Come Together: The Art of Jompet Kuswidananto and Eko Nugroho

The dictionary definition of ‘rally’ seems to indicate that it’s a particularly versatile word and, like many words in the English language, is able to be used in a number of contexts and is open to various interpretations. Embedded within these different uses, however, is a sense of community and spectacle: people rally, or gather, for political campaigns and protest marches; they rally themselves or others, in the sense of pulling together or working towards some kind of resolve; one can rally or come to the assistance of a person, party or cause; and ‘to rally’ can also be used in the sense of finding renewed strength or vigour. A rally can assume the formation or loose structure of a parade and embrace the sense of celebration and excess at the heart of a carnival; at the same time, however, it may hold the potential for immanent disorder or, at very least, the prospect of things not quite going according to plan.

This multi-dextrous term thus provides a fascinating and appropriate framework in which to discuss and, indeed, bring together the unique practices of Jompet Kuswidananto and Eko Nugroho. As celebrated members of the art community that centres on the vibrant central Javanese city of Yogyakarta, Indonesia, their very different work not only reflects the dramatic and rapid pace of cultural, social and political change that has engulfed their nation since the fall of the Suharto regime in 1998, but also focuses on the realities and complexities of contemporary life in an increasingly globalised and interconnected world. As post-Reformasi artists,[1] Jompet and Eko have witnessed firsthand the bloody struggle for freedom that was fought on the streets of Yogya, and are now each in a position to highlight the impact of democracy and the country’s relatively new-found liberties on its citizens – particularly Indonesia’s younger generation (unbelievably, more than half the country’s population are under the age of twenty-nine).[2] At once deeply connected to ‘place’, and at the same time truly global citizens, the artists’ individual practices speak generously of the way in which the internet, mobile phone technology and social media can establish a sense of connection between people – allowing them to communicate across vastly different geographic, time and cultural zones quickly and easily and creating, as a result, the heightened and perhaps deceptive assumption that our lives are more alike – while nevertheless emerging from, and being deeply influenced by, the distinct characteristics of the city (for Eko) and country (for Jompet) in which it is made. As Eko has commented:

If you live in Indonesia, you will understand that it is impossible to exclude politics from everyday living. Nearly 90% of the art that is made here is a response to or influenced by the socio-political conditions of our surroundings.[3]

For Jompet, similarly, the act of exhibiting his work on the global contemporary art circuit is, at its most fundamental, about a desire to ‘share realities’. As he explains:

I’d like to share my realities of this interconnected world. I’d like to see others’ realities too – the art world is just one of the spaces for this. So long as my works open up a dialogue, share knowledge and exchange ideas on them I think, simply, the work has done its job. It has talked to the audience. It has gained a new value.[4]

Contemporary Indonesian society is a complex, ‘hybrid’ beast renowned for its ability to absorb cultural influences from beyond its borders (think, for example, of the impact and eventual interweaving of the influences of Dutch colonialism) while retaining and adapting its own traditions. An archipelago comprising approximately 17,580 islands, accommodating a similarly vast array of ethnic and linguistic groups, Indonesia is a secular democracy whose national motto is ‘Unity in Diversity’ (‘Bhinneka Tunggal Ika’), but is also the largest Muslim country in the world. Just what it means to be ‘Indonesian’ means very different things to different people:

We must admit that ‘national identity’ is a latent problem in Indonesia, so it is not easy to interpret ‘Indonesian-ness’. What we now call – and know – as Indonesia, is the manifestation of various ethnic groups who had freed themselves from Dutch colonization. As a post-colonial country, its rich ethnic variation and revolutionary atmosphere (in post-New Order authoritarian regime) has instigated a certain sectarian spirit in a number of societal groupings. Furthermore, in this era of globalization, with its economic and transnational information circulation, where cultural mores from stronger geo-politic and economic forces spread out and influence ‘weaker’ regions, placing a definite meaning to the term ‘Indonesian-ness’ is not an easy task. Indonesia, as a nation, is an apt example of what Benedict Anderson calls ‘imagined community’.[5]

