it not true that in these paintings there is a clear subject matter: the self-portrait?

As in the case of paintings/the art of painting, the self-portrait—in the course of modern and contemporary painting—is a line of tradition, or genre, which has been thoroughly and exhaustively worked through by a great many artists. From Albrecht Durer to Rembrandt, all the way to Affandi, S. Sudjojono, and Agus Suwage; from Chuck Close to Ronald Manullang, to Ariadhitya J. Pramuhendra; there is a long list of names of artists, from the Renaissance period in Italy up to today in Indonesia, who have dealt with the self-portrait genre in painting in myriad ways.[11]

I think that—as with the general issues I have described regarding paintings and the modern art of painting—the self-portrait, as a genre, as a tradition, has also reached the endpoint of its aesthetic journey.[12] Of course we can accept the self-portrait works of Chuck Close or Agus Suwage, for example, as the results of creative endeavors to revitalize this genre of painting. However, they are not endeavoring to test and then negate this tradition and genre. Whereas Mahendra Yasa actually enters this very territory: of the self portrait as a continuation, or completion, of his efforts to place painting, or his own particular practice of the art, into an internal struggle over issues related to the main traditions, ideas, practices and materials of the art of painting.

In general, it seems that the painting of portraits, self portraits in particular, in the final stages of its development in the present period, like it or not, must face itself as well, along with all the traditions and aesthetic principles that have supported and made it thrive up to now. In that way, as in the case of what has happened to the traditions of the art of painting in general, this practice still reserves its own internal dynamic. I think this is something that Chuck Close clearly realized, for example, when he declared that his painted portraits—and self-portraits—were no longer about issues of the self, or of the body. He said: “I reject humanist issues in my work.” And with that, Close—I again quote Godfrey—actually wanted to affirm that in confronting his portrait paintings, what was there was only: You see what you see.[13] So, we could say that rather than being concerned with problems of the “self”, Chuck Close is mainly questioning the “portrait” and painting, in the context of a contemporary society inundated by technology and media that wreak an explosion of visual imagery and turn everything into spectacle.

This issue was clearly described by David Campany, when reviewing a work of portrait painting by Chuck Close, Phil (1969), and focusing attention on areas ranging from the procedure of making the painting to a comparison of the differences between painting and photography in Close’s practice of painting. Thus, what he wrote about the issue was: “Close’s photorealism is both an expansion and a collapse of painting. The artist’s hand is subordinated to a laborious system for translating visual data, which echoes the mechanism of the photographic source. Close initially grids his canvas and works from an inverted image. He can then relate to it with indifference. In some respects this corresponds to the mechanical indifference of the optical camera lens which inverts the image it casts.”[14]

Following this line of thought, we can understand how the painting of portraits, or self portraits, may be treated as an object for raising technical and aesthetic questions around paintings/the art of painting, and have nothing to do with questions of a personal, humanistic, or poetic nature.

Thus, we can see the self-portrait paintings of Mahendra Yasa as the antithesis of the self portrait, for example, in the work of Affandi, who strongly and clearly intended to display the “emotions” or “inner experience” of the artist at different times and in different situations. Further, there are no real traces of the gestural from the artist on the surfaces of his canvases. What we see are illusions or simulacra, almost mechanical, clinical, precise, of what is visually-optically perceived.[15]

If we have ever concurred with the thinking of S. Sudjojono, who once proposed the importance of the “visible soul” in painting as a measure of its achievement of “artistic quality”,[16] then Mahendra Yasa considers these issues as an entirely technical and optical matter. And that, for that reason, a contemporary painter can imitate the “visible soul” in every which way, then re-present it as painting, in a most simple and terminal objective reality: a painting, layers of paint on canvas. We can see, for example, his self-portrait painting, titled Face Paint #2 (2010)—the largest painting in the current exhibition. Although it displays “facial expression”, we know precisely that the expression in the painting is only a form of the strokes of colored paint that at one point washed the face of the artist, who then reproduced a record of that fact—from a photograph—to later be re-presented as a painting; the result of the manipulation of various colors of paint in attempt to reproduce the original pigment colors.In other words, it could be said that Mahendra Yasa is presenting a type of self-portrait that negates the tradition of self-portraiture in general; and in a contradictory way, actually revitalizes it.And that is why Mahendra Yasa’s current paintings have the internal power to keep moving, in search of various possibilities of change and difference that can be conceptually achieved by the contemporary art of painting, after the practice of painting has been accepted for so long and has continued to keep going until today.

This last issue is the most interesting challenge of all, for anyone who still believes in his or her profession as a painter, and still has faith in the “power” of painting.

Enin Supriyanto
Curator
_____________________

Footnotes:

