PERFORMANCE COLOR GENERATION — THE SOUND IN BETWWEN:
Lør, 27. september, 14.00
ARTIST TALK: Søn, 2. november,14.00
UDSTILLINGSPERIODE: 27. september - 2. november 2025
ÅBNINGSTID: Tors - søn, 12.00 - 16.00
With Malika, home video jamming session
By Amir Zainorin
In creative work—and in life—we often confuse discipline with repetition. They can look similar from the outside: someone doing something day after day. But they grow from very different roots. Understanding the difference can mean the survival of a creative practice—and its capacity to stay alive, connected, and evolving.
Discipline is intentional, self-aware consistency. It means showing up—not just physically, but mentally, emotionally, and spiritually. It’s about committing to your practice with flexibility, curiosity, and a willingness to shift when something no longer serves you. Discipline asks: Why am I doing this? What does the work need now?
For me, discipline has never meant sticking to one form. When I feel bored or stuck with painting, I move to collage, drawing, or writing. Sometimes, I take a walk or go cycling instead. That act of stepping away isn’t a detachment from art—it’s a way of reentering it through a different door. It connects my practice back to the outside world. The city, the street, the body in motion—all of that feeds the work in ways repetition alone never could.
Discipline includes breaks. Silence. Shifting gears. It includes letting go of what no longer works, even if it once brought success. It’s an ongoing relationship, not a contract carved in stone.
Repetition is simply doing something again and again. It can be useful—practice builds fluency, comfort, and confidence—but when repetition becomes mechanical, it loses meaning. You’re just moving your hands, not your mind or heart. It becomes habit, not growth.
There have been times when I’ve noticed this in my own routine. I’d return to the studio, follow the same steps, and make something that felt… empty. Not bad, just hollow. That’s when I knew I wasn’t being disciplined—I was just repeating.
Throughout my life, I’ve taken on many different roles. I’ve worked in hotels, led art workshops for school children, collaborated with other artists, and organized festivals. Many of these were short-term jobs—woven together out of necessity, curiosity, and survival. There were days when I’d clean rooms in the morning, teach art in the afternoon, and plan a community event at night. Sometimes all in one day.
But these weren’t just jobs—they were learning grounds.
Working in hotels wasn’t just about cleaning—it gave me firsthand insight into the lives of other migrants. I heard their stories, saw how they navigated life in a foreign country, and gained a deeper understanding of labor, struggle, and survival. That experience shaped my view of dignity and resilience—things that quietly enter my art.
The art workshops I facilitated brought me into contact with schools, organizations, and cultural institutions across Denmark. Each collaboration taught me something new—not just about art education, but about how the system works, how access is granted or denied, and how structure and creativity can intersect.
Organizing the Stateless Mind Festival was a whole other kind of discipline. It wasn’t just about curating content—it forced me to learn how to build something from scratch. I had to search for funding, write proposals, plan logistics, and collaborate with people from different backgrounds. It was overwhelming at times, but it gave me clarity, strength, and experience that no studio practice alone could offer.
These different paths might look fragmented to some, but they’re deeply connected. Each role I’ve taken on has shaped the way I see, think, and make. Adaptability became part of my discipline—not a distraction from art, but a way of staying rooted while remaining open.
Discipline is rooted in intention and awareness. It grows from paying attention and making conscious choices. Repetition, by contrast, is often based in habit or comfort—doing something simply because it’s familiar.
Discipline responds to change and growth. It evolves as you evolve. It allows space to pause, shift direction, or completely reimagine your process. Repetition tends to reinforce routine and familiarity, even when change is needed.
While discipline leads to depth, adaptability, and long-term development, repetition can lead to either mastery or stagnation, depending on whether it’s guided or automatic.
Discipline involves presence, risk, and listening. It’s active. It demands your attention. Repetition, when unchecked, often slips into automation and unthinking cycles—going through the motions without questioning why.
You might look at someone working every day and think: How disciplined. But if they’re just repeating the same gesture without question, they may be stuck in a loop.
On the other hand, someone who shifts between roles, pauses when needed, takes time to walk or do other things, and keeps their work connected to the world—they may appear scattered, but in truth, they’re practicing a much deeper discipline. One that listens. One that grows.
