Philosophy
Artist Statement
"I paint what I cannot say. Every mark carries a memory — of the jungle where I grew up, of the silence after violence, of the courage it takes to dream when the world tells you to stop."
My work exists at the intersection of memory and gesture, between the landscapes I carry within me and the physical act of painting. I do not plan my compositions — they emerge through a dialogue between the material and the moment, between what I remember and what the paint reveals.
Each painting begins in darkness. Not the darkness of despair, but the darkness of the jungle at night — full of sound, full of life, full of things waiting to be seen. From that darkness, color emerges. And with color, meaning.
Process
I never learned technique from a school. I learned it from life — from the rhythm of a restaurant kitchen, from the patience of walking kilometers with nothing, from the courage of knocking on doors that keep closing. When I paint, I work fast. The gesture must be honest — there is no time for pretension when the brush is moving.
I use acrylics, charcoal, natural pigments, ink, and sometimes gold leaf. The materials are chosen not for their prestige but for their truth. Charcoal because it is the residue of fire. Gold because it is the color of hope. Ink because it cannot be erased.
My studio in Paris is small. The paintings are made on the floor, on the wall, sometimes on the kitchen table. There is no separation between living and making — the art grows from the same space where I cook, where I dream, where I remember. This intimacy is essential. The paintings are not objects to be admired from a distance. They are invitations to come closer.
Color as Language
Color is my mother tongue. The crimson of courage. The navy blue of solitude. The amber-gold of hope. The jungle green of home. These are not decorative choices — they are emotional truths translated into pigment.
Growing up in Sumatra, I was surrounded by colors that European painting rarely captures — the electric green of tropical foliage, the deep red of volcanic earth, the gold of afternoon light through bamboo. These colors live in my body. When I paint, they come out not as representations but as sensations. The viewer does not see a jungle — they feel the heat, the humidity, the aliveness of it.
Memory as Material
I paint from memory, but memory is not a photograph. It is a living thing — it changes, it grows, it heals. The nocturnal village scenes in my Sumatra Memories series are not accurate depictions of my childhood home. They are what my heart remembers: the darkness of the jungle at night, the warm glow of a kerosene lamp, the silhouette of a traditional house against the stars.
Distance has given me perspective. From Paris, I can see my village with love instead of pain. The paintings are acts of reconciliation — with my past, with my father, with the boy who was told he was nothing and chose to believe he was everything.
Resilience as Practice
Every painting I make is an act of resilience. Not the dramatic kind — not the hero's journey — but the quiet kind. The kind my mother taught me: you get up, you keep going, you find beauty where others see nothing. You wash the dishes, you dream of Paris, you walk the kilometers, you knock on five doors until one opens.
My art is for everyone who has been told their dream is impossible. For the anak kampung who wants to see the world. For the dishwasher who knows they are more than their job. For anyone who has ever stood at a sink and thought: "This is not my whole life. There is more."
There is always more.
— AYTRA, Paris, 2025