In Indonesian, we have an idiom to describe a person like Riksa Afiaty: kecil kecil cabe rawit. Kecil means small. Cabe rawit is a type of chili that really stings. The idiom means to describe a small person who has an astounding energy and capabilities not to be underestimated because of their small figure. Riksa talks for hours during the interview, with almost nothing to be left unmentioned, and could go on for even longer if she didn’t have to run on other errands.
I met Riksa for the first time at KUNCI Study Forum & Collective, a place where we often warmly gather. I was visiting Yogyakarta, and for the first time I got to know the people in the city’s arts scene. She hosted me in her house, and that was where the magic happened. She and Theodora Agni, her partner-in-crime, hosted me so well, and they listened well to my concerns when we talked for hours about the contemporary arts scene. I didn’t know how accomplished they both were, and I surely hadn’t known a lot of Riksa’s curatorial track record until I thought I should be in conversation with her.
Riksa started working in arts in 2009, when she interned at Yayasan Kelola, a foundation that funds art programs and initiatives. She then joined ruangrupa, the Jakarta-based art collective. After working for Jakarta Biennale 2013, she curated Jakarta Biennale 2015, where she encountered decoloniality for the first time. Two years later, she and Charles Esche, her co-curator for the Jakarta Biennale, curated Europalia: Power and Other Things where they presented Indonesian artists from 1835 to the present in the context and anaylsis of colonialism. She wrote a proposal to a residency in Jan van Eyk and went there in 2018 for a year. Although, she confessed that she felt very alienated there in the centre of colonialism as someone who comes from the Dutch colony. She doesn’t speak Dutch, she wears hijab, and she was in a polar opposite place geopolitically than where she came from. When she was in the train, sometimes people wouldn’t sit next to her, and it made her wonder if something was wrong with her appearance. It was an experience that shaped her understanding of colonialism: not as something you read in a book, but something you face every day. The dread, the survival, the loneliness, the pressure it resides within her body. She went home to Jogja after two weeks of falling ill, having been ”fine” for a year, but she realized it was her body that was holding on because no one was going of any help in the Netherlands.
As her understanding of decoloniality grew, she prepared herself to go to West Papua to explore what kind of aesthetic could support the West Papuan liberation cause. In the same year she was involved in 13th Gwangju Biennale 2021, she finally visited West Papua for the 2021 Festival Film Papua. In December 2022, she received an invitation for an exhibition in Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova in Ljubljana.1
And yet, despite this trajectory, you wouldn’t think of her prestigious curator title upon getting to know her; you would think of her fondly as your humble friend, a loyal comrade, and a critical ally that you would trust in solidarity. Prior to knowing her portfolio, I came to the decision of having this conversation. We discuss how the arts scene treats its Queer artists, workers, and community. She introduced me and Sidhi Vhisatya of Queer Indonesia Archive, to Moelyono, an established Indonesian artist, to make sure that his project about ludruk performers is in tune with queer perspective from Queer people. But most of all, she is a compassionate friend who calls you when she cooks things and makes sure you eat, gives and lends you things you need, and feels pained and angry when her friend is being mistreated. I think as, a curator, she one of few who are least out of touch with reality of art workers: not only her closest friends are mostly art workers, not curators, she herself still picks up odd jobs to make ends meet. Her decoloniality is very well reflected in, not only her curatorial works, but also in everyday practices of friendship, care, camaraderie, and critiques of power.
In this conversation, we talked about her practices of decoloniality―how she uses it as a tool in her curatorial projects, and how she reflects and employs it in her practices of the everyday―and positioned it in the larger picture of the Indonesian contemporary arts scene. We identified that decoloniality, in its everyday form, is concerned with labour issues in art workforce, and we reflected on our concerns, criticism, and hopes for better working condition in the arts scene.
When we are located in spheres of established infrastructures [of art], decolonization doesn’t really ring true…it rings hollow in its soul: when we talk of decolonization, we have to step out of these spheres or the contexts that come from them.
How do you reflect on your background and trajectory so far, and contextualize it in its geopolitical contexts?