[1] Ugo Untoro (1995). Prakata pameran “Corat-Coret ‘91-‘95”, Bentara Budaya: Yogyakarta, as quoted in Omi Intan Naomi (2008). The Sound of Silence and Colors of The Wind Between the Tip of a Cigarette and Fire of the Lighter, Museum dan Tanah Liat:Yogyakarta, English version, p. 26.
[2] Ibid., p. 27.
[3] Tony Godfrey (2009). Painting Today. Phaidon: London, p. 12.
[4] Susan Sontag (1990). Against Interpretation. Anchor Books, Doubleday: NY, p. 14.
[5] An interesting interview with Mahendra Yasa by Wang Zineng was featured in the catalogue for the exhibition, “The Painters Palette” at the The Arya Seni Gallery, Singapore (2008), pp. 4-8. Based on Mahendra Yasa’s explanation in the interview, and also, on rechecking a number of his paintings from that period, I believe that there are no allegorical qualities at all in Mahendra Yasa’s paintings, as suggested in the title of his exhibition in Kuala Lumpur. The only elements that might lead people toward an allegorical understanding are the “poetic” messages that Mahendra Yasa still leaves in some of the titles of his paintings. On a visit to Mahendra Yasa at his studio in Denpasar, Bali, in early March 2010, we discussed this issue. It was not until a month later that Mahendra Yasa sent complete data on his works with the titles changed, into ones like those in the current exhibition.
[6] Philip Baal (2001). Bright Earth and The Invention of Color. University of Chicago Press: Chicago, p. 248.
[7] To emphasize the intersection and differences between Mahendra Yasa’s self-portraits and the paintings he creates based on the photographs, we can imagine the following situation: A self-portrait in a photograph obviously has the value and function of documentation. The photo asserts that: at a certain time and place, it truly happened that Mahendra (his face) was stained with colored paints. When this picture was replicated and transferred as closely as possible onto the canvas, it became a painting; it embarked on the path of fate and a history of its own, a history and concept of painting/the art of painting. The painting, however similar it may be to the photo it refers to, is never, or would be difficult to accept as, factual documentation, as in a journalistic report, for example.
[8] Arthur C. Danto (2005). The Philosophical Disenfranchisement of Art. Columbia University Press: NY, p. 16.
[9] Ibid.
[10] Jonathan Gilmore, in his introduction to the book by Arthur C. Danto, ibid, p. xiv.
[11] Shearer West (2004). Oxford History of Art Series: Portraiture. Oxford University Press: NY; Chapter 7: Self Portraiture, pp. 163-185, in particular.
[12] Recalling the late 1960s period in the US, Chuck Close—who continues various portrait paintings today—once explained the fate and curse of the self-portrait (not to mention paintings in the photo-realist style) in that period: “If you think about the late 1960s, painting was dead, sculpture ruled. Painting seemed like a senseless activity. If you were dumb enough to make a painting, it had better be abstract. It was even dumber to make a representational image. Then the dumbest, most moribund, out-of-date, and shopworn of all possible things you could do was make a portrait. I remember Clement Greenberg said to [Willem] de Kooning that the only thing you can’t do in art anymore is make a portrait.” See the complete interview at: http://visualarts.walkerart.org/detail.wac?id=2036&title=Articles
[13] Tony Godfrey (2009), p. 96.
[14] David Campany 92003). Art and Photography. Phaidon: London, p. 150.
[15] What he would do is to fully imitate—in as full detail and as precisely as possible—all the visual-optical data he could perceive in the Affandi painting—either using aids in the form of photographic records, or by viewing it directly with the naked eye. The result: a painting which is similar (but not the same), complete with all the scratches, slashes and twists of Affandi’s signature blobs of thick paint. However, this time, all we would see in Mahendra’s painting would be the result of the application of paint layers that are completely flat and smooth on the surface of the canvas. By this stage, Mahendra’s painting would not be a “fake” Affandi, but a painting that presents itself as the result of a work involving the alteration—or, conceptual manipulation—of a “loophole” in techniques and practices of painting made feasible and sanctioned by the traditions and history of the art of painting itself.
[16] In 1946, S. Sudjojono—taking the example of “a painter who wants to paint a bird”—wrote his view of this: “ … And it is here that the design and style of the picture takes place. So the picture is the fruit of the workings of a process of our soul, and not just a picture of a photographic optical work for our eyes alone.” S. Sudjojono, Menuju Corak Seni Lukis Persatuan Indonesia Baru, quoted in Aminudin TH Siregar & Enin Supriyanto, eds. (2006). Seni Rupa Modern Indonesia, Esai-Esai Pilihan (Indonesian Modern Art, Selected Essays) Nalar: Jakarta, p. 8.

Isn’t the painting work process that Mahendra Yasa engages really aimed at a full reliance on, and presentation of, that “optical work”?

Time and place:
Borobudur Auction
May 5th – 9th, 2010
SIGIarts Gallery
May 12th – 22th, 2010

Discussion Session
SIGIarts Gallery
May 22th, 2010

“How I am forced to make compromises with the ‘uncontrolled’ conditions and deal with it by taking a variety of decisions, all depends on the situations at hand.”
– Arin Dwihartanto

“My canvas is like a pedestal,” Arin says. The painting that we see created on the canvas is envisioned as having the status as an object, resting on a pedestal. That is how Arin uses his imaginations, and even metaphors, of how he wants his works stir our emotions. Arin shrewdly defines the modes of being and the approaches he takes toward the two-dimensional planes through allusions of objects or three-dimensional allusions.

We are used to imagining (modern) sculptures on pedestals—and, naturally, paintings in frames—as aliens from outer space. Our understanding about a variety of works of art happens in such a way that it gives rise to the view that the presence of the observer vis-à-vis the observed object constitutes the margin between two different worlds. Arin, however, does not intend to signify such conflict of understandings as he tries to transform the canvas into a pedestal; rather, he wishes to convey the discord in the creative arena or chronicle. This is understandable, as all artists in the contemporary era always seem impatient to be included in the long line of artists who advertise a kind of “de-differentiation politics”. They surreptitiously keep in their pockets a special agenda to disassemble and re-assemble the differentiating layers and identities: the self, the medium, the subject matter, meanings or messages, and signs.

Hendro Wiyanto
Exhibition curator

Start Time: Wednesday, April 7, 2010 at 7:00pm
End Time: Sunday, April 25, 2010 at 8:00pm
Venue: SIGIarts Gallery

Humans, constructions, animals, and plants serve as the basis for the modules in Albert’s configurations. These modules seem to represent the universe and all its content. The underlying problem that unites these components, however, is not immediately apparent. We can view Albert’s works as symbolic artwork, but one with no binding meaning; rather, the artwork has an open meaning that suits each of our perceptions and backgrounds.

It is undeniable that the repetition of the same objects (i.e. the modules) is the most significant part in Albert’s works in this exhibition. It states that the individual is not important; what is important here is the entity that consists of the whole constituents—which in this case are the human beings and the universe. Here, the modules that represent humans, animals, plants, and constructions can be viewed with the perspective that considers the relationship between humans and culture or nature. On the subsequent level of signification, one can also say that Albert’s artwork also symbolizes the problem of human existence; the existence and the “purpose” of human’s existence on earth.

