




A reflection on the Indonesian durational artist’s career and practice
Cover image courtesy of the artist.
The following article is extracted from an archival report of da:ns lab 2018, written from the perspectives of participants Chloe Chotrani and Chan Sze-Wei. It includes excerpts from the artists' lectures and Q&A sessions with the da:ns lab participants.
– Melati Suryodarmo
Melati shares this thought before she introduces herself, and goes on to talk about the periodical timeframe of her life and artistic practice.
Born in Solo, Indonesia. Parents both are dance artists, growing up in an environment of struggling local artists.
Studied International Politics in Bandung, Indonesia. Heavily involved in political activism, demonstrating on the streets against the regime, participated in dangerous underground movements.
Moved to Germany without any plans, wanted to study politics, but ended up in the arts by meeting Butoh master Anza Furukawa, who taught her performance art. Which led to her studies in Hochschule fuer Bildende Kuenste, Braunschweig, Germany; having had the chance to be a student of the pioneer performance artist, Marina Abramovic.
During her studies in Germany, Melati faced culture shock, particularly around nudity. In Indonesia, nudity was forbidden. She explored sexuality and eroticism, watching films that would never have existed in Indonesia. The question then became: how to continue making work rooted in her cultural context within Berlin's Western, liberalised landscape?
A latent sense of discrimination and otherness was always present. For Melati, this prompted a clear statement: "No, I am not representing Indonesia—this cultural identity is a burden, actually." Having been brought up in Indonesia with the expectation to always "represent" her cultural identity, she became critical of national strategies that exoticise culture, values used only to please and cater to the other.
With this came a reckoning with Indonesia's 350 years of colonial history under the Dutch, and the memory of ancestors once perceived as lesser humans. The appropriation of culture that persists in post-colonial society raises difficult questions: how do we present ourselves? How do we present our culture in a global context? And within that—how do we culturally perceive women?
Melati shares: "I think that I am independent of all of this. What if I don't belong to all of this? The substance of nothingness is very important to me—it is not empty."
"My work is very simple. It is how I experience life, without exposing the experience itself."
"Nothingness can appear from near-death experiences. Nothingness is the experience of birthing my daughter. Nothingness is when I divorced, leaving my abusive husband. Nothingness is also when you don't have money, when you have nothing to eat, only your body.
I am very close to myself. I am close to my breath, because my breath gives me my life.
My work is very simple. It is how I experience life, without exposing the experience itself. As people in society, sometimes we don't want to expose our private experiences. I try to find the language in my performance, to avoid a narration. I'd rather learn a more poetic approach, to leave my body in time and space."
Melati learned performance art through butoh, the traditional Japanese form—an art that is deeply internal but also political. Butoh practitioners do not call it dance. It is a way of understanding one's inner world, a visual form of meditation. Butoh emerged during World War II as a critique of Western culture, and it led Melati to ask: what can I criticise about my own Indonesian culture?
"Butoh is a visual form of meditation. Butoh inspired me to understand how the body becomes political."
Realising there was much she disagreed with, she made a list—spanning domesticity to freedom of speech—of everything she took issue with in Indonesian culture. She also looked closely at life in Germany in the 1990s. Even there, particularly in conservative villages, women's domestic lives were often constrained. Mothers waiting to collect their children from school were, in some ways, worse off than women in Indonesia.
Working with butoh master Anzu Furukawa, and later with Marina Abramović, Melati was shaped by two strong female figures who influenced how she thought about women as artists and, inevitably, about gender equality. Feminism was present indirectly but powerfully—in questions about society's attitude towards women and the place of female artists, and these informed her work.
As a student of Marina's, Melati insisted on bringing her daughter to class. Marina was known for believing that one had to choose between family and a career as an artist. Melati—along with a fellow student who also had a child—brought her baby to class, saying: "I will bring my baby to class, because I have no money for a babysitter." Marina agreed, on the condition that the baby did not disrupt the class. Other professors followed, allowing Melati to bring her baby to school. She was the first to do so, and others followed her lead. During some of Melati's performances, Marina herself looked after the baby.
This work was made just after Melati gave birth. Since arriving in Germany in 1994, she had spent every weekend at flea markets collecting cheap clothing—obsessively trying to be accepted into society and find an identity. The result was 300 pieces of clothing, used as a symbolic act of constructing and destroying a life.
In this one-hour performance, she begins by folding all the clothes, then slowly puts on each piece one by one. The layers build until she is overcome by a sense of claustrophobia and pressure, until she literally cannot move anymore.
How do we use the body at its most minimal? Melati reduced her ideas down to a single act: dancing on butter. Fear was the motivation. She was questioning her own existence and where to go next.
The economic climate in Europe was difficult at the time. Marina had challenged her students to create a work using only 10 euros. It was not just about money, but about confronting economic precarity head on. As a performance artist working with the body, rather than lamenting the lack of budget for production or choreography, the point was clear: "You have your body." And it should be enough.
“Why was I so worried to express myself in this outfit in Germany?"
The actions in the piece symbolise a transgression against prejudice towards Asian women married to German men, and towards Taiwanese, Filipino and Asian women more broadly. “I do respect women who have the courage to change, no matter what.”
The 20-minute soundtrack is from Makassar in South Sulawesi—a ceremonial piece played continuously for seven days, hosted by a transgender shaman.