I love how you pose this question, asking me to put my experiences in its geopolitical context. As you see, my trajectory is located in quite privileged spheres: Jakarta, Bandung, Yogyakarta, and the Netherlands. These are regions where infrastructures (of art) are already established. And yet, when we are located in these spheres of established infrastructures, decolonization doesn’t really ring true―perhaps it does, theoretically, as these infrastructures provide us with resources to academic knowledge through books, discussions, etc. But it rings hollow in its soul: when we talk of decolonization, we have to step out of these spheres or the contexts that come from them.
Let’s take an example of Queer issues. Of course, there are Queer issues talked about and depicted in established arts, media, and culture infrastructures. But if you see through the established modes of representation, you only scratch the surface. Some sort of this public persona, ironically, is posed as representative and yet cannot represent the entire complexity of Queer experiences. We should be able to testify that in everyday life that those who are in the margins are censored, policed, degraded in their expressions.
In one of your professional bio, you wrote that you “seek to contemplate decoloniality in artistic practice and curatorial framework.” How did you encounter decoloniality in the first place, and how has your contemplation come so far? Is there any specific experience that shapes your penghayatan dekolonial2?
My first encounter with decoloniality was back in 2015, when I curated for the Biennale Jakarta with Charles Esche. He suggested to me that I read decolonial literature. It was a whole new experience, especially at that time. As time went on, I grew more confident in using a decolonial approach as a tool to deconstruct the systems of oppression around me. Prior to becoming aware and trying to understand decoloniality, I was feeling desperate, as I hadn’t found a way to tell people around me that our lives were actually fucked up.
Haha, sorry, I’m getting riled up. Well, I felt frustrated indeed because I did have the desire for us to collectively take everything apart and realize that our lives are not okay under these systems.
In Power and Other Things, one of the ideas was to depict Indonesian modern history by exhibiting Emiria Soenassa.3 She was known for her figures of people from all over archipelagos such as Bali, Papua and Borneo. Emiria mostly painted less masculine images. Emiria was one the few female figures in the history of modern Indonesian art, so her presence in the exhibition was to raise the issue of the erasure of women from an earlier period.
But of course, talking about Emiria in current times, we have to address her compl(ex)(ic)ity as well. As archives about her and her works grew, it was found that she imposed some claims over Papua.4 It got me thinking: Have we been careless in positioning her? Have we been careless in considering her claimed title as a Tidore princess?5
It all forced me to contemplate on, as your question framed, penghayatan dekolonial. Such penghayatan came to me when I finally mustered up the courage to open up and have a meaningful encounter with, say, Papuan people and Queer folks. I’d been wanting to go to Papua since I can remember, especially when I met Roy Villevoye, an artist who was having an artistic encounter with people in Asmat, and he generously supported me with advice on his experience to go. But I held myself back until 2021. I was pretty much gnawed with self-doubts, so I kept postponing my plan to go to Papua. I kept myself busy by reading, going to discussions, and thinking over and over on how to configure my positionality - questioning how to sustain solidarity amongst those on the front lines of resistance.
Finally, when my friend encouraged me, “Just go, Riksa. Don’t be afraid to be or do something wrong. If you’re wrong, they will let you know.”
Those kinds of self-questioning were also there when I first wanted to learn about Queer issues. Like, I do have Queer friends, but I really can’t claim that I’m Queer-friendly by default because of that, right?! I learned from them about political positioning and how to hold each other to account.
I think we share similar concerns on how decoloniality has come into a trajectory of becoming a performative jargon sterile in practice―sanitization, one may say. How do interpret decoloniality, and how do you present it in your professional as well as everyday practices?
I found that in our work, when you want to open up the space for people whose voices need to be amplified, you get questioned first by the system for trying. When I was co-programming for a program, I wanted to reach out to practitioners with a statement of encouragement in the open call page for women, Queer, mothers with child, etc. There were some debates: they said that they could apply without the note, and that it wasn’t like the program was actively excluding them. It compelled me to consult to a friend who runs a Queer collective in Berlin. I asked, Was it okay? Or perhaps it was patronizing? They answered, “You have to! We’re running a Queer space, and we don’t always know when a space is safe for us, especially when it doesn’t put that on the statement. It acts as an actual call for people: that this is a safe space to which they can apply to develop their practices.
