CNTRFLD. As a Chinese Indonesian artist, you have your own experience of being represented, categorised and sometimes positioned as an ‘Other’. How does your lived experience of identity enter your work, and how do you navigate the space between making work from personal experience and addressing histories that extend beyond yourself?

O. My experience of being positioned as the "Other", or living on the margins, has taught me never to take my relationship with dominant narratives for granted. I have always been interested in the concept of otherness, particularly through Edward Said's writing, which examines how the West historically constructed representations of the East in relation to itself.

What interests me is that the idea of the "Other" can only exist when there is an assumed centre, a position from which someone has the authority to define who belongs and who does not. Growing up as Chinese Indonesian, I experienced this contradiction in a very personal way. There is a sense of being considered too Chinese to be Indonesian, yet too Indonesian to be Chinese.

For a long time, this placed me in a kind of limbo, somewhere between identities that never seemed to fully accommodate my existence. But over time, I began to reconsider this position. I started to see it as a space of possibility, somewhere things can grow and thrive, rather than focusing on the in-between as a place of absence or incompleteness.

Living outside Indonesia has added another layer to this experience. In many ways, I have become even more of an outsider. However, I have gradually learned to embrace this position. Being an outsider gives me a certain distance, a space where I can observe, question, and explore without feeling obliged to conform to the expectations of a particular cultural identity. I no longer feel that I need validation from any one culture to establish who I am.

I think this perspective has shaped my artistic practice. My personal experiences are often the starting point of my inquiries, but I don't necessarily want the work to remain confined to my own identity. Instead, those experiences have made me more attentive to broader questions about representation, classification, and the authority to construct narratives about others.

When I engage with historical photographs, for example, I am conscious that I am also looking at people whose identities and histories may have been defined by someone else. I don't assume that my own experience of marginalisation gives me the authority to speak on their behalf. Rather, it encourages me to approach these histories with curiosity, sensitivity, and an awareness of my own limitations.

Perhaps being an outsider has taught me that I don't always need to occupy the centre to participate in a conversation. Sometimes, the margins offer a different perspective from which to understand the world.

CNTRFLD. There is a particularly powerful tension in your work between the authority of the archive and the human lives that have been obscured within it. In works such as Liyan Menjadi Saksi (The Other Witness) and God’s Likeness, what does weaving allow you to do with an archival image that photography itself cannot?

O. I think one of the fundamental differences between photography and weaving lies in their relationship with time. Photography, in a sense, attempts to extract a moment from the flow of time. It captures a spontaneous moment and preserves it as a still image, immortalising a fraction of existence. Weaving, on the other hand, unfolds within time. Each thread and movement becomes part of a gradual process through which the work takes shape, carrying traces of the labour and attention that have gone into its making. This process is deeply meaningful to me and becomes particularly significant when I work with archival photographs.

Photography has an extraordinary ability to preserve a moment, but when an image enters an archive, it can become detached from the circumstances of its creation and the life of the person represented within it. This becomes particularly complex within colonial archives, where photographs were often produced and classified through systems of colonial knowledge and power. The photographed subjects can become fixed within particular narratives, encountered primarily through the identities and meanings assigned to them rather than as people whose lives extend far beyond the composed frame. In works such as Liyan Menjadi Saksi (The Other Witness) and God's Likeness, weaving offers me another way of engaging with these images.

I spend hundreds of hours reconstructing the image, thread by thread. During this process, I develop an intimate relationship with the subject. Every thread carries a trace of my physical presence, my attention, and my labour. But this intimacy does not necessarily mean that I come to know the person better. In fact, the longer I spend with the image, the more conscious I become of how little I truly know about the person represented.

I think this uncertainty is important. I am not attempting to reconstruct an authentic identity or replace the original narrative with another claim of truth. Rather, I am interested in interrupting the authority of the photographic image and creating another possibility for encountering it. Of course, weaving cannot undo the history of the photograph or restore the time that has passed. But perhaps it can change how we encounter that history in the present. So, for me, weaving is not simply about translating a photograph into another medium. It is a way of questioning what we think we know about the person we are looking at, while recognising that their humanity and existence can never be contained within a single image or its inherited description.

CNTRFLD. Your work often asks us to reconsider who has the authority to name, classify and represent. Having lived and worked in Indonesia, Australia and Europe, among other places, has moving between different cultural and artistic environments changed your understanding of where knowledge is produced and whose perspectives are given space?

O. After studying and living in Melbourne, I began to recognise another dimension of this imbalance. I became increasingly aware that the margins are not simply places where certain artistic practices remain invisible but also places where they can be misinterpreted. For example, the frameworks through which Asian or Indonesian art is viewed in the West do not always correspond to the realities of the practices themselves. Much of the language used to interpret these works has historically been shaped by Western academic perspectives, which can sometimes reduce complex artistic traditions to particular cultural characteristics.

For example, Asian artistic practices are often described as meditative or spiritual. While these qualities may be present in some works, they are not necessarily the intentions or experiences of every artist. Such interpretations can contribute to an exoticised image of Asian art, even when framed in positive terms. I find this particularly interesting because it reveals how representation can operate through seemingly positive narratives. A work may be celebrated yet still be understood through assumptions that do not fully reflect its cultural context or the artist's intentions. 

For me, this raises questions about who has the authority to interpret art, and whether the frameworks we use to understand artistic practices can accommodate perspectives that exist outside their own traditions.

CNTRFLD. The question of support feels particularly important for artists working across geographies and disciplines. Looking back at your own experiences of residencies, institutions, collaborators and artistic communities, what kinds of support have genuinely enabled your practice to develop — and what do you think the arts ecosystem could do better?

O. When I first tried to enter the art world, I found it quite difficult. My experience of the art scene in Bandung was that it was relatively small, with opportunities often controlled by a limited circle of influential people.