Albert’s works are interesting precisely because they do not talk within the social and political framework, but instead with the perspective that considers the essence of human’s existence in this world. They are even more interesting because Albert Yonathan is presenting the issue using ceramic works, whose presence in the contemporary art world in Indonesia is still minimal, and are therefore often seen as unimportant.

Start Time: February 11, 2010
End Time:February 15, 2010
Venue: SIGIarts Gallery
Address: Jl. Mahakam I No. 11 Jakarta 12130

[Show as slideshow]

[View with PicLens]

A solo show by Lie Fhung (an Indonesian artist currently living in Hong Kong) featuring her latest mixed-media works

Curated by Hendro Wiyanto:

Start Time: Friday, November 20, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time: Saturday, December 12, 2009 at 8:00pm
Location: SIGIarts Gallery
Address: Jl. Mahakam I No. 11, Blok M (seberang Grand Mahakam Hotel) Jakarta, Indonesia

“ …I consider music art because and when I say ‘that song is art’, I don’t mean in comparison to a painting because I feel the visual arts are not nearly as sacred as the transcribed or audio communications, but it is art and I feel this society somewhere has lost its sense of what art is. Art is expression, in expression you need 100% full freedom and our freedom to express our Art is seriously being fucked with. –Kurt Cobain 2)

The face of a mischievous Javanese young man appeared on the cover of the Surat Cemeti, a bulletin of the Cemeti Art Foundation, Yogyakarta, in its November 2005 – January 2006 edition. The oval face is tilted slightly to the right, sneering cynically; the crazy, curly hair swells, looking like a bird’s nest; and the man looks as if he’s enraged. The flat chest is wrapped in T-shirt and serves as a billboard of sorts, reinforced by a pair of brown arms akimbo, proclaiming, “An artist who cannot speak English is not an artist.” I didn’t think I had ever seen any young artist with such an arrogant attitude and words before.

Farah Wardani, the Executive Director of IVVA (Indonesian Visual Art Archive) in Yogyakarta, had previously let me read her draft article that mentioned about Hahan, the owner of that slanted face. According to her, Hahan is one of the young artists with refreshing takes on art in Yogyakarta. At the time, I did not understood what kind of novel tendencies she was talking about; I only was aware of Hahan’s face and different attitude, which looks so conceited on the bulletin’s cover. Well, the story goes like this: Iwan Pandir, who likes to photograph his colleagues, apparently made Hahan look like the fool, who perhaps had something to do—God knows what exactly—with the main theme of the bulletin: “The Review on the Indonesian Visual Art 2005”.3)

That’s quite strange, I remember thinking, an artist named ‘Hahan’? We’re so used to seemingly meaningful and charismatic names of artists—especially the artists from Java. From Raden Saleh to Eko Nugroho—all those names bring to mind images of piety, wisdom, worth, and blessing. What kind of novelty that this young man can offer, with the name of Hahan and a T-shirt printed words that makes him looks like an artist who suddenly find himself managing an English course? Still, the figure, and the name, stuck to my mind.

After coming across his smug appearance on the cover of Surat Cemeti, and meeting the IVVA Director, I happened upon Hahan’s works of art. One of his works was installed, strikingly so, in a corner of the Sangkring Artspace in Nitiprayan—that exhibition space with a monumental shape, resembling a section of a sport stadium. Many works by the artists participating in the Yogyakarta Biennale 2007, which could not be installed elsewhere, found their place there, enabling me to encounter the huge sculpture of a baby by Edi Pranandono and the low-brow eclectic work by Hahan, and subsequently to feel a strong connection with these works.

Hahan presented a mock up of a room inhabited by a youngster who was developing his self identity and image by means of his hobby and collections. There were a pair of couches, installed next to each other; two new hi-rider push bikes; a radio cassette; a painting; and a kind of flat sculpture or a thin piece of board with the image of an old man that looked like a shaman or a community elder. Hahan’s two-color painting on the wall looked like an old calendar, and the big and small polka dots on the floor looked like the remains of old carpets, perhaps originating from a flea market somewhere.

What was important there was apparently a kind of celebration for a new identity that had freed itself from the original images of the objects, and was more or less formed by mundane flavors mixed with all the predilections and hobbies of the room’s inhabitant. One could well imagine that this inhabitant was none other than the artist himself, a faithful member of a youth club, or an angry proponent of the youth culture, who silently wished for the demise of “fine art”—whose meaning he might not necessarily understand. Indeed, one could (literally) see the writing on the wall: “young and restless” and “fine art is dead.”

When I found myself left behind by a few light-years (the phrase that the curator Aminuddin TH Siregar often uses to signify all things passé) in terms of the latest information about the young artists working in Yogya who are seen as cool and hip, Hahan almost found himself out cold, struck by a bowl of cold noodle—served with a huge block of ice as big as a man’s head—in one winter afternoon in Seoul. He had wrongly ordered his lunch, just as two or three colors in his drawing works were deliberately shifted by a few millimeters. What was more, the studio in which he worked during his residential term, which would eventually bring forth “My Winter Collection” (2008), was still empty, and Hahan had merely been preoccupied with the freezing weather and the goings about town.

Hahan then started to draw on the boxes of bread and milk fished out of the dumpster. One could use certain signs in his drawings to find directions, tracing the artist’s steps from his wandering back to the studio. There are images of children looking like buck-naked puppets, or moon-faced and innocent-looking elderly who sometimes resemble dwarves with running noses that invariably want to hide inside the tree trunk, or in burrows just like the bunnies, or behind the thick winter blankets. Often there are traces of oil or remaining sauce on the cardboards, full of such narrative drawings.4)

One can sense that his drawings have plots; they are more like tales of the wonderland rather than records of daily events. The lines and shading are meticulously done, the color blocks and brush strokes are sophisticated, just like the subtle senses of the Yogyakartan artists, be they low-brow or high-class. Producers at the Cartoon Network or Pixar would fight over him had they seen the flawlessness of these drawings, before finally persuading him to death to squash the images flat, or to stretch them, to make them look coarser, and therefore more lively and chatty.