I was anxious that the statement would actually come across as performative―fake and insincere. However, on further thought, people might know nothing about the program, and the institution wasn’t exactly known for its advocacy for marginalized folks. Without the statement, there was a chance people wouldn’t quite catch it! They could’ve felt discouraged by assuming that the program was aimed for “professional artists,” while I wanted people with little-to-no access to such opportunities to apply. I actually don’t remember whether we ended up putting the statement on the call for artists or not… but anyway. What I wanted to say was that we hadn’t even started― we were just planning on the open call!―but we already needed to explain the significance of such a small gesture.
Decolonization is now a term you find a lot in the arts as well as cultural scene, but how do you actually do it? How do you reflect decolonization in your actual practices? I often find myself being sceptical about seeing tokenism when we just want to tick off the inclusivity check box by inviting, say, an artist from the “margins” without actually understanding why they should invite them. Okay, so you’ve invited them. And then what? How do you follow up after the invitation?
Those who we invite to “the centre” perform for us, allowing us to understand what they do. This “performance” costs a lot. If we’re talking about decoloniality, well, native and Indigenous people live it. They live it in their respective regions, practicing their beliefs that are often overlooked by modernity. Wouldn’t it be better to get to know them living decolonial practices from their own place, their own roots? When you invite them, could it be that you’re only bringing forth their physical presence but not the ideas, knowledge, and experience they embody? They flew for hours, leaving their loved ones, work, land, and kitchen… just to end up as tokens. Well done, so callous of you to ask them to do it all.
Why would you ask and demand people from the “margins” to “solve” the problem created by modernization? It’s your problem, man.
I saw that in the Netherlands as well, where Black intellectuals were asked to solve the decolonial puzzle of art institutions and museums established by white people. I was like, come on, now, honey. Even if they managed to hand you the solution, I don’t think you’d be happy to dismantle the coloniality. I am following up on how Kunstinstituut Melly changed their name from FKA Witte de With in 2021, after relentless years of criticism from Black intellectuals and decolonial activists.6 I could not imagine the hours of long labour required to change the system, to design and to accommodate decolonial practices. And I really wish them good things!
In the everyday practice, well... It was an actual question when I did an interview with IVAA, my current office. They asked me, “What does decoloniality look like in everyday life?” I cried; I couldn’t hold it. I told them that I stopped being friends with people who abuse their power over others. I didn’t know exactly why I shed tears. Perhaps because I was very disappointed with people who I used to trust, it made me realize that rooting decolonial principles in everyday life is embodying and committing anti-violence values, which meant I had to delink from some endeavours that we’ve built together over the years. It fucking breaks my heart deeply.
I asked myself: ”What if I didn’t have that many friends? What could I do then? What could we rebuild?” It felt so disheartening, and it haunted me so badly. “Fuck, what if this is a lonely path,” I thought to myself. “Is there anyone else? Is there anyone else? Is there really someone else I can build something with?”
rooting decolonial principles in everyday life is embodying and committing anti-violence values
We share similar concerns about the everyday conditions of art workers in Indonesia, at least based on our observations in centres of cultural practice such as Jakarta and Yogyakarta.
As part of an emerging generation – working for many years but not yet having achieved a point of stability – I am very much familiar with the inadequate working conditions in the contemporary arts scene. I felt a definite gap from the older generation; many of them normalize exploitation under the premise that it’s acceptable to build your career in arts through a volunteerism that demands arduous labour without decent pay - defending it by saying, ”That it’s how it’s been, that’s what they did that back then” Besides that, this obstinacy to irrelevant “traditions” is counterproductive to artistic practices that champion flexibility and innovation. It clearly reflects that they are quite out of touch with the current reality of late capitalism that is strangling the precarious younger generation by refusing to show solidarity.
How do you observe working conditions as a person who have been working in the scene for more than ten years? What is your own experience with younger and older generations?
I think there is a hell of a problem with volunteerism that breeds exploitation entrenched in the structure of the arts. My partner-in-crime, Theodora Agni, has identified this through a managerial lens since she worked as an art manager. Since volunteerism is essentially a mode of labour, which shapes the work structure, there are management strategies that can be implemented to fix the structure.
