Studying sculpture trained me to think structurally, especially about how materials meet, how weight is distributed, and how an object holds itself in space. It also trained my eye to consider the viewer’s movement, because sculpture is never one-sided. You have to understand it from almost every angle. That way of thinking became the foundation for my installations, where movement, sound, and interaction extend those sculptural concerns into a more dynamic system.

Sculpture education is also deeply rooted in material study. You learn to understand the character of materials, their limits, their possibilities, and how they behave both physically and conceptually. I believe my sensitivity toward material choices in my installations comes directly from that training.

I do not necessarily see my work as high-tech. I am not interested in using technology in an excessive or overly immersive way. I prefer to use the appropriate technology for each idea, just enough to support the concept and allow the work to speak for itself.

I grew up in Jakarta, even though I now live in Bandung. That early environment shaped me deeply.

Traffic, pollution, and waste management have been long-term unresolved issues in Jakarta. Flooding, air quality, land subsidence - these are things you grow up with. Living in that environment made me more aware of how infrastructure affects people. It also made me sensitive to imbalance. When waste is not managed properly, it doesn’t disappear. When air is polluted, it becomes normal, even though it shouldn’t be.

At the same time, there is a strong DIY culture. People adapt because they have to. They fix things themselves. They modify, improvise, and create alternative solutions when formal systems don’t work properly. That mindset influenced how I approach building installations. I’m comfortable experimenting, modifying components, and solving problems hands-on.

So the kind of art I make is shaped by that combination - a place where infrastructure is always in progress, where extraction is part of development, and where people constantly adjust to imperfect systems. Even though I don’t directly depict Jakarta, the way I think about structure, imbalance, and repair comes from growing up there.

Sometimes I actually start with a technique I’m interested in, rather than directly from a concept.

For example, right now I’m still interested in building a DIY battery motorcycle, even though I’ve already made one before. Before that, I was really into building synths. I like exploring electronics, circuits, energy systems. I don’t always know yet whether it will become an artwork.

I treat this kind of exploration as a knowledge bank. I keep learning, testing, and building things just out of curiosity. Later, when I find a problem or issue I want to address in an artwork, I already have the technical understanding.

So when I start a new project, it’s often a combination. There’s a concern or system I’m thinking about, and then there’s this collection of techniques and experiments I’ve been building over time. I connect them.

It’s not very linear. It’s more like layering knowledge until something clicks.

Yes, I think it reflects how I see systems now, but it actually started with music.

I play modular synthesizers, where you connect different modules and patch them with cables. You decide how the signal flows. Sometimes you intentionally create feedback loops. The sound changes depending on how everything is connected. It’s very physical and very structural.

I’ve always been interested in how small adjustments in the patch can completely change the outcome. Move one cable, add one connection, and the whole system behaves differently. It can become stable, unstable, noisy, or calm.

That way of thinking naturally carried into my installation work. I use the knowledge from my music practice. Signal flow, input and output, feedback, control, instability - it’s the same logic, just in a different medium.

So the loops and feedback systems in my work are not only about environmental cycles. They also come from this modular way of thinking. You build a structure, you connect parts, and the system starts to behave on its own.

Over time, I began to see how this connects to real-world systems. Industrial and ecological systems are also networks of connections. The question is whether they respond to feedback or ignore it.

The most challenging part is getting the work to really run in the space. I usually don’t finish my installations entirely in the studio, so once the piece is installed, there’s a lot of adjusting that still needs to happen. I’m constantly adding details, tweaking movements, and tinkering with the system until it behaves the way I imagined or expected. That on-site process is demanding, but it’s also where the work really comes alive.

Physical engagement is important to me because I’m not an image-making artist. My work isn’t something that can be fully understood just through photographs. Sound, movement, and interaction are essential parts of how the work operates, and these elements only really come alive when people are physically present. Being in the space, hearing the sounds, sensing the movement, and engaging with the installation allows the work to unfold over time. For me, that direct, lived experience is much more important than representation alone.

The most surprising thing is how unpredictable and autonomous they are.

When you work with machines, you can measure and control many things. You can adjust voltage, timing, speed. But when you connect living plants to a system, you realize they operate on their own rhythm.

There are moments when the system becomes idle. I connect the plant to the machine, but there is no immediate response. It feels like the plant is resting. That condition is very different from a mechanical system, which is designed to run continuously.

That surprised me. I’m used to systems that keep operating as long as there is input. But plants don’t respond that way. They have cycles. They pause. They slow down. They react differently depending on light, humidity, or time of day.

It made me rethink the idea of constant productivity. Not every system needs to be active all the time. Sometimes the absence of response is also part of the system.

Working with plants introduced that rhythm into my practice. It forced me to accept uncertainty and rest as part of the structure.