“The aim of making this work is to get up. You can fail, but you do it anyway. You seldom expose how to get up when you fail.”
The piece was performed 21 times across different cultural contexts. Men would laugh; women took it seriously.
This piece brought together traditional and contemporary performance. It was inspired by the Tarang Kepang from East Java—a ritual created by shaman artists using a woven bamboo horse as an object of protest against the king who controlled society at the time.
The performance incorporated elements of trance, torture, anecdote, and demonic symbolism. Melati took this messy ritual and distilled it into three clean actions: submerging her head in a bucket of water, repeatedly cracking a whip, and walking the horse around the stage. Simplicity and repetition. The sound of the whip ruptured the atmosphere, so she took the time to learn how to use a large leather Western whip, which produced a more powerful crack.
Traditionally, this dance is performed by men. Melati's choice to wear a dress and high heels was a deliberate act of protest—a statement that after hundreds of years, this tradition had changed only insofar as it now featured women dancing prettily on the horse for tourists.
Chloe Chotrani: Did you do fieldwork to study the shamans' dance?
Melati: No, I grew up around these trance rituals, observing them as a child. In the 1970s, I would witness people in trance eating glass bulbs; sometimes men were whipped. They wore large masks with peacock feathers and performed trance dances. This carried on as I grew up, and left big questions that stayed with me for 30 years. It was frightening to see people bleeding, and because children were small, they were placed at the front. If I had never left Indonesia, I wouldn't have found it shocking. It changed my perspective on children, culture, and education. Only recently did I think to myself—that was actually scary.
“Art is my spiritual process.”
The nature of performance art is that you commit to a repetitive action over a sustained period. Melati prepares her body and her work by constructing her thoughts around offering the work to the public. “As soon as my work is shown to the public, I don't own it. I reserve all obsessiveness of being seen, of understanding, of meaning, of all inner obsession. With this, art is also my spiritual process. To share your work with the public is not to control their minds. Let people interpret with their own mind and feeling.”
At the core of Melati's daily practice is meditation—not simply as a seated exercise, but as a way of experiencing life as it unfolds. Daily practice, for her, is about how one deals with life: the lives of those around you, and the shifting constellations of relationships and events.
"Performance art for me is the art of doing."
Her research is not necessarily scientific. It can arise from a surprising life event, from irrationality, from seeing news of fundamentalists using children as suicide bombers, from watching people throw rubbish into the river beside her studio, from witnessing nature destroyed to make way for housing, from experiencing change itself.
Feminism, for Melati, is not about making explicitly feminist work, nor about depicting women's suffering on stage. It is about how you live. Today, feminism is not about yelling for rights—it is about action that can enter many spaces, and the spaces in between are just as important. Performance art itself occupies an in-between space: it is neither performing arts nor fine art.
"The jokes that objectify women and female dancers in the public media—this must be fought with, collectively."
Melati is deeply aware of the misuse, objectification, and harassment of dancers—particularly in her hometown of Solo, Indonesia—at the hands of male directors and choreographers. She sees this as something that must be challenged.
The arts environment remains male-dominated. Platform matters, especially cross-cultural exchange and exposure to varied practices and movements. The questions she puts to fellow artists are direct: Do we know what we are fighting for? Are we capable?
"Using an element of life to make art is a present for our collective spirits."
Even when gender is not the explicit subject, it shapes everything. The body carries statement. The question for artists who work with the body is: where and when do we place that statement? And how can we learn together?
Melati is keen to return to dance and engage more with her community in Solo, with a growing interest in examining how the body functions across different mediums.
Susan Sentler: The 1950s approach of visual artists appropriating dance and dance labour is problematic.
Melati: There is more awareness in the West that artists who contribute labour in the collaboration process should be acknowledged. In Solo, you don't talk about collaborators. Even choreographers forget to mention dancers and musicians. It's all about me, me, me. A lot of things need step-by-step improvement: a minimum wage, a monthly standard. There are some attempts at more open administration in Indonesia.
“My understanding of collaboration with dancers is to borrow someone's body.”
Sonia Kwek: How did you decide to shift to working with dancers in pieces such as Sisyphus?
Melati: Since 2011, I have also borrowed dancers' bodies to realise my thoughts. I have been thinking about how to combine the practice of performance art with dancers' bodies. There is some translation between what choreography is and the concept of performance art. For Sisyphus, we examined the act of possession. I did research with shamans, dancing with spirits. With the dancers, we examined whether the spirit was truly inside the body, or whether it was our own spirit allowing us to be freer within our body. I also wanted to know whether we remember the movements made during trance or possession. Traditional dance respects the body deeply because dance is not a show—it is part of a ritual. Court dance is more objectifying.
The informality, laughter, and open discussion between participants and Melati made the lecture-performance both accessible and enjoyable. Having someone from this region speak to her place within performance art from a Southeast Asian context was especially valuable.
Her presence in da:ns lab offered a rooted, local perspective—one that allowed us to both relate to and learn from her strategies, and to think critically about our own cultural placement: how our conditions are formed, and how they might surface in our artistic practice.
There was a beautiful parallel moment when Melati took care of Sze-Wei's baby, who had joined us for much of da:ns lab. It felt like a reflection of growth and change in the arts industry—of how motherhood and an artistic career can now coexist. The baby's presence echoed through the room for all the women there, affirming that this life is possible. We can make art and have children—at the same time, if we choose.