Painting = Stress
However, in front of the line up of young artists in Yogya—in which Hahan is included—or behind them, there is not only Agung Kurniawan in Yogyakarta, or Agung Hujatnikajennong in Bandung, who keeps a keen eye on their exploits, considering them as merely downloading or transferring whatever it is they may find in the contemporary low-brow magazine of Juxtapoz. Beside Agung Kurniawan and Agung Hujatnikajennong, another significant activist stands readily by, encouraging them and linking them effectively with the local social realm of art. This is Bambang “Spiegelman” Wicaksono, or Bambang Toko, who, according to Hahan, is an effective “provider of extra lectures”. He is the contemporary artist-broker or broker-artist whose daring comic series of the Moslem pig might remind us of the cheekiness of Art Spiegelman’s Maus (1980 – 1991), with the cats, mice, and pigs in holocaust atmosphere. It is something that carries with it “half” an acknowledgement: the kind of the low-brow art that presents serious themes.5)

Hahan said: “I’ve chatted with a friend who has made paintings. In terms of its material, the canvas seems to be mystical; it ordains you as an artist, from the way you stretch the material to the end. It’s not as easy as when I find a cardboard, draw on it, and done. I’ve consulted Mas Bambang [Toko], but he said that I wasn’t a painter, but a graphic artist… Also, my only experience of working with brushes was when I used them to paint murals, so I treat my paintings like I do murals, although I’m quite careful about it. I mean, when I do mural works, I use wall paints, and when I paint on canvases, I use acrylic paints, and I don’t restrict myself with only one acrylic paint; I use all the paints with the pretty colors. Painting is actually quite distressing…”

So, what does Bambang Toko promise—he, the effective broker and link between the low-brow art (comics, illustrations, pictures on stickers, T-shirts, graffiti’s, kitsch arts, murals, etc.) and the high-brow (paintings, sculptures, installation art, conceptual art, performance art, and all art forms that seem to be serious, with artistic or prophetic aura)—aside from confirming them as masterful artisans and providing them with extra anti-stress lectures to counter the pressure of the unending exhibition requests submitted only for painting works?

Perhaps what we call the contemporary art is again undertaking a rapprochement with the popular or mundane art and culture. David Harvey said that this could not be a new thing, as in the past the modern artists had done it, too; using daily images in their modernist project for changes and social transformation, by means of ways that were considered as revolutionary (Dada, surrealism, constructivism, or expressionism, as it were). The rapprochement that the contemporary artists (who are “anti-auratic” and “anti-avant-garde”) are now conducting does not seem to employ such tactics anymore. On the other hand, their dependence on the media, or the new communication technology, easily makes them seen as the accused, reproached for yielding immediately in the midst of the reigning commercialization, commoditization, and… market. The communication technology has broken down the horizon of time and created a never-ending obsession for all things instant, signified by, naturally, the cultural productions that rely on events, spectacles, happening, and media images…6)

Black Ribbon (formed in 2004), Punkasila (2005), and Hengky Strawberry (2006)—the indie music groups founded by “punk rock artists” such as Hahan and his friends—along with all the pertaining products and side effects, certainly point at such obsession, don’t you think? You’ll find later that Hahan has admitted of being enchanted by a little girl, Evita Nuh, and of making a special work for her in this exhibition, as he has been following her “super-cool” weblog.

“…I actually would love her to come to my exhibition. I’d like to see her in person, instead of only meeting her in the virtual world…”7)

“Lowbrow meets Highbrow”?
In 2006, Ari Diyanto sent me—not with an accompanying ticket—to Jonathan Levine Gallery in New York. The message was succinct: “Buy me a copy of Jeff Soto’s book; he’s just exhibited his works at the gallery. He’s such a cool artist, you know?” Well, yes, but the exhibition has just ended, and it seemed that it was a quick selling one, hopefully they still have some catalogues left. I walked crossing some blocks in Chelsea, took some wrong lanes (like Hahan’s missing print technique), and it was such a cold day for going out hunting for the thick catalogue of Jeff Soto’s works, as per Ari Diyanto’s request, Hahan’s idol.

I just found out three or four days later that Juxtapoz’s spirit has actually become widespread in several contemporary galleries in New York. Jeff Soto is just one example—there are other names of artists from the West Coast who have started to “haunt” the center that is New York. According to the weblog My Artspace, which promotes the issue of “Lowbrow Meets Highbrow”, Jonathan Levine is a gallery whose sacred mission today is to endorse post-graffiti art works; works influenced by illustrations, comics, graffiti art, and the myriad pop imageries.8)

Ari Diyanto is one founder of the Apotik Komik, a group that all lowbrow artists must mention every time someone talks about whether the “frog” is of the low or the high kind, simply hunted by the frog hunters in the rice fields, or whether it has made its entry in an elegant way to a restaurant in Paris. Hahan commented about Ari Diyanto: “…I make drawing works, mural, stenciled works… that’s because I’ve seen Mas Ari’s works, which at the time were quite inspiring, with the Coca-Cola boxes, vans shoes, anything about the youth culture anyway. And then I thought, well, Kak Ari is still hip, the one and only…” And then on he went about other artists who have become famous and influenced him. Naturally, at the time he has successfully “graduated” from the job as an assistant to the artist Arya Panjalu, helping him painting block colors for his murals under the Lempuyangan bridge, Yogyakarta, under the umbrella of the “Sama-sama” (Together) mural project, which many artists like Hahan consider as legendary.

