Monday, June 12, 2017

How arts heal and galvanise the youth of Timor Leste

How arts heal and galvanise the youth of Timor Leste

The entrance of Arte Moris, Dili, Timor Leste 2017. Y.H

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Editor's note

One of the youngest nations in the world, Timor Leste has struggled to articulate a unified identity since finally getting independence in 2002 and internal conflict in 2006. But the generation divide that has left young Timorese out of the country’s institutional politics is fuelling art in the fledgling nation’s streets.
Khoo Ying Hooi tells of the East Timorese who took upon themselves to vent their frustration on the walls of their country, using art and music to build memory, reconnect with lost identities and foster peaceful co-existence in a free country.
Clea Chakraverty
Commissioning Editor

Top story

The entrance of Arte Moris, Dili, Timor Leste 2017. Y.H

How arts heal and galvanise the youth of Timor Leste

Khoo Ying Hooi, University of Malaya
Art helps the youth of Timor Leste express their resistance to legal and political authority in the country.








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“Quirky is one way of describing this art space” writes the Lonely Planet about Arte Moris. But Arte Moris (or Living Art) is much more than an art gallery or a fine art school.
Established in 2003, the centre offers a place for young Timorese to express themselves through art while helping them bond and share positive values about their country. World famous freedom fighters posters usually popular with the youth, such as those of Che Guevara and Bob Marley, surround teenagers who come to learn the practice of the arts – sculptures, murals, canvas print and much more.
Initially a project by Swiss artist Luca Gansser and his wife, Gabriela Gansser, with a group of young people, Arte Moris has slowly turned into a well-recognised – and the only – art centre in the country. In the year of its inception, Arte Moris was awarded the UN Human Rights prize for its advocacy of freedom of expression.
But Arte Moris’ aim is not just to promote the arts. It hopes to help East Timorese people rebuild their lives after the long bloody independence struggle of one of the world’s newest countries, which was founded on May 20, 2002.

Violence in Timor Leste

The Southeast Asian island was first colonised by the Portuguese in 1515. The country eventually gained independence from Portugal in November 1975  through the Revolutionary Front of an Independent East Timor (Fretilin). But that only lasted a brief nine days before it was invaded by the Indonesian military.
The country remained occupied until August 30 1999, when an independence referendum saw 78.5% of the East Timorese people vote for separation from Indonesia. The result led to widespread violence by pro-Indonesian groups that required the intervention of UN peacekeepers.
That led to a UN Transitional Administration in East Timor (UNTAET) in 1999 to 2002, when Timor Leste restored full independence.
Timorese boys loot an abandoned police station in the East Timor capital of Dili May 29, 2006. Adrees Latif/Reuters
The bloody struggle against Indonesian occupation brought the East Timorese together. But a political-military crisis erupted in 2006 after members of the army were dismissed.
The incident escalated into a set of clashes between the police, army, rebel soldiers and urban youth, with over 100 people killed in 2006 and over 150,000 displaced.
The crisis revealed a deep tension between the old and young generations of the country.

Youth in crisis

Timor Leste has one of the most youthful populations in the world. Its rapid population growth has drawn attention to the position and plight of the youth in the country.
According to a 2007 World Bank report titled Timor Leste’s Youth in Crisis: Situational Analysis and Policy Options, the involvement of youth in widespread violence was one of the most visible elements of the crisis. And the generation gap is now a key feature of the contemporary social discourse in Timor Leste.
A police officer in the streets of Dili, Timor Leste. Lirio da Fonseca. Lirio da Fonseca/Reuters
Two generations witnessed the country’s long struggle for independence. The first is the “Generation of ‘99” or Geracão Foun born during the period of Indonesian occupation, some of who emerged as national leaders in the 1980s and 1990s. They are distinct from the “Generation of "75” who are Portuguese-speaking older leaders and mostly dominate the government.
The groups find themselves in disagreement over certain matters. But their relations are crucial for the transmission of cultural values and for the country’s social cohesion.
Gembel collective is not only a fine art school, it helps young people connect with their identity as East Timorese. Y.H
Timor Leste’s youth suffer from a lack of job opportunities and the poverty rate ) remains high at 41.8%. The promises of independence seem far away as basic rights such as education, employment and political participation still lag behind.