Exploitation also signals some sort of hierarchy, one of which is the problem of which work is valued more than others. Well, there’s actually a real case that I remember very clearly. I was hanging out with two friends; one worked as an art handler, and one was a writer. That day was the art handler’s birthday, we bought a cake, and we were joking around asking him to have a meal or a drink on him. He joked that he couldn’t buy us beers, because he hadn’t got paid. It was three months after the event wrapped up. The writer friend was shocked, maybe feeling awkward as well, because he contributed to the post-catalogue for the same event and he’d been paid, and there stood his own friend who was working before he even started writing, he and hasn’t received his payment. It felt so insane! That scene with my two friend is often replayed in my head, over and over dramatically, dun dun dun dun!, and our faces get zoomed in and zoomed out. [laughs] My conversation with Agni, when she identified some managerial incompetency in sorting out finances and priorities, it was definitely clear that it came from an unchecked bias where the manager does not have a political stance or commitment.
Agni and I lamented how intellectual work is valued way more than manual labor. She then manifested her thinking in Shifting Realities,7 reflecting on working conditions of reproductive labour in the arts, raising issues about flexible hours, precarious work, reproductive work and its remuneration, and the reality of behind-the-scenes workers, etc.
Through Shifting Realities, we realized that some―if truly not all―of the previous generation own land to build an institution on it. It registered with us then, upon realizing that it really put everything together. I wonder if it illustrates that our workforce in the arts scene is just a reflection of landlordism, where we work for landowners on and for their land. Are the fruits we reap, we reap for them and not for us? Some of the art institutions built are in response to the problems caused by the state: censorship, repression, or just the overall lack of adequate public art institutions. And what would they become now when we say that a landlord employs people to work for their land?
It’s really not enough when a person works as a top brass in the arts scene or art institution and wants to talk about decolonialism, but treats the people who work with you unequally and even compensates them so inadequately. You get them so stressed doing your project, while you’re the one gaining recognition, power, and capital. You’re turning them into cogs to pivot your career trajectory while they grind under demeaning working conditions that you perpetuate.
I thought, well, our working conditions are intolerable, so what if administrators and others working manual and reproductive labour refused to work, go on a strike even, just for a day. Let’s see how the industry stops. We found that these labourers are considered expendable. But we think that’s just a vile tactic employed to keep underpaying them! God, it’s so vile. But it’s normalized. While the truth is their job is so vital that the exhibition would go to shambles without them. While we get slightly annoyed when a curator delays their curatorial note for two or three days, a display team on strike―imagine, just for a day, on the day of the scheduled display―is a devastating blow to the exhibition. Such ideas seem so silly for now, just a made-up scenario to be enjoyed and laughed at upon imagining. But imaging better work conditions is something we must hold on to, no? There will come the time, just wait!
I’m actually impressed with the younger generation. They’re the ones reminding me to rest! In my day, I worked for almost 24 hours for an exhibition. I think it was drilled into me that it was my exhibition, my project… well, it turned out it wasn’t, not really.
Once, a friend of mine resigned from an art institution, and her remark struck a chord with me: “Whose aspiration was I actually working for? It surely felt like it wasn’t mine.” I was like, shit, we gotta know whose aspirations we’re working for. Was it for the board [of the institution]? The founder?
That is so thought-provoking. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine thinking about decolonization in the everyday life, when it’s made out such to be this big sanitized intellectual thing. But when you say they are institutions built on landlordism, it’s actually too literal. We are working on their land, tilling their soil, reaping their fruits. So, when those employers mistreat their workers, doesn’t give them decent pay, it’s really no different than in colonial times. Can we say it's slavery in modern art? It means that talking about decolonialism in the everyday means talking about labour issues in the arts scene: working conditions, workers’ well-being, decent pay, as well as workers’ protests and strikes!
I do sense that there is, indeed, a pressure to have a sense of belonging in institutions. Well, I think the institution should be the tool for its people, not vice versa. That’s why I think we should have a discussion about how we treat each other in our workplace. Manual and reproductive labour is worth no less and thus should be appreciated no less than intellectual work. Maybe we should start paying them the same rate? Why do curators get paid higher? Perhaps it’s because they bear the intellectual responsibility of the exhibition. Okay, well, fair, but does it come from a place of transparency and accountability? Why don’t we talk about it openly and really ask why? Why don’t we sit together to really think about this assignment of value to each of our work and then assign the prorate accordingly? Because maybe we’ve been taking this situation for granted. I see it in some cases where the workers get paid lower but work more hours, and that’s not a fair pay.