In my practice, I’ve learned that being disciplined doesn’t mean being rigid. It means being honest. It means making space for change—because real discipline is dynamic. It moves with you.
Let repetition be one of your tools—not your master. Let your practice stay curious, connected, and alive.
Keep listening. Keep shifting. That is the deeper form of discipline.
“Read more about my upcoming exhibition Rhythms of Identity →”
Morning walk in Leipzig, Germany during my art residency at Pilotenkueche, 2022
At Roger Waters concert Copenhagen, 2023
In one of the Greek islands, 2019
Street performance with photographer Maher Khatib, 2010
Art workshop in Copenhagen, 2019
Unexhibited collage, 2015
Photo experimentation, 2017
Stateless Mid Festival , Venice 2022
Ink on bandages, 2025
My artistic practice did not begin with clarity. It began with loss.
But even before that, it began with something unexpected: a chance encounter. I did not come from an art background, nor did I plan to become an artist. My early life had little to do with galleries, studios, or exhibitions. Through meeting an artist by coincidence, a new path opened — one I had never imagined for myself. Quiet, almost ordinary, that moment planted a seed.
In the early 2000s, I experienced the erasure of a personal archive — drawings, writings, photographs, and certificates, all swept away. What followed was silence, a rupture that forced me to ask what it meant to make art at all. Out of that absence, I began again. At first tentatively: portraits of my mother, collages made from torn magazines, small acts of remembering. Art became a way to hold on, to stitch what was lost into something that could still speak.
Over time, the language of my practice shifted. What began as representational and memory-driven became increasingly abstract, poetic, and material-focused. I turned to what remained: old passports, rubber stamps, and maps. Later came gauze, bandages, atlases, rotan sticks, sound, and broken vessels. These were not just objects — they were carriers of lived experience, of migration, bureaucracy, belonging, and fracture.
My practice has since evolved into an ongoing dialogue between the visible and the invisible, the personal and the political, the past and the present. The works I create are layered, unstable, and open-ended. They resist finality. They do not explain. They ask to be met.
I listen more closely now — to how materials speak, to how sound vibrates through absence, to how silence, repetition, and chance shape a work. Performance, participation, and installation have become essential components. Whether I am writing on gauze strips with overheard phrases, constructing drums from x-ray films, or imagining a clay vessel collapsing on melting ice, the gesture is the same: to remain present with what unfolds.
Today, my practice is not about becoming someone new. It is about honoring what is already here — the trace of memory, the texture of place, the breath between identities. I do not begin with certainty. I begin with noticing — with what is fragile, unfinished, already slipping away. From there, something emerges: not resolution, but presence.
“Read more about my upcoming exhibition Rhythms of Identity →”
Pic: Think Tank (2014) is a collaborative work with Roboticist Malaysia, supported by the National Art Gallery Malaysia.
Consistency is the altar.
A blur, a brushstroke, a palette — repeated until it becomes a brand.
Style turns into currency. Discovery hardens into comfort.
But what if “signature style” is only boredom wearing designer glasses?
Consistency flatters the buyer, but shackles the maker.
Inconsistency unsettles the buyer, but frees the maker.
Both are strategies. Both are prisons.
To be consistently inconsistent is to refuse the altar.
To let each work shift, stumble, spark, and contradict.
To choose risk over repetition, becoming over branding.
Art is not obliged to soothe.
It is obliged to move.
Threads knot and unknot.
Gestures repeat but never the same.
The artist appears, disappears, reappears in another form.
Perhaps the only true signature is no signature at all —
only the freedom to shift, to risk,
to knot and unknot —
consistently inconsistent.
“Read more about my upcoming exhibition Rhythms of Identity →”
Work in progress 2025
From the performance 'Play Time' at FreshWind Biennale Iceland, 2017
New-ism is not an art movement but a lived practice. For me, it began in small rituals — cutting scraps of newspapers into collages, calling the prayer with my grandfather in Muar, watching bicycles move in unison through Copenhagen streets. It explores ritual, discipline, and transformation as the essence of contemporary art. Rather than producing fixed objects, New-ism embraces impermanence, participation, and process — inviting audiences to witness change, contribute gestures, and reflect on the fragile rhythms of identity and belonging.