Jompet and Eko do not share the acute desire of Indonesia’s previous generation of artists – such as Heri Dono, FX Harsano and Agus Suwage – to critique an oppressive regime in their work: as a result their individual practices touch on cultural and political subjects in a manner that is neither strident nor didactic. Within their own idiosyncratic and highly distinctive signature ‘styles’, each artist creates a sense of play and whimsy in their work, opening it up to a range of interpretations and experiences on behalf of the viewer that may be enriched by an understanding of Indonesian, or specifically Javanese, culture, but are in no way dependent on it. Both artists display a healthy disregard for distinct media categories and have the ability to turn their hands to a variety of ways of working – willingly collaborating or calling on the expertise of others where needs be, or working within the guise of the ‘traditional’ studio-based artist. Jompet and Eko embody the attitude and ‘can-do’ spirit of the post-Reformasi era,[6] reworking esteemed cultural traditions such as, in the case of Eko, batik and embroidery, and, in the case of Jompet, the role and aesthetics of the Yogyakarta Sultanate Royal Army or bregada;[7] combining them with aspects of ‘globalised’ popular culture such as street art, comics, music and video to successfully bring them into the present as something ‘other’ – fantastical, celebratory amalgams of the past and present, East and West.

The improvisatory aesthetics of the artists’ respective practices and the fact that they recycle, rework and adapt components of earlier pieces in subsequent installation contexts also loosely encompasses the Javanese concept and perception of time as non-linear. Time is not broken into distinct categories for the Javanese, but instead functions as a place or space in which the past, present and future all happily reside; bringing together the ghosts of yesteryear, the day-to-day realities of contemporary life and hopes for the future.[8] True to this concept, and almost in spite of the diverse and often sobering influences at play in their respective practices, Jompet and Eko’s work creates an optimistic picture of the future and of humankind in general.

Jompet Kuswidinanto

Re-looking [at] history is a tool like a rear-view mirror in your vehicle, for an Indonesian you need to make your own tool.[9]

At the heart of Jompet Kuswidananto’s practice is a deep concern with Javanese history and the way in which the events of the island’s past continue to reverberate in contemporary society. From the time of his first major project, Java’s machine, in 2007 (which has continued to evolve over subsequent years into different but interrelated installations), the artist’s concept of Indonesian culture as both comprising and reflecting a kind of ‘syncretism’ – whereby it has drawn on and adopted various cross-cultural influences over the centuries – has continued to fuel and inspire his work. For Jompet, this wily act of self-preservation and survival on behalf of his compatriots is a vital part of Indonesia’s national character, and has resulted in what he refers to as the ‘Third Realm’; an ‘in-between’ space in which a solid or clear-cut sense of national identity is neither possible nor desirable.[10] As he explains:

The history of Indonesia, as part of the developing world and former colonized countries, can be read as the narrative of a nation that is perpetually in an ‘in-between’ situation or state of transition. From pre-colonial to colonial periods, colonial to post-colonial, agrarian culture to industrial, from industrial to post-industrial information era, from rural culture to urban ethos.

It is a culture that is located between two spaces: between the traditional and the modern, the original and the alien, the inside and the outside, the high brow and the low brow. It never makes the complete transition from one cultural space to another, instead building on a mix (and excess of cultures – its ‘body’ consists of many different cultural layers).

Indonesia’s remarkable culture raises many questions: How are subjects or spaces formed ‘in between’, or in excess of the sum of the parts? How is the notion of subjectivity and spatiality formulated where the exchange of values, meanings and priorities may not always be collaborative and dialogical, but may be profoundly antagonistic and even incommensurable?

Referring to the spatial realities and identity formulation developing and persisting in Java, the answers to these questions may be evident in the creation of a third reality, third space, third body or identity. Third reality is a hybrid reality. A reality made from a blend of many things. Third reality is a post-colonial/third world/Indonesian reality composed from elements that are contradictory, unfinished, half-done, confusing and transitional or liminal.[11]

The ‘collage of cultures’ that is contemporary Indonesia has resulted in no small part from the country’s important historical role as one of the axes of the renowned Silk Road, and the trading processes and personal encounters that occurred along this route encouraged the amalgamation and adaptation of different and at times competing cultural influences. This process is reflected in the nation’s accommodation over time of different belief systems, such as Hinduism, Confucianism, Buddhism, Islam and Christianity, and by the overwhelming force of 350 years of Dutch colonialisation, which came to an end with Japan’s invasion and subsequent occupation during the Second World War.[12] Anthropological and celebratory rather than critical in approach,[13] Jompet’s work replays these battles on the body – outlining its form and adorning it with symbols drawn from various cultures across different periods of time.

