Melati Suryodarmo on Deconstruction, Melting Into Time And The Personal And Metaphysical Imprints of Abandoned Spaces

Let’s start off with the fact that you picked out the works of Jan van Eyck and Caravaggio for our conversation. I think many of us associate their works with a very dramatic or cinematic quality. This comes through their use of colour, light, shadow, texture and forms. What draws you towards picking out works there so canonical to the study of art history?

I’ve always been interested in painting. I’m always impressed by the works of the European Old Masters, especially those who were active in the 16th and 17th centuries. I think that their works are timeless. I’m interested in the language they used to express themselves, even if it is through a simple gesture. This quality of timelessness is very important for me. If we say that a work is timeless, how did that come to be? As humans, we basically haven’t changed much. We've always been dealing with power, with love, with cruelty, with nature and our relationship to it, and even with God. But when you see works such as Caravaggio’s, and his dramatic use of light, it creates not just a particular atmosphere — it invites you to enter a dimension of historical time.

That’s a great opening into the body of work you are now showing at STPI. Here, you deal with the histories of places that you are familiar with but that are now left abandoned, unkempt and unruly. I understand that you collected some materials from these sites, and had hoped to incorporate them into making these works.  Could you talk us through this process of collecting and selecting materials, and how have you incorporated them into the works?

On my first visit to STPI during my residency, we did some local research. We started thinking through some possibilities. I learnt silkscreening, and discussed the technical aspects of working with paper.

When I came back the second time, I brought some objects with me. I wanted them to serve as a connection to my homes, and they referenced my interest in abandoned spaces and memory very clearly.

I even brought some objects from my father's house along. Some of these objects were purchased by my mother when I was child. There was a small bronze Buddha sculpture, for example, that I remember buying at an antique market with my mother when I was young.

Every house that my family has lived in is now gone. When I was doing research here into the Istana Woodneuk, I thought that maybe a piece of my personal story would fit into this work. However when we started the process of making, we soon realised that it wouldn’t work. We tried to make casts of these objects, but it did not work well. Nevertheless, it is good to have been through this process. Eventually, I thought to make paper casts that gave the impression of an archaeological find or imprint.

Something that emerges keenly in these works is its interest in exploring abandoned space. These spaces carry very layered and complex histories, which are sometimes very difficult to make sense of. Some of the works on display, for example the series with wisps of mulberry pulp delicately hang over paper casts, are visual representations of how these histories come to us in whispers. How did you begin approaching these histories, and composing works that would convey those murmurings?

The paper casts for those works were made from objects such as tiles, iron, part of the railings and the wooden floors — things that I thought were special or had value from my old homes. Alone, they weren’t enough. I didn’t want these works to just be archaeological. The mulberry pulp is the poetry. It grows with the object.

Mulberry has a sort of stretch when you carefully pull it apart. It hints at the absence of the object within the work. The object itself is only referenced. Although I could have taken the object itself and placed it in the work, the object, in and of itself, has no meaning. To cast it, and then to leave it as an imaginary form, was important to me. It references the house, the history of the house and the families that lived there.

Objects are witnesses to the people who live with them.

As someone who has moved around a lot and has lived in many countries before, this came through in your wide-ranging selection of works by artists such as Egon Schiele, Francis Bacon, the Gutai group and butoh. There is a very clear visceral and corporeal element that links all them together. As someone who works through and with bodily action, movement and energy, how have Western and Eastern philosophies shaped how you use your body in creating art?

I never think about the West or the East, really. When I look at this group of artists, what fascinates me is how these works twist. The animated expressions that you see in Schiele can also be found in butoh, particularly given the influence of German expressionist dance on the art form. The deconstruction of the natural body is, for me, very interesting. This kind of expression is the expression of imperfection, and I love that so much. It is not necessarily about becoming grotesque, although I do love the grotesque, but it is about the denaturalised body — and without going to the extreme, say, by referencing robots. I think it is interesting to deconstruct forms without ruining it.   

So a kind of contortion without mutation?

I’m really impressed and taken by this sort of art. For example, Schiele and his works were very controversial. Initially when I saw his works, I did not really understand why. But of course, he was touching on incredibly taboo topics. He was exposing the bodies of young girls. Yet putting artists like Schiele aside, I think it is important to recognise that girls do pose like this — with or without someone depicting them. Some of us like exploring our body. The ladies portrayed in Schiele’s works are not perfect, but I think that the imperfections within his works are what draw people in.

Let’s talk about your choice of Picasso as well. As an artist, his practice took many twists and turns. He is also a figure whose legacy we’re still trying to grapple with today. Is there a particular work of his, or a particular quality of his work that you particularly enjoy?

Have you heard of the work he did for the ballet, Parade? He created the set and costume design for that ballet, which was composed by Erik Satie.

Picasso is a pretty crazy guy, and when I picked him out for this interview, it wasn’t for his aesthetic. He invented movement. He embodies the spirit of freedom in a very classic sense. At the same time, he was also politically involved. Spain was ruled by a dictator at the time, and the Nazis were also making great headway in mainland Europe. He tried to include political statements within his art, and discussed political matters with fellow artists and friends.

That is what I find interesting about him — not, for example, his relationship to Cubism or Surrealism. He is free. I think if you speak about art as an expression of freedom, or that art should make you free, Picasso is an interesting figure that embodies that notion.

On that topic of freedom, let’s turn the conversation to think about space again. Often when people think of space, they think of compartments or of confines. We've traveled around the world just talking about your selection alone, and obviously, space is something that is expansive, abstract and undefined. Personally when you think about space within your practice, what does it mean to explore space? How has that constant thought propelled you in your practice?

Ultimately, we should not separate ourselves or our presence from a space because there is a shared relationship.

When we consider space, another element that emerges naturally is that of time. Time is important to many of your walks, and we see that in the very durational quality of some of our performances. What is the significance of time to you? Particularly, I have in mind the pacing and the passing of time.

We are a part of this time-space continuum and are active participants within it. As someone who's very cognisant of how the body melts, as you say, in the face of time and working within a space, how has your understanding of your body evolved throughout your practice? Where do you stand now in that understanding, especially with regard to where the ties that bind time, space and body together coincide?

The body is a material that is very organic, and that is attached in a very direct way to real life. I'm sticking with it.