It is quite undeniable that many people position “curator” as a prestigious title to have, with the authority of knowledge in arts. This creates a hierarchy, and enables the accumulation of power through curatorial works. The trajectory of a curator is then often defined in terms of a career ladder filled with schemes of accumulating power here and there. How do you position yourself and your curatorial works amidst such a situation? How do you weave your own curatorial trajectory, and how do you enact forms of solidarity within it?
It is important to factor the circulation of social, cultural, and economic capital into the notions of solidarity within our workforce. Check-in with your peers. How could your resources be redistributed? Talk to each other about the idea of class solidarity and the value of work—regardless of it being intellectual or physical.
decoloniality in the every day is about strategizing and creating tactics to push for resource redistribution in a system that upholds inequality.
Maybe it’s what you said earlier, the gap in how work is valued? Intellectual works vs manual and reproductive labor?
Well, yes, the system accommodates that gap; those who read, write, and formulate concepts are the ones valued more than those who compose and collect invoices or those who are handy with hammer and saw.
I saw that Kunstinstituut Melly dedicated a book for their longest employee ever, Paul van Gennip, who retired in April 2024. It says: “We think he is our most dedicated worker at Melly.… He has planned and installed pretty much all our exhibitions and has been integral to our day-to-day operations.” They wrote down that without Paul, they wouldn’t have their exhibitions. I think we have to acknowledge that no matter how advanced we are at talking about decolonization, without figures like Paul, or that one friend of mine I mentioned earlier, we wouldn’t have anything. Doesn’t it mean that our work is worth the same―that we’re all equal?
Now, why is that equality so hard to achieve? Is it education? Is it because art schools, which champion intellectualism are aimed and designed to produce this so-called “intellectual class”?
Most of these intellectuals gained very well-educated degrees, and so they get exposed to opportunities, positions, and connections of power. It shows which social class these curators come from; it is undeniable that they come from a comfortable social class that has access to prestigious education, which gives them an advanced start in accumulating many forms of capital. Compared to other folks who come from a less than decent educational background, they have a more advanced start. They have capital that other people don’t. It also means that in the art workforce, their work is valued more than the others, and they own the language to negotiate their pay while others don’t.
I tried to do it in my project with Agni. In the budget proposal, we wrote that my salary as the curator would be equal to hers. The funders asked me, “How do you imagine yourself being paid the same amount as your manager?” I said, “Well, I work with her from scratch; she internalizes this program as much as I do, and I share a similar managerial approach/perspective with her.” In the end, we couldn’t convince them. Well, at least I tried to make them understand. I think that’s still an important thing to do, telling them what we think should be done. Even though we were paid differently, Agni and I ended up dividing our salaries into two equal amounts.
We tested the waters but still went our way when it didn’t work. It wasn’t a waste. I think that’s also what decoloniality in the every day is about – strategizing and creating tactics to push for resource redistribution in a system that upholds inequality. We should let everyone know that this is how they can push for equality, or else they wouldn’t know at all!
Another project I did with Agni was funded by the government. When the funding was not yet wired, we borrowed some money from our parents and friends. Before the program ended, we told everyone about the money situation. They felt uneasy at first, but we told them that it was not to make them feel guilty or that they owed us anything. It was really for practical purposes. Agni created and tracked the records in multiple Excel sheets: how much money we spent, how much money we currently have, how much we will have, how much tickets and hotels cost, and how much we borrowed from whom for what purposes. We showed them the flowchart of the money.
Agni believes that people working in the “front,” such as artists and curators, have to acknowledge the things that people working behind the scenes do, even their sacrifices, and recognize their work’s burdens and value. They have to understand―even made to understand. She’s incredible―when I saw the Excel sheets, I was like, aaaarrrrgghhh! How are we supposed to take a look at this? But she’s a pro. She also insisted that everyone has to understand at least the basics to inform themselves about the money flow.