Throughout Jompet’s oeuvre – in works such as Marching band and The commoners, both 2012 – the body is absent, phantom-like; made manifest by different accoutrements that would normally cover or adorn it, or be used by it in various ways (boots, hats, flags, shovels, megaphones and drums, for example). Like playful yet unsettling marionettes, these ghostly figures seem to act of their own accord, literally ‘dancing to their own tune’ – which spills in a cacophony from the various electronic devices and instruments that accessorise their forms. Jompet’s installations willingly embody a sense of the carnival or parade and evoke the formations and choreographed moves of a marching band. The undeniable magic in seeing these figures ‘in the flesh’ also highlights Jompet’s belief in the connection between the increasing prevalence and influence of technology in our daily lives and the possibility of what he calls ‘phantasmagoric effects’,[14] with all the visual connotations and sense of marvel that heralded the arrival of the magic lantern from which phantasmagoria takes its name.[15]

Part of the success of these works as an experience is the tension that they somehow hold within them – the sense that the figures could possibly come loose from their moorings and run amok. This is further reinforced by their ‘wayang-like orchestration’[16] – which hints at the ongoing relevance of this form of traditional Javanese theatre – and by their deliberately strange combination of the gamelan’s slow rhythm, Western music and instruments, and the abstracted yet persistent presence of the voiceover, which sets everything slightly out of kilter. The evocative and overlapping soundscapes that emanate from the artist’s hybrid forms also introduce stories and figures from the past into the present in an uncanny and disconcerting way.[17] These works may be delightful, but they also tender a subtle warning.[18] As Jompet explains:

If, as happened everywhere, the experience of mechanized labour and the shocks of modern existence cause life to be lived on a fragmented, superficial level, then the syncretism/ phantasmagoria renders such superficial experience into a state of illusory plenitude. The illusory wholeness of phantasmagoria/syncretism covers the real state of both subjective and social fragmentation. While technological change produces an experience of shock, it also comes to provide a compensatory mechanism: phantasmagoria, which function[s] as the dialectical other of the factory. The rise of technology increases the potential for phantasmagoric effects. Hence, we also could say, phantasmagoria is a fantasy world that function[s] as a protective shield.[19]  

The recurring motif of the roof also plays an important role in Jompet’s concept of the Third Realm. The kind of overarching structure that both supports and loosely contains the suspended worker figures in The commoners, for example, speaks poetically of the need for shelter and protection, the warmth and sanctuary of family as well as the strength of familial connections and history (also powerfully evoked in the artist’s photographic series Family chronicles, 2011) and creates the feeling, underneath its eaves, of a non-denominational place of worship that is architecturally non-specific, but undeniably ‘Eastern’ in flavour. The space beneath this roof is clearly a place of refuge from what Jompet perceives as an increasingly ‘rhizomatic world’:

Creeping and connecting all things almost in an instant, in a speed like [n]ever before. Nothing is singular anymore. Nothing is ever singular again.

There could not be any wall to such [a] world. Roof is the only shelter; the only illusion of identity that we could grasp.[20]

The artist’s very conscious decision to represent the ‘ghosted’ figures of the common worker (the roadway or construction worker and, equally, the farmer or fisherman) in The commoners and the carnivalesque way in which they are depicted celebrate the creativity and adaptability of those at the edges of Indonesian society who have had to survive in a new and rapidly changing democracy that provides little space for them and their ‘old fashioned’ way of life. While the incorporation of lo-fi technological and musical components within this work and other installations stems from Jompet’s initial training in broadcasting and his role as a musician and performer prior to becoming a visual artist,[21] the juxtaposition of technology with the manual labourer also highlights the very clear dichotomies that continue to circulate in the spaces ‘in-between’: old and new; traditional and modern; us and them; East and West; persevering and flourishing. Jompet explains:

In this society I live in, there is an interesting interaction between traditional and modern knowledge. I learnt a lot from the history of the way in which a sugarcane factory was introduced, accepted and celebrated in Java. There is a dramatic narrative of negotiation between the existing and the incoming – a new mystical ritual was created to include this machinery into the spiritual cosmology. The way I work with the medium and technology in my artworks celebrates that history and tries to make my own narrative on my reality.[22]

