- Hacking The Memory of You: 75 Years After Japanese Occupation
- Centre for Tanah Runcuk Studies: Tropika Selekta II
- Seriality, The Unknown, et cetera
Hacking The Memory of You: 75 Years After Japanese Occupation
Sanata Dharma University, Yogyakarta, Indonesia
Commissioned Work | Researchers: G. Budi Subanar, SJ, Benardi Darumukti, Timoteus Anggawan Kusno
Tujuh puluh lima tahun pendudukan Jepang di Indonesia, terhitung mulai 8 Maret 1942. Hari itu, di Kalijati, Letnan Jendral Ter Poorten mewakili pemerintah Kerajaan Belanda di Hindia Belanda menyerahkan kekuasaan kepada Jepang yang diwakili oleh pimpinan bala tentara Dai Nippon di Indonesia. Hari-hari berikutnya, bala tentara Dai Nippon dan pemerintahan sipil mengambil alih pengaturan hajat hidup rakyat Indonesia di berbagai wilayah Nusantara. Penduduk diperas dan dimobilisir, hasil bumi dikeruk, semuanya untuk mendukung Perang Pasifik. Penderitaan dan kelaparan melanda di mana-mana.
Tropika Selekta II
Tony Albert & Timoteus Anggawan Kusno / Sullivan and Strumpf, Singapore
Where does an artist place himself as a person involved in the rewriting of history? That is the very question which Timoteus Anggawan Kusno (Anggawan) has been grappling with for the past four years, particularly with the project of Centre for Tanah Runcuk Studies, a fictional study centre engineered and developed with a number of researchers, historians, and ethnographers. As an artist, Anggawan’s struggle departs from what I can say about history.
Seriality, The Unknown, et cetera
Arko Art Center, Seoul / Project 7 1/2.
Photo credit: Kiyong Nam | copyright: artists and the project 7 1/2.
Timoteus Anggawan Kusno collects several points of view in the forgotten time of Yang Chil-seong (1919–1949). Many memories of Yang Chil-seong listed by someone are like stories or letters in a novel. It could be a story of Yang Chil-seong, or someone else who might exist.
Sunyoung Oh, Curator
“Forgotten Letter from The Unknown”
In my journey, I had once become one of the skulls crawling until death came. I was a part of the crowd. I was a troupe of the anonymous indigenous, within a body identical to numbers. We were hobbling to meet the death that was inconceivable. The coarse fibers of the damp and thick burlap wrapped out bones and skins gnawed by lice, infested by leeches. I worked to fulfill a dream that was outrageously magnificent for me, the one given by the guests who claimed to be our older brother. The overwhelming hunger and fatigue were the greatest companions of the death that was faithfully waiting. At the same time, I become a louse.