Around 2006, during the art market boom, there was a strong emphasis on commercial success. I felt that artistic practices without immediate commercial potential were often overlooked. At that time, I didn't feel that my alma mater provided much support in helping me navigate the professional art world. I think this early experience shaped my critical view of gatekeeping, particularly when individuals position themselves as the authorities who determine which artists or practices deserve recognition. I decided to venture beyond the familiar art circle and applied to opportunities such as Biennale Jogja and Art Jog, which offered open application processes at the time. These became important entry points for me.

I was also very fortunate to receive an opportunity from Mella Jaarsma and Nindityo Adipurnomo to undertake a residency at Cemeti Art House. That experience was particularly significant because it introduced me to a much more liberated approach to artistic practice. It opened doors to different artistic communities and allowed me to encounter artists whose practices I admired. Through these experiences, I began developing relationships with other artists, collectors, galleries, and institutions. More importantly, they expanded my understanding of what an artistic practice could be.

I think that is what meaningful support can do. It doesn't necessarily tell an artist what direction to take but creates opportunities for them to discover possibilities beyond what they already know. Finding a gallery that shares an artist's vision and genuinely believes in their practice is also incredibly important. There have been moments when I lost confidence in myself and questioned my own artistic direction. Having people who continued to believe in my work during those periods made an enormous difference.

A supportive gallery can also introduce an artist to scholars, writers, collectors and researchers whose knowledge and perspectives might enrich their practice. I personally have learned so much through these relationships. Looking back, I think the most valuable support I have received has come from people who were generous with their knowledge, trust, and opportunities.

I think one thing the arts ecosystem could do better is move away from a culture of gatekeeping. Galleries, curators, and institutions all play important roles, but I believe their influence should be used to create opportunities rather than dictate what art should be or who gets to participate.

Artists should have the freedom to explore, experiment, make mistakes, and develop their own language without constantly seeking validation from established authorities. For me, genuine support means providing access to resources, opportunities, and meaningful dialogue while respecting an artist’s autonomy.

For artists who feel they are outside existing networks, my advice would be to venture beyond those familiar circles. Sometimes the most meaningful opportunities come from places that initially feel completely foreign to us.

Ultimately, I think a healthy arts ecosystem is one that encourages different ways of thinking and allows artistic practices to grow on their own terms. Support should expand an artist’s freedom, not become another form of control.

CNTRFLD. You are currently based in Melbourne. What keeps you there at this point in your life and practice? How does your chosen base — and the community, landscape or distance it gives you — influence the way you work and think?

O. What keeps me in Melbourne is, first of all, my husband, Daniel, who is a Melburnian, and our two cats Oscar and Pop. So, there is a very personal reason why Melbourne has become my home. But I still consider Bandung my home as well. It's where my parents are, where I grew up, and where much of my personal history belongs.

I think home doesn't necessarily have to be a single geographical place. Different places can hold different parts of our lives and identities. At this point in my life, Melbourne gives me the stability, quietness, and personal space I need for my artistic practice. I enjoy engaging with artistic communities, but I also need solitude to process my thoughts and hear my own voice clearly.

I am quite sensitive to my surroundings, and too much social activity can consume the energy I need for creating. Working quietly in my studio allows me to contemplate and develop ideas without too many distractions. I still value the exchange of ideas and relationships with artists in different places, including Indonesia. But I have learned that I need a balance between being part of a community and having enough distance to think independently. Perhaps Melbourne is where I have found that balance for now, while Bandung remains an important part of who I am.

CNTRFLD. After Menamai | Naming, what are you thinking about now? Are there particular materials, histories, places or questions you are excited to explore next — and, for younger artists or creatives who see something of their own experience in your journey, what would you want them to know about finding and sustaining their own path?

O. There are still several unfinished tapestries that belong to the same conceptual framework as Menamai | Naming. So, although the exhibition has ended, the work is still very much alive in my studio. I suppose the exhibition has finished, but the conversation hasn't!

During the preparation for the exhibition, I also became increasingly aware of something happening much closer to myself. I am now 44, and I have been experiencing significant changes in my body, energy, concentration, and the way I respond to things. It has made me more conscious of the relationship between my body, my mind, and my artistic practice.

While weaving, I spent a great deal of time listening to interviews with neuroscientists who study women's brains during perimenopause. I became fascinated by the questions surrounding this stage of life, particularly how hormonal and neurological changes might influence the way women think, feel, and create.

It also made me wonder how women artists experience these transitions, and how such changes might shape their creative processes. These are questions I would love to explore further, perhaps through more formal research or by finding an opportunity to continue my studies. For now, I am still weaving, although my studio practice is moving at a rather fluctuating pace.

It is spring here in Melbourne, and lately I find myself wanting to spend more time in my garden than in the studio. After spending so much of winter indoors, I feel an almost irresistible urge to be outside, among the plants and the changing seasons. I am learning to pay more attention to what my body needs, rather than constantly demanding productivity from it.

As for younger artists or creatives, I am not particularly good at giving advice. But I would say: be a badass. Don't let money rule your artistic practice. Of course, we all need to survive, and financial realities cannot simply be ignored. But I hope artists can protect the curiosity, freedom, and conviction that brought them to art in the first place.

I would also say, learn to enjoy art even when it isn't yours. Celebrate other people's creativity, be curious about their ideas, and allow yourself to be moved by what others make. There is so much more to art than our own practice.

And most importantly, be kind. Be kind, be kind, be kind. Especially to our fellow artists, we know how hard this life can be. We are all in the same boat, navigating uncertainty, vulnerability, and the challenges of sustaining a creative life. I don't think we should see one another primarily as competitors. Throughout my journey, I have received generosity and kindness from people and places I never expected, which I am still so grateful for.