Through performances, installations, and participatory acts, New-ism dissolves the boundaries between artist and viewer, art and life, the individual and the collective. But at its core lies a question: what is truly new?
Art history is filled with movements defined by style, manifesto, or ideology. New-ism, however, is not an “ism” in that sense. It has no fixed rules, no stylistic formulas, no single school of thought. Instead, it is a way of working — an engagement with ritual, discipline, and transformation. Art here is not a finished object but a lived practice, unfolding through presence and process.
When I was living with my grandparents in Muar, I remember the call to prayer echoing five times a day. My grandfather, though not a particularly pious man, always performed his prayers. He would gather us together, and before we began, he asked one of us to call for prayers. That moment — like singing to wake us all up — was one of the most moving rituals of my childhood. It was not only about religion; it was about discipline, about sound gathering us into one breath, one gesture.
Years later, in Copenhagen, I began to notice similar rhythms in unexpected places: the morning tide of bicycles, pedals turning almost in unison, carrying bodies forward in a collective cadence. These echoes — sacred and mundane — became the ground from which New-ism emerged.
The name carries its own contradiction. Rituals, discipline, repetition — these are ancient things. New-ism does not claim invention. The “new” is not about discovering something never seen before, but about recognising how each disciplined act produces difference. Every time a prayer is called, the voice shifts. Every wheel turns the same but not the same. Every collage cut and reassembled alters the fragments just enough to make them different.
The “new” in New-ism is not invention but recognition — that even repetition carries difference, and that in each gesture lies both memory and renewal. Nothing is ever wholly new, yet everything is always becoming.
I began this discipline not with clay or drums, but with trash. Old magazines and newspapers became my first materials, cut, torn, and reassembled into collages and assemblages. This practice was rooted in the moment I was first introduced to art-making by the late artist Jeri Azhari in Kuala Lumpur.
He only taught me a few technical things — how to stretch a canvas, how to use photocopies to make portraits — the rest I had to discover myself. What mattered more were the endless conversations we had, sometimes talking from afternoon until late at night, until the morning call to prayer reminded us it was time to sleep. Other times, we sat together in silence, saying nothing at all, simply embracing the quiet. In that rhythm of words and silence, I first learned that art could be its own ritual — a discipline of mind and presence.
As I see it now, these artistic rituals are not so different from religious ones. Just as prayer five times a day, or going to church every Sunday, binds the believer to a rhythm larger than themselves, so too does the daily discipline of the artist — coloring, cutting, reading, or simply sitting in solitude. If you have a studio, or just a quiet corner to reflect, that place becomes a chapel. The gestures, repeated and imperfect, become prayer.
For me, art is a religion. A faith not in dogma, but in process: the belief that through returning again and again to humble acts — cutting, layering, undoing, and reassembling — something greater than the sum of scraps can appear.
New-ism thrives in thresholds — the line between accident and intention, presence and absence, destruction and reconstruction. The artist does not stand above the work but surrenders control, becoming part of processes that hover between futility and devotion.
Daily disciplines of assembling and disassembling, gestures repeated until they lose and gain meaning, works shifting between physical and digital, personal and collective — these are not static objects but acts of becoming.
Materials are not inert. They are vessels of memory and markers of time. Paper frays, fabric fades, stamps blur into illegibility. Sometimes I dismantle my own past works, reassembling fragments into new configurations. In this cycle of destruction and renewal, materials carry scars like memory itself — fragile, layered, unfinished.
Unlike movements built on purity of form (Minimalism, Abstract Expressionism), New-ism embraces impurity — the unstable, the marked, the layered — as its core truth.
The viewer is no longer a spectator but a participant. Their presence, touch, or gesture completes the work.
In Dear Helle, I began by installing postcards on the wall. But the work did not end when the exhibition opened. Throughout the exhibition period, visitors were invited to write their own postcards and add them directly to the piece. The installation grew, shifted, and transformed through these contributions. Authorship dissolved; the work became a shared ritual of writing, remembering, and leaving traces.
In New-ism, art becomes a communal practice: a discipline of acknowledging impermanence, presence, and renewal.
In an age of speed, automation, and digital saturation, New-ism insists on slowness, tactility, and discipline. It resists spectacle and commodification, urging art to be lived rather than consumed.