Broad-ranging cultural and social concerns such as these are also the motivation for Jompet’s fascinating ‘road movie’, On asphalt, 2012, which documents the enormous 1430 km expanse of The Great Post Road (De Grote Postweg in Dutch, and colloquially known as Pantura); an extensive road that runs along the north coast of Java which was constructed during the reign of Herman Willem Daendels, Governor General of the Dutch East Indies, from 1808 to 1811. Originally conceived to facilitate the transport of soldiers during Dutch colonial rule, allowing them to both move along and defend the coast against possible invasion, The Great Post Road remains a major transportation hub in contemporary Java, and is reputedly used by between 20,000 and 70,000 vehicles a day.[23] For Jompet, however, the Road assumes a symbolic role; an active and ever-changing space that also functions as a major force for connecting and disseminating the different cultures that live and travel along its route. Charting the shift from agricultural tracts of land to urban centres, as well as the hair-raising negotiations between different vehicles and commuters on the road, Jompet’s five-channel video installation – showing a series of people being picked up and carried along the route by various makeshift means – highlights the fact that Pantura and, by extension, the nation of Indonesia exist in a constant state of negotiation and flux. For Jompet, Pantura is the face of contemporary Indonesian culture:[24]

Cities grow along the road, population multiplies and the battle to make ends meet hardens. Contact and exchange of cultures takes place swiftly and keeps changing the face of life within.

The face of Indonesia after the Reformasi of 1998 is more or less mirrored in all things [that] happen on the asphalt of Pantura: a crowd on a lively road waiting for a vehicle to come and take them away; all kinds of competition over a piece of life; all kinds of negotiations among cultures ...

On asphalt, culture is stranded and stays.[25]

Jompet’s ongoing investigation of The Third Realm in his practice sends a subtle, playful and important message about notions of nationalism, acceptance and tolerance in increasingly conservative times. During a period in which Indonesia is characterised by the Australian media as a haven for radical fundamentalists and potential terrorists, and as a facilitator of the questionable practices of people smugglers (debates which ultimately say more about Australia as a nation than about Indonesia), his work reinforces the fact that nothing is ever black or white, and that the situation is often far more complex and, ultimately, positive than it would initially seem. As he has said:

As a metaphor, the third reality is a temporary and flexible term that attempts to capture what is actually a constantly shifting and changing milieu of ideas, events, performances and meanings.

Pertinent to the understanding of the metaphors is the insight that there is not just one single definition of body and identity but rather a multitude of approaches and perspectives. In Java, for example, one can be a Muslim and a Javanese animist at the same time; one can be local and global; modern and traditional.

One can exist in the space in-between different things.[26]

Eko Nugroho

What drives Eko is not the modernist or postmodernist dynamic of contemporary art, but the need to forge enchanted links in a fragmented world.[27]

Despite the fact that Eko Nugroho studied painting at Yogyakarta’s major art school, Institut Sensi Indonesia (ISI), his unique visual language was developed on Yogya’s streets, where he worked, unconstrained, on the city’s walls – beyond the restrictions and expectations of the formal art school environment. Here he unveiled and subsequently developed his very personal iconography of strange, hybrid creatures that, in their allusive and illusive way, reflect the social and cultural realities of Indonesia, specifically Yogyakarta, which proudly bears its history of anti-colonial struggle, strong cultural heritage (the city is neighbour to Borobudur, the world’s largest archaeological Buddhist temple) and sense of community spirit as part of the contemporary ‘face’ it presents to the wider world. As Eko has said:

I am a citizen of Indonesia, I am an artist who lives in Indonesia ... I have always been very inspired by the political situation here. The social situation in this country or the events or issues that exist here affect my inspiration a lot. You can say that my works are like mirrors or a filter of the situation in Indonesia.[28]

 Eko’s work as a street artist marked the beginnings of his immersion in and connection with the broader community through his practice. In no way engaged with the traditional notion of ‘bombing’ within graffiti – whereby an artist makes a clandestine ‘hit’ with imagery created unobserved, often at night, and unveiled to an unsuspecting public ‘audience’ by light of day – Eko’s practice was, and continues to be, more about engaging with life on the street during the process of making. Passers-by interact with the artist as he goes about his work; people offer encouragement and feedback, and some even willingly help with ‘colouring in’.[29] As a result, what emerged from these early days is not only Eko’s extraordinary facility and ease with the medium of drawing, but also the instantly recognisable cast of characters that feature in his work; reappearing in various guises, and speaking through their ambiguous and often intriguing interactions about the difficulty of real and honest communication between individuals (and perhaps nations) and about what Eko perceives as some of the overwhelming concerns of contemporary life. The spaceship motif, for example, hovers as a symbol of alienation, just as the recurring cast of hooded figures – faces covered by masks, helmets, minarets and occasionally the hijab, or disembodied eyes peering out from industrial buildings, radios and strange, unidentifiable abstracted forms; Eko’s saksi mata (eyes that witness)[30] – observe, as Joanna Barrkman has noted, his generation’s experience of the local, social, political and technological changes that have occurred in the years following Indonesia’s New Order (1965–98) and, one would assume, their repercussions. However, Barrkman also notes that these seemingly monumental shifts have made negligible difference to the day-to-day living conditions of most Indonesians: ‘Nugroho states he can walk outside his front door every day and nothing has changed; life is still very hard for most people in Indonesia’.[31]