One can say that the lowbrow “frogs” have opened their eyes and ears wide, keenly sensing any event or spectacle anywhere in the world, by means of the media technology or the information available to them. Naturally, some of them would ingest such information fully, while others would be busy stealing and digesting—I hope they would try to become bigger and better than the ones they steal the ideas from. It has been said that big-time artists steal, and petty artists copy. In all kinds of fields, there is bound to be people who steal and giants who stand on the shoulders of the previous giants. But, have there been such giants in the world of the lowbrow frogs?

While Kurt Cobain started to throw around his music equipments on the stage in August 1988, we in Indonesia have seen a similar thing from Sony Irawan—known for his “Sick-sick-sick” among the young artists in Yogyakarta—done on Edwin’s Gallery stage at night, almost twenty years later. Even commercial galleries that claimed to be among the establishment turn out not to be able to resist the lowbrow artists. The reason is simple: everything sells today.

Cobain said that visual art was not such a sacred thing, but Hahan begged to differ. Hahan, in any case, is “just” a boy from the world of graphic art, who can easily work on meters upon meters of walls that are clearly a lot tougher than the canvas, but the pliant 200 x 200 cm2 canvases precisely distress him, despite the “extra lectures”. Apparently, it is the silent white square world that makes him stressful.

Therefore, in this exhibition, Hahan intended to keep on drawing on the square panels that look more like used boxes, instead of on the canvases, simply to avoid the unnecessary mental distress, and what does he care about the social acknowledgement for artists. Many contemporary art galleries have submitted exhibition proposals to him anyway, and some have even successfully drawn up contract letters for him to sign. “Sorry, no canvas today”—this exhibition today—is intended for those who think that “all works should be on canvases.”

Hahan followed the crisscrossing pattern of the boxes, then copied the shapes and blew them up with planks, as if to challenge the largeness of the canvases, or perhaps surreptitiously to overcome his distress. Hahan uses the missing print technique as the appropriate way to refer to the second- and third-class prints in this era of “mechanical reproduction”. These kinds of prints are ubiquitous, one can find them in the Glodok shopping center, Jakarta, or on Mataram street, Yogyakarta, and even in Bambang Toko’s catalogues in galleries. The skewed cyan hue produces unfocused images. The stereoscopic images actually point at stereopsis illusions, referring to the way our eyes work. By using such stereopsis method, the technical advantages and the stereoscopic effects now reign, and are today popular as the 3D technique in the film industry, loved by people from all ages. You will need special 3D glasses to prove that Hahan’s images in these media are not random and merely being playful with the skewed effects—or at least to handle the bright neon glows of the works.

The young artists who have been merely obsessed in making paintings in “good compositions” for the sake of “economic sacredness”—which Hahan subsequently takes as rather mystical—can perhaps be lined up along with Ponari, the young medicine man from the village of Jombang who had created such chaos and commotion throughout the country. The images of these young shamans must contain certain social caricature within, which Hahan celebrate without any revolutionary mode. The pictures applaud the existing stories, grateful for their own fate as non-reflective media, no need to call them second class works. The media that without great passion re-question the essence of drawing; and neither do they go deep to hunt and capture the substance of a problem, or, much less so, be caught in the fever of testing the history.

When working with the boxes taken from the dustbin in his city in Florida, Robert Rauschenberg must have been not as riotous as Hahan is today. The artist, who signified the era of pop art, had thoroughly mulled over the essence color and form for the sake of “a good composition” and treated them as a new medium for the “history of abstraction”.9) Meanwhile, Warhol’s Brillo Box does not look exactly like a real box, as a form of art masquerading as daily objects but cannot be used for any pragmatic needs.

There are porcelain objects that seem kitschy and cheap, as if they have been picked up from the second-hand market. The small sculpture of the Virgin Mary, whose robe has inspired Hahan’s shaman images, was found as a souvenir from Mexico, installed as if she is admiring a set of boom box, side by side with a rivet and a sculpture of a crouching tiger, whose body is rather elongated, and a small piano toy, “still life” of fruits and skulls, which any contemporary artist must obviously handle. The objects are covered with colorful thin lacquer, again using the CMYK color-formula just like an offset print. Besides, the paint pouring technique in the style of Pollock is there, too, on the surface of the objects, as if it wants to be joined with the ingenuity and the perpetuity. This is, apparently, the upshot of the theme “Never Mind the Pollock”, that Danius Kesminas promoted through his other music performance, The Histrionics, before finally influencing the young artists of Yogya, including Hahan, to make a parody out of a number of acronyms, including the term of ‘Pancasila’, which produced the name of ‘Punkasila.’10) Yes, indeed, like Jeff Koons, who deliberately plays on the Renaissance images and strips down the aura, making them look like objects that just come out of the stores. Here, for the umpteenth time, the extra lectures from Bambang “Toko” seem to be playing a part, because the collection of objects—whether made to look original or deliberately created to resemble counterfeits, in stores or in second-hand markets—constitutes the mode of working of a store-owner to give an identity to the objects and to create a space. “They’re smart and slick…”—these words are meant for the seller of second-hand objects, or perhaps to all artists who always have associated themselves with the art dealers.