By foregrounding process over product, New-ism destabilizes the structures of gallery and market. It offers instead a practice rooted in resilience, in rituals that ground us within cycles of making and unmaking.
New-ism is less a movement than a state of being. It honors imperfection, embraces discipline, and thrives in flux. It teaches that art is not something we finish but something we inhabit — always in transition, always becoming.
For me, art is a religion. Not one bound by temples or texts, but by the faith that daily gestures — cutting, layering, drawing, sitting in silence — can open us to transformation. To return to the work, again and again, is to pray. To assemble and disassemble is to believe.
And in this, I return to where it began: my grandfather asking us to call the prayer, the bicycles flowing through Copenhagen, the endless talks with Jeri. Each act the same, yet never the same.
This is our new ritual.
Though what feels new to me
may already be old to you.
And perhaps that is the point.
This is New-ism.
From the performance The hand Shake at Port's Residency Program, 2022
From the performance X- Box National Art Gallery Malaysia, 2010 
From Installation art at Heerup Museum, Rødover, Denmark, 2004
Photos: All photos are credited to En. Ameruddin Ahmad
In 2005, I presented Peti Seni at the National Art Gallery Malaysia. This installation transformed a cabin-like structure into an open space of reflection, using fragile paper “flags” inscribed with the 99 Names of God alongside cuttings from daily newspapers. Visitors were invited to participate in an open workshop, making their own flags from old newspapers and simple A4 sheets, which they then planted on the floor and walls of the cabin. Peti Seni became a collective work where faith, identity, media, and impermanence intertwined. Looking back, it marked my first major spatial installation, a turning point that laid the foundation for later explorations of migration, hybridity, and the shifting line between the sacred and the everyday.
When visitors stepped into Peti Seni, they entered a cabin whose walls were already lined with fragile paper flags — the 99 Names of God written one by one, pinned with satay sticks, side by side with flags cut from daily newspapers. Names like Ar-Rahman (The Compassionate), Al-Hakim (The Wise), Al-Batin (The Hidden), Az-Zahir (The Manifest), Al-Adl (The Just), and Al-Ghafur (The Forgiving) hung in delicate rows, alongside others such as Al-Qahhar (The Subduer) and Al-Muntaqim (The Avenger) — reminders that the divine is not only mercy but also power, justice, and awe. Sacred in origin, these names also carried the weight of archetypes — qualities that reached beyond religion, touching memory, imagination, and the collective unconscious. Their presence alongside newspapers and children’s handmade flags created a dialogue between devotion, politics, and play.
The work grew further through an open workshop organized with the help of Amerrudin Ahmad and staff from the National Art Gallery. Children came in, sat with old newspapers, simple A4 papers, and colors, cutting and painting their own flags before planting them on the floor and walls of the cabin. Their contributions blended with the flags I had already installed, creating a rhythm between the sacred names, political headlines, splashes of color, and improvised gestures. Over time, the structure filled with layered voices: prayers, fragments of news, children’s drawings — fragile yet full of energy. Authorship dissolved into something collective.
What was ironic is that during the workshop I was invited for an interview with a journalist elsewhere in the gallery building. When I left, the cabin was almost empty, with hardly anyone inside. But when I returned a couple of hours later, the space had been transformed. The walls and floor were suddenly filled with children’s flags, layered among my own. In my absence, the work had grown, shifted, and become something else entirely. I felt a deep joy in seeing people participate and engage with the work, but at the same time there was also the realization of losing control — or perhaps recognizing that too much control is an illusion. The best thing to do was simply to let go. That moment struck me deeply — if a couple of hours could so completely change the atmosphere, what could two days, two years, or twenty years do?
At the same time, outside the gallery, another struggle over words and symbols was unfolding. In Denmark, where I was living, the Prophet cartoon controversy erupted, sparking global debates on freedom of expression, sensitivity, and violence. Protests filled the streets, flags were burned, lines were drawn. I was living then in Balloon Park in Amager — a former army barracks once used to test cannons and later to house German refugees during the final months of World War II. Surrounded by that charged history, the controversy struck me deeply. I sat down to write my thoughts, which were later published by the Danish newspaper Information in the book Muslim Dagbog (Muslim Diary), alongside contributions from others.