Murals for peace

The youth of Timor Leste has been so scarred by this recent history that it has taken up the habit of venting on the walls. Parts of the nation’s capital Dili look like an open-air art gallery.
Art is everywhere in Dili, capital of Timor Leste. 2017. Y.H
After 2006, recognising that murals and graffiti were one of the most inclusive means of communication in the country, Nobel prize-winning former president Jose Ramos-Horta and several NGOs commissioned artists to paint the walls across the country  and to convey messages of national unity and peace.
Murals and graffiti are now distinct part of the landscape. Arts help the young ones express their resistance to the legal and political authority in the country.
Many of the artists come from the “Generation of "99” and faced exclusion after the 2002 independence. They seek today to legitimise their role in the resistance movement against Indonesia but also to remind today’s generation of their history while engaging in debates on post-independence identity.
The Gembel Art Collective is another such initiative, established in 2003 like Arte Moris. Gembel Art offers free arts classes and also proposes to have theatre, music and traditional performances. Similarly to Arte Moris, its classes and spaces are open to all.
Artists such as those associated with Arte Moris or Gembel Art Collective are also actively involved in human rights issues. These include fighting for land and for finding the children “disappeared” during the Indonesian occupation; an estimated 4,000 children were secretly taken to Indonesia between 1975 and 1999.
The artists voice their dissatisfaction and discontent over government policies such as the lack of job opportunities for the youth. They may also support campaigns, such as the Hands Off Timor Oil initiative, with the government. Through the arts, they urge people to think about the issues affecting their country.

Music for human rights

In another attempt to bridge the generations that have parted ways because of various crisis Timor Leste has known, music bands have taken over public spaces as well.
One example is Galaxy Band, which was established in 1999 just after the referendum. The band received popular support among the younger generation as their lyrics criticised human rights shortfalls, as well as land, national and social issues and those related to nationalism.
A video of Galaxy Band on Music Day, June 21 2016.
According to its lead vocalist, Mely Fernandez, whom I met in Dili, the late 1990s were a new beginning for Timorese youth, but also foretold an uncertain future.
During the 2006 internal crisis, the band incorporated social and political messages into their songs and poems. Occasionally, they face government interference but for Mely, that’s a positive sign because it means the government is listening.

Issues and challenges

Despite achieving the highest democracy index in the Southeast Asia region in a 2016 report by the Economist Intelligence Unit (EIU), the artists’ use and enjoyment of public spaces is not without challenges.
While Ramos-Horta was a strong supporter of the arts in Timor Leste, today public spaces are not well looked after by the government.
The ceiling of Arte Moris has been neglected for a while. Y.H
In the Arte Moris gallery, broken ceilings are not repaired because maintenance is not a priority anymore. One of the possible reasons for this is the political messages the artists are sending to the people.
Facing the challenge of not receiving much support from the government, they have been actively advocating the arts. Now and then, Arte Moris and Gembel Art Collective receive assistance from international NGOs and not much is coming in from the national level.
Gembel Art Collective offers free arts courses to children as non-formal education. Students from both Arte Moris and Gembel Arts come from different districts. There are currently six districts that offer free art classes, set up by former students. They need government support for a long-term sustainability as they cannot rely on international assistance.
Another key issue that the artists advocate is the promotion of local languages and dialects. Tetum and Portuguese are both the official languages of Timor Leste. Bahasa Indonesia and English are defined as working languages, as stated in the Constitution. For some Timorese, these latter are considered economic languages as they are not the mother tongues of the country.
For artists in Arte Moris, dialects are important but they are gradually being forgotten and are now only used in districts. Osme Gonsalves from Lospalos, a former guerilla fighter during the Indonesian occupation works today as an artist and a poet. He promotes the use of local languages such as his dialect, Fataluku. According to him, dialect has an important role in the construction of national and social identity.
Asked about what they wish for their future, the artists said, “We will never stop and we will keep doing what we do. Hopefully we can influence more of our people especially younger brothers and sisters to also appreciate arts for the future of Timor Leste.”
The author would like to thank Osme Gonsalves from Arte Moris, Gembel Art Collective and Mely Fernandez from the Galaxy Band for their willingness to share their thoughts.