Apparently, however, the “canvas effect” remains a dream and a target for the intriguing Javanese artist, although the theme of the exhibition carries with it the words of “no canvas”. Hahan said, “I wish I have my own studio with a hot water facility, air conditioning system, and a place for DJ and with a ram skateboard…” Soon, with or without stress, I think Hahan will gain more than he dreams for. +++

Jakarta, October 17, 2009

Hendro Wiyanto
Exhibition curator

Notes:
1. Interview with Hahan in his studio, Yogyakarta, May 2009. Several of Hahan’s statements quoted in this article, are from this interview, which was conducted with Bambang Toko, Emonk, and Rain Rosidi.
2. Kurt Cobain Journals, Riverheads Book, New York, 2003, p. 120
3. The idea originated from Nunuk Ambarwati, who at the time was working for Yayasan Seni Cemeti, and who took the picture from an exhibition guest, who was probably also an artist, during her trip abroad.
4. The interview with Hahan through the email, October 14, 2009
5. www2.iath.virginia.edu/holocaust/spiegelman.html, downloaded on October 11, 2009
6. David Harvey, The Condition of Postmodernity”, Blackwell Publishers, 1996, p. 59
7. Interview with Hahan, October 14, 2009, see also: http: //evita-nuh.deviantart.com/
8. See: Myartspace-blog, “Lowbrow meets Highbrow” issue of Juxtapoz, August 15, 2009
9. See :Yve-Alain Bois “Pause” in Yves-Alain Bois, Clare Elliot, Josef Helfenstein, “Robert Rauschenberg Carboards and Related Pieces”, Menil Foundation, Inc, Houston, 2007, p 17-27
10. “Never mind the Pollock”, Broadsheet, Contemporary Visual Arts+ Culture, Feb- May, 2004, commentary, p. 56

Start Time: Friday, October 23, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time: Tuesday, November 3, 2009 at 8:00pm
Location: SIGIarts Gallery

Pameran dibuka oleh Menteri Kebudayaan dan Parawisata – Republik Indonesia

Seniman partisipan: Abas Alibasyah, Agapetus A. Kristiandana, Agus Sumiantara, Agus Suwage, Ay Tjoe Christine, Banung Grahita, Dadan Setiawan, Dede Eri Supria, Deden Sambas, Dipo Andy Muttaqien, Dodit Artawan, Eddie Prabandono, Edo Pillu, Entang Wiharso, Farhan Siki, F. Sigit Santoso, Galam Zulkifi, Hanafi, Hariadi Suadi, Hening Purnamawati, Ichwan Noor, Indra Ameng, Irman A. Rahman, I Wayan Sudarnaputra, Jumaadi, Ketut Moniarta, Misbach Thamrin, Nasirun, Nus Salomo, Putu Sutawijaya, R. E. Hartanto, Rudi ST Darma, Ronald Manulung, Sri Warso Wahono, Suatmadji, Sudjana Suklu, Ugo Untoro, Willy Himawan, Wok The Rock, Yusra Martunus.

Start Time: Friday, October 16, 2009 at 7pm
End Time: Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Place: Galeri Nasional Indonesia
Addresss: Jln. Medan Merdeka Timur no.14 Jakarta Pusat

Talking about flatness in contemporary painting practice obviously feels awkward and absurd. The contemporary painting has shown its function as a representation media, has it not? The canvas surface of painting in the contemporary art era is loaded with many narration and problems from outside the art region. The contemporary art no longer has any interest in questioning itself. The defenders of modern formalist painting have accused representational paint as displaying “art” through a “non art” subject matter, while underlining that abstract shows “art” through “art”. What they meant was that by displaying merely the basic component of visual art: line, shape, form; the art will not be contaminated by the existence of subject matters from outside the art region. This is what we recognized as abstract painting. According to Clement Greenberg, it is only through abstract paintings that paintings can show their true form, which is its flatness,

“Flatness alone was unique and exclusive to that art….Flatness, two-dimensionality, was the only condition painting shared with no other art, and so modernist painting oriented itself to flatness as it did to nothing else.”[1]

We now knew that the glory of formalistic modernists with its abstract paintings has crumbled to dust. Although the contemporary painting practices has shown a more diverse display, it can be said that painting has dominantly become more representational. More than the paintings of the past, the contemporary painting has become a field of joy for the celebration of images. Despite the myriad of faces, as the visual text with representational nature, the realist approach has grown dominant once more. Thus, the paintings of Ito in this exhibition are showing photo-realistic images. Anyone who sees the paintings can easily see that the subject matters are grass and bikes. This is indeed as plain as an elephant in front of your eyes. However, what exactly does Ito represents through the subject matter of patch of grass, bushes and groups of bikes?

One has to admit that facing Ito’s paintings, one will be fascinated by how similar the paintings look compared to the real patch of grass, or in this case, a photograph of a patch of grass. However, the simplicity of the subject matter puts one in a difficult position when asked, just what exactly does the artist want to represent? What is the meaning that we can extract from a patch of grass? Obviously, we can always try to reproduce meanings from a visual text. However, a patch of grass is too “simple” an image to trigger a construction for a meaning, is it not? We can suspect Ito for deliberately invites us to be able to directly construct meanings from his patch of grass. Usually, the photo-realistic paintings in contemporary art practice puts forth content and meaning that can be deducted from the subject matter existence. If that is so, what is the meaning of grasses in Ito’s paintings? I doubt that we can instantly see the “story” and “meaning” from Ito’s paintings.

Ito Joyoatmojo offers “empty” paintings, with no content whatsoever, although one can still find subject matters on the canvas. Thus, one can say that Ito deliberately chose grass as his subject matter because of his “emptiness of meaning”. These grasses and bushes with their frontal representation has been his subject matter for quite sometimes. Thus, what he chose to show through his subject matter of grass can actually be implied in relation to his thoughts, attitudes, and perceptions of culture and art, which obviously is the result of his life experiences. Thus, one can say that Ito’s works represent his personal identity issues.

The title of this exhibition is Allegorical Flatness Painting. It means that Ito’s painting is positioned in the discourse of flatness in the journey of modern and contemporary art. “The absence” of meaning in the grass paintings can also be related to the absence of “depth” offered to the audience for content and meaning. The flatness of Ito’s painting in contemporary art context can instantly be connected to the contemporary condition of culture, which is shallow and superficial. Therefore, at first Ito’s paintings can be called an allegory for the shallow contemporary culture. Then, his paintings can be seen as an allegory for the “shallowness” of art who had believed at its existence as a deep pool. This can be seen in the statement of the often mentioned the end of art who believes that art is over and what is left is only its celebrations, or to be more precise the celebration of its “shallowness”. However, contemporary art can still, in its practice and discourse, be a place that accommodates the many problems, stated by the artist. Although Ito’s works are also referring to the cultural condition and art that he saw and ponder, his works are also the reflection of his identity.