For me, the connection to Peti Seni is clear. Both were about how words and symbols live in the world — how they can wound, divide, and provoke, but also how they can be shared, repeated, and transformed. Inside the cabin in Kuala Lumpur, the words were not weapons but invitations: fragile flags mixing prayers with headlines, children’s play with history, belief with impermanence. The work became a mirror of the wider struggle I was living through — caught between Malaysia and Denmark, between faith and freedom, between the sacred and the everyday.
Looking back, Peti Seni was the moment when I began to see space itself as a medium — not just an empty container, but a field where identities, beliefs, and contradictions could be lived out together. The cabin was fragile, temporary, and collective. It still echoes in everything I do.
I can also see now how Peti Seni planted the seeds for many of my later works. The fragile flags and children’s participation anticipated my use of stamps, passports, gauze, and kompang made from x-rays — materials that invite touch, repetition, and collective authorship. The interplay of the sacred and the everyday, of personal memory and political context, continues to shape how I work today. In that sense, Peti Seni was not only my first major installation, but also a quiet blueprint for the questions of identity, impermanence, and belonging that I am still exploring.
“Read more about my upcoming exhibition Rhythms of Identity →”
Installation Title: Cartologica- (ongoing project)
Medium: Cardboards and Atlas
Size: Variable
Year 2025
Cartologica is a fusion of two core concepts—cartography and logic—that together explore how we map and make sense of the world, both geographically and intellectually. Cartography, the practice of mapping, serves as the foundation for this installation, where hundreds of thin, flat, round cardboard shapes, each hollowed and filled with pages from atlases. These delicate pieces represent not only the physical act of mapping but also the mental landscapes we navigate—our memories, perceptions, and the shifting topographies of identity and history.
The use of atlas pages is intentional—maps are tools that shape our understanding of geography, but they are also tied to the act of migration, displacement, and exploration. These pages symbolize the diverse geographies we inhabit and the complex histories of movement that define both individual and collective identities. These maps, with their fragmented and overlapping territories, reflect the fluid nature of experience and the ongoing process of navigating between places, cultures, and memories.
The second part of the title, logic, introduces the intellectual framework that governs the creation of these maps. It points to the process by which we impose order on the world—through systems of knowledge, reason, and understanding. As we chart the world around us, we use logic to organize our experiences into something coherent, creating personal maps that help us navigate both space and time. The hollow centers of the cardboard pieces symbolize the gaps within memory—spaces between moments and places that remain fluid and malleable, shaped by evolving perspectives.
The cardboard itself serves as a symbol of movement—its lightweight, flexible nature evoking the transient, ever-changing conditions of migration and displacement. The organic arrangement of the pieces reflects the fluidity of migration, the movement from one place to another, and the process of re-establishing oneself in a new space, much like the constant reshaping of personal and collective identities.
In Cartologica, these two elements—cartography and logic—are not fixed. The installation challenges the traditional notion of maps as immutable or static, suggesting instead that our understanding of geography, memory, and identity is constantly shifting. The arrangement of the pieces reflects the unpredictable nature of life, where personal maps are in constant flux, reshaped by new experiences, shifting perspectives, and evolving ways of thinking.
The installation invite us to reflect on our own process of mapping—our personal journeys through time, place, and memory. Cartologica encourages us to reconsider the boundaries we draw in our lives, examining how they are influenced by both the logic of understanding and the fluid, ever-changing landscapes of our experiences.
“Read more about my upcoming exhibition Rhythms of Identity →”
The Stateless Mind Pavilion is more than just a space—it is a dynamic hub of interaction and dialogue. Designed to foster cross-cultural exchange and understanding, the Pavilion hosts an array of interactive events, including artist talks, workshops, performances, and panel discussions. Its mission is rooted in facilitating meaningful conversations about belonging, identity, and displacement, themes that resonate deeply through the "In Between Worlds" exhibition. Guided by the artist and curator’s narratives, visitors are invited to embark on a visual and emotional journey, discovering the complexities of existing between multiple worlds.