Friday, June 9, 2017

Molly Soda on How Social Media Changes Us IRL

Molly Soda on How Social Media Changes Us IRL

Over the past few years, Molly Soda has put her private life online, for the sake of excavating and exposing the archetypal young person’s internet experience. The artist has filled solo shows at galleries from L.A. to London with YouTube videos, screencap selfie collages, GIFs, and ’zines, all featuring herself—or at least some version of herself. She’s among a growing group of artists, like Maggie Lee and Amalia Ulman, who’ve adopted online platforms in their practices, as mediums to foster digital alter-egos or consider identity on the internet.
Molly Soda’s real name is actually Amalia Soto, but it’s her pseudonym that has developed an impassioned following (68,500 Instagram followers, and 35,500 via Twitter). She’s developed this online persona to such a complex, dynamic degree that her audience (online and IRL) has often confused Soda and Soto. Now, with her debut New York solo show, she’s trying to set the record straight, while also making her audience consider their own digital identities.
  • Installation view of “Molly Soda: I'm just happy to be here” at 315 Gallery, Brooklyn, New York. Courtesy of the artist and 315 Gallery.
“It’s sort of a rebuttal to the way that people perceive my work,” Soda tells me as we walk through the show, titled “I’m Just Happy to Be Here,” at 315 Gallery in Brooklyn. “People maybe perceive me as being really honest or sincere, and this is me being, like, ‘Well, that’s not real.’”
The show comprises mirrors printed with Instagram direct messages, lip-sync videos, an interactive laptop work, and GIFs that stream on iPhone 4s strewn across the gallery floor. (Why are they on the floor? “I like making people get into awkward positions,” Soda affirms.) “I’m Just Happy To Be Here” presents a multitude of Mollys. There’s a Molly with the proverbial angel and devil (themselves mini-Mollys) perched on her shoulders; Molly as a cowgirl, singing karaoke; Molly as a clown in the woods.
Soda taps into a tension familiar to anyone who has ever used the internet: the inevitable discrepancy between the way we’re perceived online (through the personal brands we craft) and the way we actually are in real life. Online, Molly Soda wears black eyeliner and sparkly eyeshadow; her hair is curled or coiffed or streaked with purple (or yellow or blue). Alone in her bedroom, she feeds off of her followers, spending hours singing and dancing, giving makeup tutorials, and making faces, occasionally wearing little clothing.
Like Soda, Amalia Soto is obsessed with the internet and loves karaoke, but the similarities seem to dwindle from there. When we meet at the gallery she’s wearing an oversize sweater, a long gingham dress, clunky boots, and no makeup. She speaks matter-of-factly about the state of the internet (“it’s  never felt more tense”); the burner Instagram account she keeps to follow her friends; her take on #covfefe (“I love conspiracy theories”); and her desire to start keeping a physical diary. She’s not the person she plays online.
Some eight years since first creating the screen name Molly Soda on Tumblr, the artist is often asked by new friends and acquaintances, most of whom first “met” her online, which name she goes by. “I don’t really care either way, as long as you know that Soda is not my last name,” she replies. “But that’s just also the power of the internet, and the way that we get to know each other now.”
  • Detail of Molly Soda, Bored, WYD?, 2017. Courtesy of the artist and 315 Gallery.
Soda is a digital native, part of a generation that came of age online. Born in 1989, and raised in Bloomington, Indiana, she cut her teeth blogging on Xanga, then moved to LiveJournal, racking up a cache of daily entries that chronicled her teenage life (topics included hanging out with her boyfriend and learning to drive). Many of her friends today are people she first met online; her current Brooklyn roommate, for instance, is a mutual friend she met through Xanga.
As Xanga and LiveJournal fell out of vogue in the early aughts, she turned to Tumblr in 2009, while studying photography at NYU. She wouldn’t consider her work art until later, but during this time, as her posts became more visual and less personal, the Molly Soda persona began to take shape.
She notes that today, with Instagram and Twitter—the two platforms she considers most consequential—the focus on personal branding is inevitable. “With Tumblr, you didn’t have to post any pictures of yourself, nobody had to know anything about you, people just liked your taste in things or the way that you curated a sort of mood board,” Soda recalls. “Now, it’s very much like you have to love memy identity, and it all rides on people literally validating that.”
Validation is central to Molly Soda’s persona, and the work that she creates. Particularly resonant in the new show is That’s Me In The Corner (2017), a video of Soda singing alone in a private Koreatown karaoke room that she streamed live on Instagram. Disco lights stream across her face as she earnestly works her way through a half-hour-long playlist including “Stay” by Rihanna, “Otherside” by Red Hot Chili Peppers, and “Losing My Religion” by R.E.M. (she borrowed its lyrics for the work’s title). While somewhat light-hearted at first blush, the video takes on a sinister tone.
The number of viewers watching the live video drops from over 100 to hovering around 20 or 30; Soda’s wide eyes stare longingly at the screen, lighting up momentarily when her followers write fawning comments. The piece conveys the common sensation of posting something online and feeling waves of disappointment, delight, or validation, depending on the likes, retweets, replies, and comments.
  • Installation view of “I'm just happy to be here.” Courtesy of the artist and 315 Gallery.
Soda’s practice is also driven by a desire to archive her online interactions for posterity, and as potential fodder for future works. (One 2012 work, Inbox Full, was an 10-hour-long video of herself reading off all of the messages she’d received on Tumblr.) She’s also keen to preserve the different visual iterations of the internet. She fears a hypothetical scenario in which she wakes up to find that Instagram no longer exists. “I’m so terrified,” she says, “Not that I need Instagram, but I need to have had all of that stuff saved.”
Soda is adamant that the internet will always play a central role in her art, which will itself be readily accessible online. But she’s currently questioning to what extent she herself will figure into her future work. She acknowledges that 14 years of a diaristic practice has taken a toll—as have the demands of the online community itself. “I feel like a lot of the work I make ends up being kind of sad or dark because that’s how the internet feels,” she explains. “I love the internet, and I have grown to care about it so much—but it’s a complicated relationship.”

—Casey Lesser