As is common for the Indonesian people¬¬—or anyone who has been separated for a long time from its country—who has spent his life in Europe, the problem of identity, or identity crisis, is an important issue. Ito has long worked as graphic designer in Swiss, for more than 20 years. He has returned to practice painting for a couple of years now. As is common to artists, the problem of personal identity is an important issue. We can assume that as an artist Ito spend more time pondering and questioning his identity. Andrew Edgar referring to the thoughts of Erik Erikson noted this about identity crisis,

“At first the term referred to a person who had lost sense of ‘personal sameness and historical continuity’ (Erikson 1968: 22). As such, the individual is separated from the culture that can give coherence to his or her sense of self.”[2] (Cultural Theory, hal. 186).

The problem of has also always related to race, class, gender, ethnicity and sexuality. In this case, what instantly hit Ito as a Javanese in Swiss is obviously the gap of cultures based on ethnicity and nationality. However, in other point of view the field of contemporary art is not a field, which can “clearly” answer the problems of identity. Often times the contemporary art is merely a field where this problem are represented and displayed but serve no answer. After his comeback into art in its contemporary context, Ito soon felt and saw that the place he had returned to (the contemporary art) is also a field that has been experiencing acute crisis related to its identity. We can never be sure of the meanings and identity of contemporary art, can we? If this is so, it is easy to see that Ito also had his doubts on the possibility and effectiveness of contemporary art, or in this case paintings, as the tool or instrument in answering the problems of identity.

I assume this problem had grown more clearly in his consciousness when he tried to seek “another possibility” and entering the contemporary art in Indonesia. Aside from the “content” or “narration” offered by the contemporary artists, the problem of value, meaning, and methods of art are obviously mostly imported—unknowingly/unconsciously—from the West. Often times, the problems lies not in the paradigm or the contemporary art thinking which is mainly constructed by the Western artworld—which seems to be the model of global contemporary artworld—but in the reality of taken for granted attitude of Indonesian contemporary artists who thinks that contemporary art is valuable—without the ability to explain why. What can one do? The contemporary art in Indonesia, which is actually a cultural appropriation of its Western part, obviously serve no answer to Ito’s anxiety on his identity and art itself. Therefore, the only way left is to empty oneself and freeing oneself from contemporary art, not by leaving it but by diving into and subverting it from the inside. That is why Ito emptied his self from any possibility of expressing emotion or constructing meaning. One can say that philosophically Ito’s works are anti-meaning works, and by itself can also be said to be anti-art. It can be said as a passive subversion. He made paintings, while denying “hope” and “believe” about their representational ability as a critical field.

Obviously, Ito’s works turned out to be “meaningful” and “critical”, through his way of denying the stereotype of contemporary painting. The same case goes into his works being intentional because it has no intention. That is why the flatness in Ito’s works are different from the concept of flatness in the Early Modern pieces, such as Matisse’s works which reduces form into flat patterns, or the flatness of Jackson Pollock which completely nullify the pictorial aspect to get into the true flatness of paintings as two dimensional works.

“From Manet to Stelaa. Modernist painting has progressively surrendered to the resistance of its medium, to the point where very little was left beside its flatness itself.”[3]

However, what Greenberg promoted about the flatness as the essence of painting, is also accompanied by the important existence of Jackson Pollock. The gestural—drip—paintings of Pollock become important because the paintings are the product of his bodily gesture while splish-splashing and dripping the paint on the canvas, do they not? It means that what was recorded is the “emotional depth” of Pollock. David Joselit referred to Pollock’s paintings as the allegorical dimension of depth in Abstract Expressionism,

“This allegory arises from the conviction, shared equally by Pollock and his critics. That gestural painting emerges from an inner source—a psychological depth. Pollock’s interest in the unconscious is well documented, as his assertion, in a statement of 1951, that ‘the method of painting is the natural growth out of need. I want to express my feelings rather than illustrate them.”[4]

What Ito’s works and the choice of working represent is the flatness aspect, which is closer to the metaphor of the shallowness condition of culture, some kind of a negation to the dominant culture, just like the one showed by Frederic Jameson,

“A new kind of flatness or depthlesness, a new kind of superficiality in the most literal sense (is) perhaps the supreme formal feature of all postmodernism to which will have occasion to return….”[5]

In other words, the concept of flatness in art and contemporary painting is not merely related to the physical and optical of art, just as David Joselit said further,

“There is a great deal at stake in acknowledging that the flatness or depthlessness we experiences in our globalized world is more than optical effect.”[6]

The idea that nowadays the flatness aspect cannot merely be connected to the flatness of non-representational painting, and the realization that the representational painting cannot bear any fruit in answering and understanding the problems of society and culture, drove Ito to move between these two possibilities. That is why; he can easily talk about flatness through the language of realist painting. While emotion and expression are almost invisible in the Ito’s paintings, the coldness shown by the paintings represents the shallowness and artificiality aspect of the culture. Theoretically and logically, every representational painting that tried to represent the contemporary humane condition is instantly trapped by the shallowness of contemporary culture. Because what the painting represents is shallow culture, then, as its consequence, what is represented is the shallowness itself. That is why Ito refuses the notion that his grass works directly represents a condition in the context of society and culture.