Origins of the Stateless Mind Pavilion
The Stateless Mind Pavilion finds its roots in the Stateless Mind Festivals, organized by Jambatan. Jambatan itself was founded in 2009 by Pia Poulsen and I, as a bridge between artistic communities in Malaysia and Denmark. This vision was brought to life when Nur Hanim Khairuddin—now the General Manager of PORT—and I co-organized the Malaysian Art Festival at the Museum of Contemporary Art Roskilde and Gallery Shambala in Copenhagen in 2010. These early efforts planted the seeds for what would later evolve into the Stateless Mind Pavilion.
After a brief hiatus, I reactivated Jambatan in 2019, organizing the Stateless Mind Festival for the first time. This resurgence brought a renewed focus on challenging conventional boundaries and celebrating the richness of cross-cultural narratives. However, the true genesis of the Stateless Mind Pavilion came during my collaboration with PORT for their participation in the 59th Venice Biennale as part of a collateral event. Interestingly, while planning this, we were informed that the term "pavilion" could not be used unless it represented a national entity. This restriction became the catalyst for the Stateless Mind Pavilion.
The Stateless Mind Pavilion was officially activated during my solo show at Kapallorek. The Pavilion also showcases an archive of activities from past Stateless Mind Festivals, providing visitors with a historical context and a deeper understanding of its evolution. This marked a pivotal moment, situating the Pavilion as an evolving platform for dialogue and exchange. It will be fascinating to see how it develops in the future, continuing to challenge norms and create spaces for meaningful interaction.
A Rebellion Against Conformity
The Stateless Mind Pavilion was born out of a spirit of rebellion. Its creation represents a refusal to adhere to institutional rules and a declaration of independence from imposed limitations.
In essence, the Stateless Mind Pavilion challenges the notion of conformity. It embodies the idea of making one’s own rules, charting one’s own path, and dictating one’s own journey. It questions the validity of man-made restrictions imposed by institutions, governments, or even familial expectations. By doing so, the Pavilion becomes a symbol of empowerment, encouraging individuals to embrace their unique identities and stories.
A Platform for Dialogue and Exchange
The Stateless Mind Pavilion serves as a sanctuary for artists, thinkers, and audiences to engage in open dialogue and to offers participants a chance to share, learn, and connect in profound ways—to create a platform for artists who live between worlds, who don’t fit into neat categories, who are constantly negotiating their place in different systems where in-betweenness is not a limitation, but a creative force.
Link to previous Stateless Mind Festivals:
https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100064468159134
Artworks from 'Atlas of Being ' series
Art as a Stubborn Journey to Empathy
Art is about being stubborn. It begins with the refusal to give in—to the pressures of conformity, the weight of doubt, or the noise of distractions. This stubbornness isn’t about arrogance; it’s about conviction. It’s about standing firm in the face of uncertainty, choosing to believe that something within you is worth exploring, worth bringing into existence, even if the world doesn’t immediately understand or value it.
But stubbornness isn’t without consequence. It thickens your skin. Rejections, misunderstandings, and failures become familiar companions, teaching you resilience. Over time, this "thickness" shields you from external judgment and self-doubt, allowing you to remain on the path, even when it feels like no one else sees what you see.
And yet, it’s in this space of stubborn persistence and thickened defenses that reflection begins. The solitude of creating—the repetition, the experimentation, the endless wrestling with ideas—forces you to look inward. You start to see yourself not just as the creator but as a human being in all your complexity: flawed, searching, vulnerable.
This self-reflection opens the door to empathy. As you navigate your own struggles, you recognize them in others. The stories you tell through your art become not just about you but about the shared experiences of humanity. Stubbornness, thick skin, and introspection evolve into compassion. You realize that art is not merely an act of self-expression; it’s a bridge to connect with others, to feel their joys, sorrows, and aspirations as if they were your own.
In the end, art is the process of being stubborn enough to create, thick enough to endure, and open enough to reflect. And in doing so, it transforms both the artist and the audience, fostering empathy in a world that so desperately needs it.
Tong Tana is derived from the Penan language, meaning "in the forest." The Penan, a nomadic group from Sarawak, Borneo, are among the last remaining hunter-gatherer communities. Known for their practice of molong, they take only what is necessary from nature, embodying a sustainable relationship with their environment.
