Critical Reflection: On Khairul Ehsani Sapari’s 'Where Your Dreams Come to Die (But, Hey, It’s All About the Journey, Right?)' by Amir Amin

 

Critical Reflection: On Khairul Ehsani Sapari’s 'Where Your Dreams Come to Die (But, Hey, It’s All About the Journey, Right?)'

Reading Khairul Ehsani Sapari’s article, Where Your Dreams Come to Die (But, Hey, It’s All About the Journey, Right?) was like staring at a mirror that didn’t flatter but reflected truths I both knew and tried to ignore. I approach this reflection not as a distant reader, but as an insider—an art practitioner, teacher, and observer of the Malaysian art scene. The article’s biting sarcasm, caustic humor, and bleak yet accurate picture of post-graduation life in the arts resonated deeply. Though at first glance it reads like satire, there is sincerity within the cynicism. This essay attempts to critically reflect on the themes presented, unpack their implications, and consider how they align with my lived experiences and observations in the local art industry.

The Tone of Brutal Honesty (Laced with Humor)

From the opening line, the tone is unapologetically sarcastic. It sets the scene with a false congratulation before yanking the reader into a reality check. The language is humorous, mocking, and steeped in bitterness, yet the message is clear: the journey after art school is far from glamorous. In truth, Sapari's tone is likely a defense mechanism, a performative way to address pain and disillusionment with the system without succumbing to hopelessness. For many of us who graduated with creative degrees - myself included - this tone feels familiar, like the gallows humor we share after a difficult exhibition, or during long, unpaid hours mounting someone else’s show. The laughter is real, but so is the pain.

This rhetorical strategy, using humor to mask harsh truths, makes the essay readable and relatable. It invites recent graduates and young artists to consider their situation without alienating them. Rather than sounding preachy, it adopts the voice of a cynical but caring older sibling in the industry, someone who's seen it all and wants to spare you from repeating the same mistakes.

On Post-Graduate Disillusionment

The line “You’re stepping out into the ‘real’ world, and I hate to break it to you, but the journey from campus hero to real-world zero is about to begin,” hits particularly hard. Many young artists leave art school buoyed by praise from lecturers and peers. They have spent years in a somewhat protected environment where their ideas were nurtured and where they were given the illusion of importance. Upon graduation, however, the reality is sobering.

Sapari exposes a system where graduates quickly discover that degrees do not guarantee jobs, especially in the creative sector. In Malaysia, where the arts are still often seen as secondary to STEM fields, the gap between institutional education and the demands of the working world is massive. As an art teacher myself, I find this deeply concerning. It raises questions about how we prepare students, not just technically, but emotionally and strategically, for what awaits them.

“Exposure” as a Currency

Sapari’s sardonic treatment of “exposure” is one of the most biting critiques in the piece. It is, as he says, “the new currency”, a concept I’ve struggled with personally and professionally. Artists, especially young and emerging ones, are too often expected to trade their labor for visibility. This economy of visibility is exploitative. While exposure can sometimes lead to opportunities, it is more often used as a justification for not paying artists their due.

In my curatorial and art management work, I’ve witnessed this transactional relationship play out countless times. I have also been complicit in it, when operating under tight budgets or institutional constraints. What the article does well is highlight how normalized this practice has become. By mocking it, Sapari exposes the system’s absurdity, one where likes, shares, and tags replace monetary compensation.

Networking > Talent

Perhaps one of the most painful truths in the article is the assertion that “networking is the new talent.” In the idealist vision of art school, we are taught that skill, passion, and originality matter. In the real world, connections often matter more. This is not unique to Malaysia, but it is especially pronounced in a relatively small and close-knit art scene where access to opportunities is often determined by who you know.

This idea challenges the romantic notion of the solitary genius and reinforces the idea that visibility, branding, and positioning are just as crucial as the art itself. It also raises ethical concerns. What happens to talented artists who are introverted or who lack the social capital to navigate this terrain? Are we inadvertently gatekeeping based on personality and privilege rather than ability? As someone involved in curation, I constantly struggle with how to balance the need for inclusivity and quality while navigating these interpersonal networks.