The flatness—and in accordance shallowness—of contemporary culture that Ito tries to simulate through his paintings reminds us to the concept of superflatness from the contemporary Japanese artist Murakami. Through the concept of flatness, the works from Murakami represent the shallowness and childishness of popular culture and the flatness of social structure in Japan.[7] That is why Murakami appropriates the popular culture like crazy. Simply put, Murakami’s superflat has this meaning,

“The term is used by Murakami to refer to various flattened form in Japanese graphic art, animation, pop culture and fine art, as well as the ‘shallow emptiness of Japanese consumer culture.”[8]

Ito did not choose to represent the tome of popular culture. Ito chose grass because he wants to try avoiding the trap of “subject matter” which is so pretentious and “strong”. According to him, he chose grass because it enables him to paint this subject matter in a monotone and orderly rhythm, without having to do it in an exact and definite tick-tocks. Painting a field of grass enables him to work in a rhythmic and monotone way, continuously, like a machine. Thus, the grass subject matter, in essence and in its process does represent emptiness and flatness.

The issue of working process is the prominent issue in Ito’s works, at least for the artist himself. If Andy Warhol bragged about his producing painting in the “machine” way, which is by using screen print, then Ito does more than that. He made himself a machine by working in a highly methodic way. By applying the CMYK methods of printing, Ito puts layer upon layer in a discipline rhythm of work. Ito does work like a printer, without emotion, without the need to change. Ito is a “MANual printer”. Ito does “reprint” photographical image. This is a further underlining in the aspect of optical flatness in Ito’s painting. Is it not the photo image, which is naturally a flat plane, which he paints?

To further strengthen the issue of “value”, the consciousness or critic that Ito wants to say, what David Joselit said might be of help,

“There is a great deal at stake in acknowledging that flatness or depthlessness we experiences in our globalized world is more than optical effect. I will argue that flatness may serve as a powerful metaphor for the price we pay in transforming ourselves into images—a compulsory self-spectacularization which is the necessary condition of entering the public sphere in the world of late capitalism.”[9]

However, Ito do not want this flatness to be an issue that can only be deducted from the assumptions of the content and emotional “emptiness” of his paintings, but also recorded in his canvas and recorded optically. One must admit that facing Ito’s painting, one is reminded to the “window of illusion”. One seems to stare at grasses or bushes outside the window. There is a spatial impression made by grasses in the lower part of canvas into the upper part. However, the absence of horizon in Ito’s painting seems also to deny that depth, so that what appears is an invitation to the flatness of the field of grass. Staring at Ito’s painting, especially the “grass” works, seems to be an invitation to look down, bowing our head, and staring at the (surface) of the earth. This can also be a symbolic invitation or offer from the artist.

Ito had once said this regarding his past exhibition about time,

“My observation of ‘time’ as phenomena resulted to the product and led me to detach myself from the demand for an end result of the dynamic process. By emphasizing the dynamic, the product loses its significance …”

What Ito said is clearly shown in the works in this exhibition. Ito paintings seems to be a collage of print materials, fulfilling the surface of his canvas. With his own way, we can say that Ito is requestioning the identity and the possibility of painting. How far can painting in the context of contemporary art justify its existence and identity? Is it only a matter of medium? Is it the materials: the canvas and paint? Is it still possible to see painting ontologically? In the end, one must admit that Ito’s intention to abandon content and meaning is the main content of his works. This can also be seen as an effort of critic, or his self-critic to his art journey, and the contemporary painting practices. I had said that Ito stand between the self-criticizing modernist principles and the contemporary art who preoccupied itself with criticizing the world outside the art. On this matter, what Clement Greenberg said is worthy to be observed,

“I identify Modernism with the intensification, almost the exacerbation, of this self-critical tendency that began with the philosopher Kant…The essence of Modernism lies, as I see it, in the use of the characteristic methods of a discipline to criticize the discipline itself—not in order to subvert it, but to entrench it more firmly in its area of competence.”[10]

Asmudjo Jono Irianto
Exhibition curator

Notes:
[1] Thierry de Duve, Kant after Duchamp, Cambridge: The MIT Press, 1999, p. 207.
[2] Andrew Edgar, Cultural Theory, The key Concepts, London: Routledge, 1999, p. 186
[3] Op,Cit, p. 216.
[4] David Joselit, “Note on Surface, Toward a Genealogy of Flatness”, in Theory in Contemporary Art Since 1985, editor: Zoya Kocur and Simon Leung, Oxford: Blackwell Publishing, 2005, p. 295.
[5] Frederic Jameson, Postmodernism or, The Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism, Durham; Duke University Press, 1991, p. 9.
[6] Op.Cit, p. 293.
[7] Midori Matsui, “Murakami Matrix: Takashi Murakami’s Instrumentalization of Japanese Postmodern Culture” in Murakami editor Paul Schimmel, New York: Kaikai Kiki Co., Ltd, 2008, p. 84.
[8] www.wikipedia.org/wiki/superflat.
[9] Op. Cit., David Joselit, p. 293.
[10] Op.Cit., Thierry de Duve, p, 207.

Start Time: Friday, September 4, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time: Thursday, September 17, 2009 at 8:00pm
Location: SIGIarts Gallery
Street: Jl. Mahakam I no. 11 Kebayoran Baru Jakarta, Indonesia
Phone: 62217260949
Email: sigi.arts@gmail.com

INDEXICAL FRIENDS
A Solo Exhibition by Triyadi Guntur Wiratmo

Photo is an index of reality. The works of Guntur are drawings and painting, referring to the photos of his friends’ faces, and therefore can be called index of indexes. Producing manual artworks with such a realistic, photo-like, quality takes a long time. This gave him a chance to think about the digital technology that can produce images in an instant. The length of time in the drawing process also gave him a way to reconstruct his memory and perception about the friends that he chose to draw or paint. For the viewer, Guntur provides a chance to “enjoy” drawings in a photographic-like quality. The intention is to “lure” the people to absorb the works intensively, and to drive them to “build” values and meaning surrounding the works.

Start Time: Wednesday, August 19, 2009 at 7:00pm
End Time: Saturday, August 29, 2009 at 8:00pm
Location: SIGIarts Gallery
Address: Jl. Mahakam I no. 11 Kebayoran Baru Jakarta, Indonesia
Phone: 6285285945170
Email: sigi.arts@gmail.com