The pieces for the KL Biennale reflect a deep sense of longing for my homeland, where I was born and raised. This installation captures memories tied to history, disappearing cultures, and the evolution of new lifestyles. Tong Tana examines themes of conflict, displacement, marginalization, and urban progress through the lens of Malaysia’s indigenous peoples, informed by site visits and mass media narratives.
Video Documentaries – Voice of the Jungle
As a migrant living far from home, I often face questions about my identity and heritage. This curiosity inspired me to research my roots, the history of Malaysia, and the stories of its indigenous peoples. These explorations culminated in two video documentaries:
Ulu Baram, Sarawak (September 2019)
Photographer Fadza Ishak and I traveled to Miri, Sarawak, to meet Arthur Jojo of the Kenyah tribe, who runs Segah Selaan One Stop Homestay in Ulu Baram. Arthur served as our guide during our journey.
Sarawak, home to over 26 ethnic groups, is rich in diversity. The Orang Ulu (Upriver People) include the Penan, Kayan, Kenyah, Saban, Punan, and Kelabit. These groups traditionally live in longhouses and practice shifting cultivation and fishing. However, economic exploitation, including logging, plantations, dams, and oil and gas extraction since the 1970s, has eroded their land rights and displaced thousands. Despite legal protections, many indigenous communities now face debt and environmental devastation, threatening their way of life.
Pos Piah, Perak (January 2019)
With the help of my friend Shazni Bhai, an artist and activist, I visited the Temiar community in Pos Piah, deep in the rainforest of Sg. Siput, Perak.
The Temiar have lived in this area for approximately 8,000 years, practicing farming, hunting, and gathering. Although some access modern medicine, they largely rely on traditional practices. The rainforest, estimated to be 130 million years old, is threatened by palm oil production and logging, displacing indigenous communities. The Orang Asli, who constitute less than 1% of Malaysia’s population, continue to struggle for land rights as forests are cleared for economic gain.
Installation Elements
This body of work reflects on the erasure of indigenous histories, the destruction of natural environments, and the resilience of these communities in the face of modernization and marginalization.
Title: Contemporary Ode to the Daily Mundane @Edinburg Print, Scotland in 2023
Medium: Silk Screen on atlas
In the Margin: Navigating Displacement as a Diaspora Artist
It's simply by accident that I stumbled into being part of the group exhibition called "In the Margin", which took place at Edinburgh Print in Scotland. As COVID restrictions eased after two years, I was eager to unleash the creative energy that had been building up. The theme of displacement resonated deeply with me, a diaspora artist constantly navigating the complexities of identity and belonging.
In my quest for artistic residencies, I discovered Fyns Grafiske Værksted in Odense, Denmark. This city holds a special place in my heart, as I had previously worked on a school project there. Odense, with its rich history and connection to HC Andersen, felt like a familiar yet new adventure. Despite my hesitations about speaking Danish, I decided to call the residency program, leading to a fruitful conversation with Lene, who runs the place.
During my residency, I faced the challenge of working with new techniques and materials. However, the experience was enriched by collaborating with Birgitte Lyng Andersen. Her openness to experimentation allowed me to explore new artistic avenues and push the boundaries of my work.
The "Contemporary Ode to the Daily Mundane" series emerged from this residency. I employed silk screen techniques, integrating photo-performance elements with maps and text. The use of old atlas pages as backgrounds symbolized the ever-changing boundaries and spaces we navigate. The prints featured images of me holding or wearing objects that shape my identity, such as a mortar, globe, luggage bag, and rice cooker.
Displacement, both voluntary and forced, has been a recurring theme in my work. While I moved to Denmark out of love, the feeling of being 'displaced' still lingers. This series explores the idea of home, identity, and belonging in times of uncertainty. It seeks to understand what it means to be human and an artist amidst constant change.
My residency at Fyns Grafiske Værksted and participation in the "In the Margin" exhibition have profoundly impacted my artistic journey. It provided a platform to delve deeper into the theme of displacement and express my experiences as a diaspora artist. I invite you to explore this journey with me and reflect on the intricate layers of identity and belonging.
https://edinburghprintmakers.co.uk/in-from-the-margins/
https://fynsgv.dk/nyheder/
https://www.thestar.com.my/lifestyle/culture/2020/06/05/denmark-based-amir-zainorin-takes-multiplicity-to-surreal-heights-in-lockdown-photo-series
In 2004, just two years after relocating from Malaysia to Copenhagen, I embarked on a journey that would forever alter my artistic path—my first solo exhibition. This adventure was sparked by a serendipitous encounter in Jogjakarta with Pia Poulsen, a Danish anthropology student who would later become my life partner.