Some are successful, some are not so… hahaha…
Muzej sodobne umetnosti Metelkova / Museum of Contemporary Art Metelkova
You are currently working in Indonesia Visual Art Archive (IVAA). How do you reflect on the archive(ing) that you work on, and how do you position those reflections alongside your bigger reflections about Indonesian contemporary arts, the politics of the every day, and critical solidarity?
Many believe that archive(ing) is neutral. Well, sometimes they mean that we should archive everything and collect documents as much as possible. I mean, nothing wrong with that. But then we have to be political when analyzing it or reflecting on it.
When we ended up faced with the abundance of male-dominated archives, questions should arise: Where are the women? How many are there? Where are the Queer, trans, non-binary? And, truth be told, we do not yet have archives of them! Well, why? Is it because there’s really none, or that we don’t really think of looking at and for them? And even if there’s really not that many, is that it? Or is it because the system doesn’t support them in continuing to create art or keep working? Is it because there’s not much of a safe space for them talking about gender, sexuality, or any other aspect of their struggle? If we’re not asking these questions, then forever and ever our archive will be male-dominated. Archiving should be done with a consciousness of the sociopolitical context. There’s also geopolitical context.
I think it’s also worth factoring in and reflecting on Farah Wardani’s article8 on the importance of art archiving and the centrality of archiving in understanding the relations between art practice and the challenges of society in this region. Her work in IVAA was very much in the guerrilla mode, then she continued working in the Institutional mode, with the use of the Museum Archives approach, as she demonstrated at National Gallery Singapore. Her belief is that both are equally important and complement each other, creating a place that provides resources and spaces for debate, contributing to the development of art history and contemporary society in the region.
It’s an ongoing reflection, and I just started this job, so yeah, still… very tough and rambling, eh?
I think this reflection doesn’t necessarily have to be a conclusive one. It can be an ongoing contemplation, one that may grow over time. You’re still doing archiving, after all. After this interview, there will be more reflections for you to come and think about. It is completely understandable if it still feels tough for now.
Talking about contemporary art and its scenes, we can spend all day talking about it and being very critical of it. But the politics of the every day is another story. For me, it’s about solidarity with fellow art workers, and it’s tough. Man, it’s insanely tough. You are facing your own friend and colleague head-to-head. You know them in both of your everyday lives. You know their habits, routines, backgrounds, personalities, and works, and how can you not empathize with them knowing all that, and knowing the structures that we face and are shaping us all into what we each and collectively are?
How do you feel after working for many years in Indonesian arts and cultural scene when recalling your early experiences, and then seeing the younger generation being in your position ten to fifteen years ago? Any hopes or concerns of the future of cultural works?
I am happy with the younger generation. They remind me so much that we’ve been cheated by the system. It was chaotic when I started, and they made me realize that the system was designed unjustly, trapping its workers in its chains. But we can change that, slowly but surely. It’s hard to face some who still believe in volunteerism. If we refuse to be exploited in such a mode of labour, they label us as not being generous in our work. But there are now so many initiatives and movements in response to that. SINDIKASI (an Indonesian Union of Media and Creative Industry Workers), for example, diligently advocates for paid internships. Now, we are getting more educated about interns being paid, so there’s hope to inform institutions that there has been a violation of workforce regulations.
Volunteerism cannot sustain us all, and it’s our right to ask for decent pay and working conditions. It’s sad to think some still hold on to this idea of work as a form of dedication, that this work that we do is the passion we want to commit to in order to achieve our dreams. Well, maybe it’s your dreams, and we’re the ones getting exploited for that. Well, this question is sad…
What kind of solidarity do you hope can grow more in the Indonesian arts and cultural scene?
Political consciousness and self-organizing. Consciousness is what’s in our head and heart: an awareness, a sensibility. But then we have to transform it into real acts! We have to organize ourselves.
I was reminded of its importance when there was a speaker in one of IVAA’s public discussions, Gispa Warijo, a West Papuan intellectual. She reminded us that when we claim to be an ally of a movement, we have to make time to show our support for the movement. Come to the streets and attend the protests! Me and my colleagues signalling to each other that it’s okay not to come to the office when there’s a protest happening, haha. Leave your posts and show your solidarity.
The question is sad when we have to face the reality, but can be hopeful when we want to think about a better future. What do you think of hope?
It’s a must. It’s always a must. The hope is to move toward the ethics that is socially and politically desirable.