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My work returns to questions of endurance: how presence persists through displacement, erasure, and temporal distance, what can remain after rupture, and what kind of belonging is possible when home does not hold still. Born in Jakarta and raised in the American South, I have lived between geographies, cultures, languages, and spiritual traditions. I understand diaspora less as movement from one home to another than as an ongoing negotiation with inheritance, estrangement, return, and change. These conditions shape how I move through abstraction, partial visibility, restraint, and perceptual delay.

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This attention is entangled with inherited histories. Chinese-Indonesian experiences of erasure and reinvention taught me that disappearance is often lived through silence, self-editing, gaps, and what remains difficult to name rather than through a single event. I think about what persists after rupture, and how remembrance can continue when language breaks, records fracture, or a place of origin can no longer be recovered unchanged. For me, fragility is not weakness but a structure of endurance: a way something vulnerable can continue to carry evidence, relation, and care.

Working across drawing, painting, installation, photographic transfer, sculpture, and video, I use materials that already carry histories of use and transformation: eggshells, carbon accumulated through cooking, ash from joss paper offerings, burned paper, soil from places I have lived, family photographs, gold and silver leaf, and reflective surfaces. I think of many of these as forms of material inheritance. They arrive in the studio already marked by labor, ritual, place, devotion, and time.

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Increasingly, I also think of the works as records of conditions. They register what has passed through a material—heat, pressure, repetition, oxidation, contact, light—without reconstructing the event itself. A burn mark records heat while withholding the flame. A photographic transfer carries an image from one surface to another while revealing what has blurred, broken, or disappeared in the passage. Family photographs appear to provide evidence of a past I recognize as my own, even when I cannot fully remember the moment they contain. I am drawn to the friction between what the body carries, what an image appears to prove, and what remains inaccessible.

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The work is activated by proximity and duration. From a distance, the surfaces may read as quiet fields; up close, they break into residue, seams, pressure marks, perforations, and partial images. Reflections shift with the viewer’s body. Embossed marks emerge and disappear with changing light. Photographic fragments move between recognition and obscurity.

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I think of this as conditional presence: the work is materially there, but access to it changes through light, movement, distance, duration, and attention. Perception becomes part of how the work unfolds. What seems absent may reappear through reflection, shadow, material, or proximity.I understand remembrance in similar terms—not as the recovery of an intact past, but as the practice of remaining in relation to what has changed. What reappears does not return unchanged.