Meeting Pia in Jogjakarta felt like destiny. Our connection led to my relocation to Copenhagen, a city that soon became a haven for my art. Denmark, with its abundant resources, turned out to be the perfect backdrop for my creative endeavors.
As an artist who thrives on repurposing discarded materials, Denmark was a paradise. The streets offered a treasure trove of resources, from old curtains to used papers, all waiting to be transformed into art. This practice of sustainable creativity, which I had begun in Malaysia, seamlessly continued in Copenhagen.
My approach to art involves using what others discard. Old curtains became canvases, used papers served as my palette, and salvaged chairs and tables were reborn as sculptures. This method not only fosters creativity but also mirrors the trial-and-error process of a scientist, where each experiment, whether successful or not, contributes to the overall journey.
My first solo exhibition took place at Rødovre Bibliotek. The showcase featured a variety of artworks, including collages, acrylic paintings, and readymades. The audience's reception was overwhelmingly positive, with many appreciating the unique blend of materials and the thought-provoking themes.
Inspiration came from the mundane aspects of daily life and deep personal reflections. However, the journey was not without its challenges. Balancing the creative process with the practicalities of preparing for the exhibition was a constant struggle.
One of the most memorable moments was the opening night. The support from fellow artists was heartwarming. Sound artist Dario Paini performed on his saxophone, and Danish beatnik poet Ole Lillelund read his poems, adding layers of depth to the experience.
This exhibition marked a significant milestone in my life. It spurred personal growth and opened new professional avenues. The experience underscored the importance of perseverance and the value of community support in the artistic journey.
Reflecting on this journey, I am reminded of how our consumption habits shape our identities. Whether it's a new flat-screen TV, a luxurious Bugatti, or an electric bicycle, our choices reflect our values and societal norms. Through my art, I hope to prompt others to reflect on their own consumption patterns and the impact they have on our world.
Embarking on my first solo exhibition was not just about showcasing art; it was a journey of self-discovery and growth. It taught me that creativity thrives in the most unexpected places and that our choices, big or small, define who we are.
A Journey Through My Inaugural Solo Exhibition in Malaysia
In 2007, I had the honor of presenting my inaugural solo exhibition at Pelita Hati, a renowned gallery in Kuala Lumpur. This milestone came four years after my relocation to Copenhagen, and it marked a significant chapter in my artistic journey.
The exhibition featured a diverse series of artworks, showcasing collages, monoprints on postcards, digital prints, drawings, and sculptures. Among these, the collage series stood out, crafted between 2006 and 2007 using posters from libraries and art magazines, particularly Art Forum. One piece, 'The Thinker,' garnered special recognition, being selected as the top choice by the editor in Saatchi Online Magazine's Weekly Top Ten in 2007.
My artistic process is deeply intertwined with the mediums I use. From digital prints to sculptures, each piece is a culmination of various techniques and inspirations. The monoprint series, for instance, featured portraits of renowned and notorious figures from around the globe, sourced from Danish newspaper articles. This blend of traditional and modern techniques allows me to explore and express complex themes.
The exhibition received considerable media coverage, reflecting the public and critical interest in my work. This exposure not only validated my efforts but also connected me with a broader audience, eager to engage with my artistic vision.
Print media, including magazines, newspapers, and advertisements, serve as a rich source of inspiration for my work. The concept of ready-mades fascinates me, sparking creative ideas and driving my artistic endeavors. Additionally, the internet is an invaluable resource, offering endless possibilities for exploration and inspiration.
Creating art is not just a profession for me; it's a grounding and essential outlet that helps me navigate the complexities of our world. I find joy in both the artistic process and the final outcomes of my creations. Striking a balance between knowing when to conclude a piece and the risk of overworking it is a challenge I embrace as a fundamental aspect of my artistic growth.
As I continue to evolve along this artistic path, I am excited about the future and the projects that lie ahead. Stay connected for updates on upcoming exhibitions and new works. Your support and interest fuel my creative journey.
