“Aku bawak idea dan concept, tetapi pulau tu yg tentukan final form.”
Khairul Ehsani Sapari started his Bakat Muda Sezaman 29th Edition (BMS29) journey in Langkawi a few months ago.
He came with an idea and a concept. Yet somewhere along the process, the island itself decided what the final form would become.
He arrived with a proposal.
He left Langkawi with something else.
I have known Khairul or Kerol, as I call him since 2014. A 12-year friendship at this point. Over the years, one thing I’ve realised about him is that he is extremely determined. Once he locks onto something, he commits to it fully. Sometimes almost obsessively.
He mentioned participating in this year’s Bakat Muda Sezaman quite early on. In fact, he even asked me to join as well, but unfortunately I could not commit to it at the time.
That did not stop him.
Especially after one of our close friends, fellow Bukan Seni-Man, Nazrul Hamzah or Budek won Bakat Muda Sezaman 2023. Kerol was part of that same edition and I think seeing that win ignited something in him. Not in a competitive sense, but more like a reminder that participating in BMS still means something for younger artists. It is still one of the few platforms in Malaysia where artists can really push themselves conceptually, physically, and mentally.
Originally, Kerol’s proposal revolved around the idea of invisible labour, particularly surrounding fishermen and communities whose work often goes unnoticed. On paper, it sounded relatively straightforward. A socially engaged project centred around labour, visibility, and overlooked communities.
But then something shifted.
Months earlier during a workshop, someone had reminded him of something uncomfortable but important:
“Artis ni nature dia agak invasive dan suka mengambil kesempatan.”
That sentence stayed with him.
Because suddenly the question was no longer:
“How do I make a work about fishermen?”
But rather:
“What does it mean for me to enter someone else’s space, tell their story, and then potentially benefit from it?”
That self-awareness fundamentally changed the direction of the work.
Instead of arriving at Pulau Tuba determined to execute a fixed proposal, Kerol slowed down. He spent time on the island during Ramadan. He met people. Interviewed residents. Observed the rhythms of the place itself.
And slowly, the work evolved.
The project shifted away from invisible labour alone and moved toward something broader, community invisibility.
Pulau Tuba is one of the most populated islands after the main Langkawi island, yet very few people outside of Langkawi even know it exists. Through conversations with locals, Kerol discovered a community that wanted visibility and economic opportunities, but without becoming another Pantai Cenang. They wanted people to come, interact, and support the local economy, but not at the cost of losing the identity of the island itself.
That tension became embedded within the work.
More importantly, Pulau Tuba itself began shaping the artwork.
This is where the project becomes interesting to me.
Kerol described the process as “co-creation.” He brought the idea and concept, but the island determined the final form. The weather, the labour, the materials, even the island itself started shaping the work.
The original proposal involved constructing large sand-and-clay blocks reaching almost five feet high. Eventually, the scale was reduced. Not because the idea became weaker, but because the realities of the site demanded negotiation.
And honestly, I think that negotiation... is the work.
The materials themselves came directly from the island: beach sand, clay, seawater. Pulau Tuba was not simply represented symbolically, it physically existed within the sculpture itself. Over time, the work would slowly erode and return back to the island.
Only traces would remain.
Among the strongest elements in the piece are the handprints collected from members of the community and pressed onto the upper blocks. Kerol described them as “tanda” (marks) of presence and identity left behind by the people of Pulau Tuba.
But even these marks are temporary.
The weather and natural elements slowly erode the handprints away. Their disappearance becomes part of the work itself. Almost like what happens when communities are ignored for too long.
Even the placement of the work at the jetty feels significant. The jetty acts as a communal threshold. A point of arrival and departure. A space where the island meets outsiders. Interestingly, the exact location was suggested by workers at the jetty themselves, further reinforcing the collaborative nature of the project.
When I talked with Kerol, he said that visually the work does look a lot like Mono-ha, but not quite. It does have traces of wabi-sabi and mono no aware, but not fully. Tanda | Imprint sits somewhere in between.
It has elements of Mono-ha through the use of raw, natural materials which in this case, sand and the surrounding environment itself. The element of wabi-sabi can be seen in the earthy nature of the material; the humble sand. The pyramid made of sand is not meant to be a permanent monument. Then there is mono no aware, the element of time, and the bittersweet realisation that the work will not last long. That slow disappearance captures it quite beautifully.
So when Kerol said it is not quite all three, I guess it is a yes and no.
And perhaps that is what makes the project resonate.
Many artists speak about site-specificity as though it simply means placing a work within a location. But Kerol’s project suggests something else entirely, that a place can interrupt, negotiate, and reshape an artwork completely.
The work did not merely happen at Pulau Tuba.
Pulau Tuba happened to the work.
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