Eko’s disguised players evoke a variety of psychological states ranging from detachment to isolation, indifference to paranoia, as well as an inability to make connections in an increasingly superficial and fragmented world.[32] Conscious of the fact that this act of ‘masking’ could be misinterpreted as symbolising a kind of universal, ‘everyman’ experience, Eko is concerned to represent the duality implicit in every human being (‘It’s quite difficult to depict an everyman without a facial description. I don’t really want to use someone I know as a model or as the “face” to represent “Man”’[33]); highlighting the fact that the adoption of certain types of headgear not only creates an ability to conceal one’s identity, but also to assume another one.[34] In Eko’s words:

I don’t want to judge people by their faces. Each and every object from our surrounding environment is witness to current situations. The narratives, which I develop in each work, can apply to you or whomever ... I do not wish to identify or pin down every situation to a particular instance or place in time. It should be more open than that. The narratives can be read by anybody at any point in time.[35]

The sense of slippages in communication and of things of being ‘lost in translation’ that circulates mischievously in Eko’s work is also playfully heightened by the way in which he cheekily messes with language – mashing together English, Bahasa and occasionally French words in nonsensical texts that are used to accompany, and equally to confound, a clear reading of the artist’s images and intentions. Eko has spoken of words as being ‘poisonous’[36]10 and of their ability to be misinterpreted, misused and to mislead. In titles such as The community’s intelligence was injured by stings of a soupy satellite’s scales (Kecerdasan masyarakat terluka oleh sengatan sisik satelit berkuah), 2012, the artist liberates words from exact meanings, creating a kind of ridiculous universal language that highlights the absurdity of life and places the responsibility for translation and understanding squarely with the individual.

Eko is equally concerned by the way in which individuals band together and assume a singular identity through their adoption of certain codes of behaviour or ways of dressing – often in response to particular trends or fashions – and without a real understanding of the implications of doing so. Conscious of the way in which these allegiances can shift depending on the situation,[37] the artist plays with rigid concepts of nationalism and overarching labels such as ‘Indonesian’ in the sculpture Be proud of your flag, 2012, which presents five squatting figures brandishing five very different flags, each similarly opaque in their symbolism. Exactly what the figures are proud of (and, in the spirit of the rally, celebrating or fighting for), and whether this places them in opposition to or in allegiance with the group which they are nominally part of, is not clear.

Eko explores similar signifiers of nationalism and traditional dress in the sculpture We try to speak nothing (Patung baju batik), 2012, which reworks the celebrated and recognisably Javanese medium of batik (a relatively recent initiative in the artist’s practice), transforming the armed figure’s batik shirt into an extraordinary form of plumage that adorns his form and masks his identity. As Eko has commented:

Batik is like a background to me because I was born and raised in Yogya. When I was younger I did not like batik. But the atmosphere and the environment, just like the leather puppets [of traditional Javanese wayang theatre] create a strong atmosphere in my head. It is part of my own culture and tradition even up to now. So I did not explore batik from the start, but when I studied painting my profession and my maturity demanded that I come back to thinking about batik ... To me batik has become a very strong traditional art language and a symbol of the old tradition which I’d like to break into a modern language. Batik can keep track with modern times and can be very contemporary if we have the ideas and willingness.[38]

Like Eko’s recent incursion into batik, his ongoing exploration of the medium of embroidery allows him to actively engage with what he feels is a dying tradition in Indonesia and, importantly, to work collaboratively – employing practitioners in this small and specialised field to develop and translate his images onto cloth. Initially conceived as a way in which to leave ‘gifts’ for the unknown individuals who would encounter (and souvenir) the embroidered badges incorporated into his painted murals on the streets of Yogya,[39] Eko’s interest in this traditional medium was inspired in part by the prevalence of stiker angkot (sticker art), locally produced bumper stickers that are commonly found on public transport vehicles and in public places and which feature ‘a hodgepodge of popular (often Western) visual elements and ironic messages’,[40] and by the embroidered nametags, logos and badges that appear on uniforms or, alternatively, are worn by gangs in Indonesia, which signal a kind of public and cultural allegiance. Eko explains:

