Screenshot of For We Have Far Too Many Ghosts in Our Histories, written by Zikri Rahman for the Di Bawah Langit Yang Sama exhibition.
When people talk about the art ecosystem, the conversation almost always returns to the artist.
Which makes sense.
The artist makes the work.
The curator builds the exhibition.
The gallery presents it.
The collector acquires it.
These are the figures we see most often.
But there is another role that sits quietly within the ecosystem.
One that rarely appears in exhibition photographs.
Rarely stands in front of the audience.
Rarely receives the same level of attention.
The art writer.
When an exhibition text helps us understand a work, we rarely stop to think about who wrote it.
When an essay introduces us to an artist, we remember the artist.
When we learn about an art movement, we remember the movement.
The writer often disappears behind the words.
Yet without them, much of what we know about art would not exist.
Because an art writer is not simply someone who writes.
An art writer can be an art critic.
A curator writing an exhibition essay.
An academic researching art history.
A journalist documenting cultural developments.
Sometimes the boundaries overlap. Especially in Malaysia, where curators often write and writers sometimes curate.
But regardless of the title, the role remains relatively similar.
To observe.
To interpret.
To provide language for something that often exists beyond language.
Because art does not always explain itself.
Artists often work through intuition, material, memory, emotion, texture, or experience. Sometimes these ideas are immediately accessible. Sometimes they are not.
An artwork can communicate visually without saying a single word.
But not everyone arrives with the same visual vocabulary.
And that is where writing becomes important.
Not because writing tells people what to think.
But because writing provides pathways into the work.
Imagine walking into an exhibition with no wall text.
No exhibition essay.
No artist statement.
No catalogue.
The artworks would still be there.
But the conversation around them would become much quieter.
Writing does not replace the artwork.
It helps us enter it.
If the art ecosystem were a film production, perhaps the artists are the actors.
The curators are the directors.
The galleries are the producers.
And the art writers are the scriptwriters.
Not because they determine the ending.
But because they help construct the language that allows people to engage with what they are seeing.
In many ways, art writers become translators.
But they are also historians.
Archivists.
Storytellers.
Sometimes even caretakers of memory.
Because when an exhibition closes, the writing remains.
When an artwork enters a private collection, the writing remains.
When an artist passes away, the writing remains.
Much of what we know about Malaysian art today exists because somebody took the time to write it down.
Which brings us to another question.
If art writing is so important, why does it often feel like there are so few art writers?
Or perhaps more specifically:
Where are the younger ones?
Malaysia is not lacking in important voices.
The late Reza Piyadasa.
T.K. Sabapathy.
Dr Zakaria Ali.
Dr Muliyadi Mahamood.
Ooi Kok Chuen.
Sarah NH Vogeler.
Badrolhisham Tahir.
Hasnul J Saidon.
Naser Baharuddin.
Beverly Yong.
Rachel Ng.
Dr Sarena Abdullah.
Yap Sau Bin.
Nur Hanim Khairuddin.
Simon Soon.
And many others.
These writers have contributed significantly to how Malaysian art is discussed, documented and understood.
But when we look at the younger generation, the pipeline feels much smaller.
Azzad Diah.
Intan Rafiza.
Sharmin Parameswaran.
Zena Khan.
Later, HOM Art Trans opened more space for writing.
Eventually, writing became part of my own practice through the ARTO Movement.
But not everyone receives those opportunities.
Many galleries naturally approach established writers.
Which is understandable.
They want experience.
They want reliability.
They want names that are already recognised.
But this also creates a difficult situation. A paradox.
How does a young writer gain experience if nobody is willing to give them the space to begin?
And perhaps this is where art portals, independent platforms and alternative publications become important.
SeniMalaya.
KolumpoArt.
Eksentrika.
ARTO Movement.
And many others.
These spaces become places where younger writers can experiment, make mistakes, develop a voice and slowly build confidence.
Because writing, like art itself, improves through practice.
No one begins as an established writer.
Everyone starts somewhere.
And perhaps this matters more than we realise.
Because art history is not written automatically.
It only exists because somebody chooses to document it.
To record it.
To question it.
To revisit it years later.
Without writers, exhibitions become memories.
Without writers, conversations disappear.
Without writers, entire generations of artists risk becoming footnotes.
So perhaps the question is not whether art writers are important.
Perhaps the question is whether we are doing enough to support the next generation of them.
Because artists make art.
But writers make sure that art continues to live beyond the exhibition itself.
And in a country where so much of our cultural history remains under-documented, that role feels more important than ever.
Which makes sense.
The artist makes the work.
The curator builds the exhibition.
The gallery presents it.
The collector acquires it.
These are the figures we see most often.
But there is another role that sits quietly within the ecosystem.
One that rarely appears in exhibition photographs.
Rarely stands in front of the audience.
Rarely receives the same level of attention.
The art writer.
When an exhibition text helps us understand a work, we rarely stop to think about who wrote it.
When an essay introduces us to an artist, we remember the artist.
When we learn about an art movement, we remember the movement.
The writer often disappears behind the words.
Yet without them, much of what we know about art would not exist.
Because an art writer is not simply someone who writes.
An art writer can be an art critic.
A curator writing an exhibition essay.
An academic researching art history.
A journalist documenting cultural developments.
Sometimes the boundaries overlap. Especially in Malaysia, where curators often write and writers sometimes curate.
But regardless of the title, the role remains relatively similar.
To observe.
To interpret.
To provide language for something that often exists beyond language.
Because art does not always explain itself.
Artists often work through intuition, material, memory, emotion, texture, or experience. Sometimes these ideas are immediately accessible. Sometimes they are not.
An artwork can communicate visually without saying a single word.
But not everyone arrives with the same visual vocabulary.