I think I’m drawn to these themes because extraction is such a big part of Indonesia’s economy. Mining and natural resources generate a lot of income for the country, and they shape development priorities.

What I question is why we often stop at extraction. We have a large population and a strong workforce. There is potential to invest more in research and development, to process raw materials into higher-value products instead of just exporting them. Selling raw materials is quick money, but it keeps us in the same pattern.

At the same time, the environmental cost is often left behind. In many cases, there is very little serious regulation to require repair of the damage caused by mining. Land is excavated, forests are cleared, and after the resources are taken, the sites are often left broken.

Nature continuously gives us resources. But there is no equal feedback going back to nature. The system is designed for output, not restoration. We receive, we extract, we sell. But regeneration is not treated with the same urgency.

So for me, it’s not only about environmental concern. It’s about imbalance. What kind of relationship are we building with the land? And how long can that imbalance continue?

My work reflects that condition. Extraction runs efficiently. Repair does not.

The project began after a conversation with Stefanie Hessler, who encouraged me to push my practice further. I proposed building a speculative DIY electric motorcycle in Indonesia powered by locally sourced nickel, and she challenged me to make it real.

The work draws from Indonesia’s street motorcycle culture, especially the “jamet” aesthetic that thrives on social media. These motorcycles are highly decorative and expressive, built as visual statements as much as vehicles. I wanted to bring this DIY culture into dialogue with the future-oriented narrative of electric mobility.

Developed in collaboration with the local e-bike company Hardy Motors and a wider network of makers, designers, and musicians, the motorcycle became both a functional vehicle and a sculptural object.

I also raced the battery-powered motorcycle against heavily modified gasoline bikes. Built with around 90 percent domestic components, including batteries derived from locally mined nickel, it lost every race. This failure became central to the project. While Indonesia aims to become a global battery producer, the country still largely exports raw minerals instead of developing higher-value technologies.

The motorcycle ultimately became a speculative object reflecting youth culture, resource politics, and how global technological futures are reinterpreted through local aesthetics.

I think the “fun” part comes from my side.

I enjoy exploring systems. Building circuits, designing PCBs, testing motors, 3D printing parts, figuring out how everything connects. That process is exciting for me. It’s technical, experimental, and sometimes unpredictable.

The serious concerns are there, but they are not distant global ideas. They are happening locally. Nickel mining and palm oil plantations directly affect land and communities here in Indonesia. But the end products are used globally. Batteries, food products, cosmetics, energy storage. The chain extends far beyond the site of extraction.

So when I build a system in the exhibition, I’m thinking about that connection. A local landscape is transformed to support a global market. The imbalance starts here, but the consumption happens everywhere.

For me, the exploration and the critical thinking happen at the same time. I can enjoy solving technical problems while still being aware that the system I’m reconstructing reflects something serious.

The engagement comes naturally from the process. The concern is embedded in the structure.

I’m actually okay with it.

Once the work is in the space, it no longer belongs only to me. People bring their own experiences, knowledge, and concerns into it. So it’s natural that they see things I didn’t consciously plan.

Sometimes the interpretations surprise me, but I don’t see that as a problem. It shows that the work is open enough to hold different perspectives. I’m building a system with a certain structure and intention, but I’m not trying to control every possible meaning.

As long as the interpretation connects to what is physically present in the work, I find it interesting. It becomes a dialogue rather than a fixed message.

I don’t think art needs to function like a clear instruction. It can create a space where multiple readings exist at the same time.

If I could collaborate with any scientist, I would choose my father. He worked in an oil and gas laboratory analysing stones collected from across Indonesia to understand their structure and potential resources. When I was a teenager, I didn’t fully understand or appreciate what he was doing. Only now do I realise how poetic and visually fascinating his work was.

I remember seeing stones that had been sanded down very thin and mounted on glass so that light could pass through them. Today, I imagine these materials as part of a light installation, objects that hold geological time, hidden information, and human ambition within them. Unfortunately, now that he has retired, I no longer have access to the laboratory or the discarded materials that once surrounded his work. Access belongs to companies, not to an individual artist like me.

It would be a chance to translate his scientific process into a visual and sensory experience shaped by light, time, and material, transforming scientific remnants into a poetic exploration of memory, extraction, and our relationship with the earth.

If budget and logistics were no issue, I would create an installation inside a rainforest, ideally in Sumatra, where the Rafflesia flower blooms. The project would be fully self-sustaining, powered by renewable systems and designed to coexist with the ecosystem rather than disrupt it. Technology wouldn’t be used to dominate the environment, but to listen to it, responding to humidity, sound, plant activity, and natural cycles. For me, this is both an ecological and political statement. We often talk about the future in terms of resources, but the rainforest is already producing what we will need most: clean air, balance, and the conditions for life. If we fail to protect it now, no amount of technology will be able to replace what is being lost.