I was interested in embroidery as a fading tradition, slipping away from people’s memory as machinery and synthetic materials became more popular. I’ve always thought of embroidery as a form of drawing using thread on cloth ... It was transforming something from the everyday into something extraordinary and unexpected. I like turning things on their heads, breaking preconceptions.[41]

I am required to be part of the team with the embroiderers, as I need their help and advice on what works, what is feasible and what can’t be done, and this is very meaningful. It’s one of the few things I can’t do alone, unlike drawing and painting.[42]

As attested by the sheer scale and ambition of the embroidered mural Spitting all invasion, 2012, the expertise developed by Eko and his team of embroiderers has enabled the artist to effectively ‘draw’ with beautifully crafted image objects in space, and to create an holistic and completely immersive experience that blurs the boundaries between two- and three-dimensionality. Of his intentions, Eko says:

I am preparing to ‘invade’ ... I have always been interested in interacting with, or ‘invading’, the room to create something different. It will no longer simply be a box-shaped room or gallery. This work will be installed on the wall, on the floor, or on the ceiling, according to how I feel. This work is based on embroidery specifically stitched with a different systematic structure behind the embroidery itself so it can be hung on a corner or bend, appropriate for the room or the venue itself. It may be used to wrap pillars or corners – it is more flexible. Call it mural embroidery if you will; it is more, say, a moveable image.[43]

As one of Eko’s most recent embroidery projects, La Rue Parle 6, 2012, highlights, the medium continues to be a source of inspiration and experimentation. Surprisingly high-keyed in palette, this evocative and beautiful series of twenty-four works moves away from the focus on Eko’s personal, comic-inspired idiom,[44] and is instead based on snapshots (of Parisian street scenes, architectural features, images of the artist’s work in the studio and even a close- up of a leopard’s eye, to name a few subjects) taken at home and while travelling abroad. By literally allowing the ‘street to speak’ (as the work’s title suggests), and also by evoking the notion of ‘street talk’, the series’ emphasis consciously shifts from specifically Indonesian subject matter and concerns; placing the artist, as both traveller and ‘outside’ observer, within a truly global context.

The spirit of collaboration that infuses Eko’s expansive practice is perhaps best embodied by the work of Daging Tumbuh (translated variously as Diseased Tumour or Growing Flesh), an artist comic collective that Eko founded in 2000 as ‘an open, independent “gallery on paper” adopting copyleft principles and photocopying as the printing method of choice’.[45] Simultaneously a comic book, a zine, an alternative art space and, as Elaine Ng has noted, an act of resistance,[46] the collective was initially conceived as a means to address what Eko felt was a lack of spaces in Yogya in which to show his and other artists’ work. The compilations created by Daging Tumbuh embraced the variable, low-fi results of the photocopier on which they were published, celebrated a complete lack of censorship or aesthetic judgement (anyone could send in their work and have it included), encouraged interested parties to freely copy editions ‘for the sake of the future’ and became, in effect, a mobile gallery and informal means of promotion for the contributing artists’ work.

This generous and freewheeling philosophy also underpins Fight for Rice (FFR), an initiative started by Eko and fellow artist Wedhar Riyadi in 2007 as an exciting and playful outlet for the work of emerging artists in Yogya and as a vital source of income (given the complete lack of government support for Indonesian artists). While FFR initially had a shopfront in Yogya from which it sold its wares – artist-designed limited edition figurines and models, T-shirts, bags, embroidered badges and stickers – it now exists online and functions as a pop-up shop that accompanies Eko’s exhibitions internationally (including at the NGV). Funds from FFR’s sales are returned to members of Indonesia’s contemporary art scene in acknowledgement of the importance of this community and its ongoing need for support, and in due recognition of the possibilities that arise from Eko’s success. As he says of his philosophy:

We can’t be like UFOs flying about aimlessly; we must connect, we must communicate and have some sort of exchange with the places and people we work with.[47]

Text © 2012, National Gallery of Victoria. Images © Jompet Kuswidananto and Eko Nugroho. Reproduced with thanks.

Notes