New media art has been present in Malaysia’s art scene for some time, yet it remains contentious, particularly among those accustomed to traditional fine arts such as painting, sculpture, and mixed media. Although Malaysia has produced multimedia graduates since the launch of the Multimedia Super Corridor (MSC) under Tun Dr Mahathir in 1996, new media art is frequently misunderstood and regarded as distinct from mainstream art. As a former multimedia design student, I was introduced to new media art, but it was only during my research period that I observed a strong preference for traditional art forms in Malaysian art circles. Conversations with curators and art collectors in the past highlighted this divide, as some dismissed new media art as merely design.
As a result, new media art has often remained in independent spaces, reinforcing the view that only traditional forms hold cultural significance. However, major changes over the last decade have elevated new media art within institutions. The 2020 pandemic accelerated the adoption of technology, leading art institutions to embrace new media and immersive art. This shift shows how technology is reshaping cultural boundaries and redefining mainstream art.
Therefore, Menggodam at Ilham Gallery examines hacking and disruption as integral aspects of cultural transformation in the 21st century. ‘Menggodam,’ which means hacking in Malay, frames the exhibition’s exploration of rapid innovation, material reuse, open-source concepts, and globalisation. By highlighting how technology affect our lives especially in art making, it blurs the categorisation between traditional art forms and newer art forms.
To illustrate these ideas, the following artworks exemplify the exhibition’s central themes of hacking and disruption.
Open Source <Plant Your Own Tree> by Haris Abadi
When I first saw this artwork, its structure was clearly symmetrical, featuring IKEA products arranged as mirror images of each other on both sides.
This piece reminded me of the IKEA Hackers fansite, where individuals share customizations of IKEA furniture to fit their living spaces. IKEA is recognized for its flat-packed furniture, which customers assemble themselves to reduce costs. Over time, users have modified and improved these products to suit their needs, occasionally combining components for enhanced functionality. IKEA showrooms also allow people to experience products in simulated home environments.
Open Source <Plant Your Own Tree> by Haris Abadi
Instead of creating something to address the issue of living space, the artist uses the Pohon Beringin (Tree of Life) symbol in Wayang Kulit. This piece was constructed with various IKEA products. Next to the artwork were assembly instructions similar to those from IKEA. The title ‘PÖHÖN’ on the front page appears to follow the Swedish way of naming products. The appropriated assembly instructions show viewers how they can recreate the symbol at home using the same products. While the Pohon Beringin was traditionally crafted from local materials like cowhide, bamboo, and string, PÖHÖN is now adapted by using mass-produced IKEA products that are available globally. This choice emphasises both the global reach of cultural icons and the adaptability of tradition using new materials, highlighting how tradition can transform through accessibility and reinterpretation.
The IKEA looking assembly instructions to create PÖHÖN.
59:59 by Corinne de San Jose
I saw many transistor radios hanging with cables on the floor, with the sounds of crickets. Hearing this exhibit caused dissonance, especially when I closed my eyes. The sounds of the crickets were so real, as if I were in nature, even though the exhibit is in the city.
I researched the history of transistor radios because I was not familiar with their mechanics. Transistor radios, developed in the 1950s, enabled portable listening and access to news and music through compact, amplified sound technology.
With the advent of mobile phones, the portable radio became integrated as one of the device’s many functions. The messiness of the cables on the floor reminds me of a time when technology was predominantly wired rather than wireless.
I found it notable that the artist sourced these radios, recorded high-quality cricket sounds, and created a portable installation. This approach is common in contemporary art, where artists design works that can be exhibited in various locations. Currently, the piece brings nature sounds into the urban environment, but in the future, it could adapt to different contexts and spaces.
59:59 by Corinne de San Jose
Second Lives (…and all that Jazz, Pacing, Pondering, Fishing Cup, … life is but a Dream, Double Dippin) by Yang Jie
Yang Jie’s kinetic art repurposes old cups commonly found in Chinese coffee shops. The objects repurposed with visible repairs using kintsugi (golden joinery for broken ceramics) and yobitsugi (patching with fragments from different objects).
Moving tea cup
Soup spoon and tea cup
Cup of tea
Cup of Boh tea
Although these repurposed objects appear nonfunctional, their movement mimics human interaction with cups. For example, one exhibit instructs viewers to blow on a cup sensor, making it move—a nod to blowing on hot drinks like coffee and tea to cool them. Another piece features a tea bag moving up and down, mimicking the brewing process. There is another exhibit with the soup spoon moving in a circle, as if mimicking a sideways stirring action. Hence, these kinetic movements reference the past by echoing the actions they represent.
The snippets of video to show the kinetic motion of each exhibit from Second Lives.
Negaraku by Fendi Mazlan
Negaraku was produced with a 3D printer. Normally, a 3D printer melt plastic filament (or other materials) and build models layer by layer based on the digital design file. I used YouTube to find out what a 3D printer sounds like. It’s mechanical, and the sound changes based on the design input, creating layers from the bottom up and eventually finishing at the top.
For Negaraku, there was no printing of a 3D object. Instead, it plays Negaraku, the Malaysian national anthem in a loop. As I compared the sound of this 3D printer playing Negaraku with other 3D printer sounds on YouTube, the one playing Negaraku sounded less mechanical.
I was curious about the artist’s approach. If a 3D printer traditionally produces objects from digital files, how does it program the 3D printer to play music without the process of creating a 3D object?
A 3D printer that ‘prints’ out Negaraku, the Malaysian national anthem. Do ignore the ‘ting’ sound in the background, as it is from Yang Jie’s work.
Conclusion
At first, I wondered how these could reignite some of my previous multimedia knowledge. Reviewing this exhibition reminds me of an identity I once had. I had to forgo researching new media art at that time because my supervisors were more well-versed in traditional art. Subsequently, I hid that part of me because I just wanted to pass my research.
Hence, writing about this exhibition was challenging because I had to revise my understanding of certain technologies, such as transistor radios and 3D printers. Analysing artworks from Menggodam requires understanding the objects and their original function before understanding how these functions can be hacked and modified, just as separating spirituality from art removes its inherent meaning.
From the exhibits I observed at Menggodam, a key pattern emerged: each artwork once served a practical function, but is now reimagined to deliver a new message about art’s ability to evolve. This demonstrates that new media art challenges traditions by repurposing the familiar and inviting reinterpretation, asserting that anything created by humans can be adapted to gain new significance.
I am encouraged to see new media art gaining greater recognition in Malaysia and hope to see more of this in the future as technology continue evolving in our lives.