Criticism and the Malaysian Audience

Sapari’s section on criticism is particularly localised and resonant. His anecdote about the kampung kid mocking an abstract painting encapsulates the struggle many Malaysian artists face with audience reception. Abstract, conceptual, or experimental works often meet resistance, confusion, or ridicule, especially outside urban art centers.

This raises important questions about audience education and engagement. How can we cultivate appreciation for diverse forms of expression? How do we bridge the gap between artists and audiences? In my teaching practice, I emphasize critical thinking and art literacy precisely because these skills are necessary for a more engaged and thoughtful public. But institutional efforts remain scattered. Without structured, accessible art education and public programming, misunderstanding and misrepresentation of art will persist.

Success and Its Shifting Goalposts

Another reality check offered in the article is the discussion around success. Sapari frames success as subjective and rare, which is both sobering and truthful. The examples he lists, being featured in group exhibitions, becoming a finalist in competitions, may seem modest, but they reflect the real benchmarks of progress for most Malaysian artists.

Success is not a straight line, nor is it glamorous. It often comes piecemeal, over years, and interspersed with failure. This is something I wish more students were prepared for. In a culture obsessed with instant results and viral fame, the slow burn of artistic growth can feel disheartening. But this is also where real development happens, where an artist refines not just their technique, but their philosophy, discipline, and worldview.

The Unkillable Urge to Create

The article closes with a powerful reminder to “keep creating.” Despite the cynicism, Sapari reaffirms the value of artistic practice as a form of survival, resistance, and fulfillment. In a world that often undermines creative labor, continuing to create becomes a radical act. I found this part surprisingly tender and encouraging.

In my own life, the act of creating, whether it’s a painting, a classroom project, or an exhibition, is what keeps me grounded. It reminds me why I chose this path despite the instability, the criticism, and the endless logistical nightmares. Like Sapari, I believe that if you can keep creating through it all, you’ve already succeeded.

Contradictions and Self-Awareness

The final line in the article is a tongue-in-cheek acknowledgment of the writer’s own contradictions: “P.S. For those who read my previous article, yes, this one may look contradictory, but eh, give me a break.” This self-awareness is refreshing. It acknowledges the multiplicity of truths in the art world. Sometimes, we must be hopeful; at other times, we need to vent. This duality reflects the artist's inner conflict: wanting to believe in the transformative power of art while being painfully aware of the industry's flaws.

As someone who wears many hats in the art ecosystem, educator, artist, curator, I’ve also written and spoken from both optimistic and critical perspectives. They’re not mutually exclusive. In fact, this tension is necessary. It pushes us to reflect, to question, and ultimately, to evolve.

Reflections on My Own Practice

Sapari’s article made me reflect deeply on my own journey and responsibilities. As a teacher, how do I prepare students for a world that is so unkind? Do I romanticize the struggle or equip them with the tools to navigate it realistically? As a curator and art manager, am I complicit in systems that exploit under the guise of exposure? As an artist, how do I stay true to my voice while surviving in a competitive and often elitist space?

One thing is clear: the need for critical conversations like the one sparked by this article is urgent. We need more honesty in our dialogues, more transparency in our institutions, and more support for young creatives. Rather than sheltering them from harsh truths, we should engage them with empathy and strategy.

Conclusion: Between Brutality and Beauty

Khairul Ehsani Sapari’s Where Your Dreams Come to Die is a scathing but necessary critique of the post-graduation realities faced by art students. It unmasks the contradictions, the inequities, and the emotional toll of pursuing a life in the arts. But beneath the sarcasm lies a call to action, a plea for resilience, for community, and for continued creation.

For those of us already in the field, the article serves as a reminder of our complicity and our capacity to effect change. For the next generation of artists, it offers a glimpse of the road ahead, uneven, unpredictable, but not impossible.

If we can meet cynicism with clarity, and hardship with solidarity, perhaps the journey won’t just be about survival. Perhaps it can also be about meaning, about making, and about daring to dream, despite it all.