And that is where writing becomes important.
Not because writing tells people what to think.
But because writing provides pathways into the work.
Imagine walking into an exhibition with no wall text.
No exhibition essay.
No artist statement.
No catalogue.
The artworks would still be there.
But the conversation around them would become much quieter.
Writing does not replace the artwork.
It helps us enter it.
If the art ecosystem were a film production, perhaps the artists are the actors.
The curators are the directors.
The galleries are the producers.
And the art writers are the scriptwriters.
Not because they determine the ending.
But because they help construct the language that allows people to engage with what they are seeing.
In many ways, art writers become translators.
But they are also historians.
Archivists.
Storytellers.
Sometimes even caretakers of memory.
Because when an exhibition closes, the writing remains.
When an artwork enters a private collection, the writing remains.
When an artist passes away, the writing remains.
Much of what we know about Malaysian art today exists because somebody took the time to write it down.
Which brings us to another question.
If art writing is so important, why does it often feel like there are so few art writers?
Or perhaps more specifically:
Where are the younger ones?
Malaysia is not lacking in important voices.
The late Reza Piyadasa.
T.K. Sabapathy.
Dr Zakaria Ali.
Dr Muliyadi Mahamood.
Ooi Kok Chuen.
Sarah NH Vogeler.
Badrolhisham Tahir.
Hasnul J Saidon.
Naser Baharuddin.
Beverly Yong.
Rachel Ng.
Dr Sarena Abdullah.
Yap Sau Bin.
Nur Hanim Khairuddin.
Simon Soon.
And many others.
These writers have contributed significantly to how Malaysian art is discussed, documented and understood.
But when we look at the younger generation, the pipeline feels much smaller.
Azzad Diah.
Intan Rafiza.
Sharmin Parameswaran.
Zena Khan.
Sarah Abu Bakar.
Nazrul Hamzah.
Elizabeth Low.
Alif Haiqal Musa.
And maybe a few more.
Which raises another question.
If art writing is becoming increasingly important and if Malaysia continues producing graduates in related fields, where are the younger art writers?
This is where universities should shine.
Universiti Teknologi MARA (UiTM), Universiti Malaya (UM), Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM), Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris (UPSI) and Universiti Malaysia Sarawak (UNIMAS) are among the institutions offering programmes closely related to art history, visual culture, museum studies and cultural management.
Many of these programmes teach writing, research, criticism and the historical frameworks necessary to engage with art professionally. Some even list art writer, critic and curator as potential career pathways after graduation.
So the issue does not seem to be a complete absence of training.
The question becomes:
Where are they?
Where are the graduates who were taught to write about art?
Where are the young critics?
The next generation of writers who will document what is happening in the Malaysian art scene today?
And perhaps the answer is not as simple as a lack of interest.
Maybe it is a question of sustainability.
Because writing is difficult work.
It takes time.
Research.
Reading.
Observation.
Revision.
And unlike many other roles within the ecosystem, the pathways for young writers are not always clear.
When I first started writing, I was fortunate.
I was given opportunities.
Galeri Chandan gave me the opportunity to curate and write for Platform 2.
Nazrul Hamzah.
Elizabeth Low.
Alif Haiqal Musa.
And maybe a few more.
Which raises another question.
If art writing is becoming increasingly important and if Malaysia continues producing graduates in related fields, where are the younger art writers?
This is where universities should shine.
Universiti Teknologi MARA (UiTM), Universiti Malaya (UM), Universiti Sains Malaysia (USM), Universiti Pendidikan Sultan Idris (UPSI) and Universiti Malaysia Sarawak (UNIMAS) are among the institutions offering programmes closely related to art history, visual culture, museum studies and cultural management.
Many of these programmes teach writing, research, criticism and the historical frameworks necessary to engage with art professionally. Some even list art writer, critic and curator as potential career pathways after graduation.
So the issue does not seem to be a complete absence of training.
The question becomes:
Where are they?
Where are the graduates who were taught to write about art?
Where are the young critics?
The next generation of writers who will document what is happening in the Malaysian art scene today?
And perhaps the answer is not as simple as a lack of interest.
Maybe it is a question of sustainability.
Because writing is difficult work.
It takes time.
Research.
Reading.
Observation.
Revision.
And unlike many other roles within the ecosystem, the pathways for young writers are not always clear.
When I first started writing, I was fortunate.
I was given opportunities.
Galeri Chandan gave me the opportunity to curate and write for Platform 2.
Platform 2 was the first exhibition that the writer both curated and wrote for.
Eventually, writing became part of my own practice through the ARTO Movement.
But not everyone receives those opportunities.
Many galleries naturally approach established writers.
Which is understandable.
They want experience.
They want reliability.
They want names that are already recognised.
But this also creates a difficult situation. A paradox.
How does a young writer gain experience if nobody is willing to give them the space to begin?
And perhaps this is where art portals, independent platforms and alternative publications become important.
SeniMalaya.
KolumpoArt.
Eksentrika.
ARTO Movement.
And many others.
Source: KolumpoArt (screenshot).
These spaces become places where younger writers can experiment, make mistakes, develop a voice and slowly build confidence.
Because writing, like art itself, improves through practice.
No one begins as an established writer.
Everyone starts somewhere.
And perhaps this matters more than we realise.
Because art history is not written automatically.
It only exists because somebody chooses to document it.
To record it.
To question it.
To revisit it years later.
Without writers, exhibitions become memories.
Without writers, conversations disappear.
Without writers, entire generations of artists risk becoming footnotes.
So perhaps the question is not whether art writers are important.
Perhaps the question is whether we are doing enough to support the next generation of them.
Because artists make art.
But writers make sure that art continues to live beyond the exhibition itself.
And in a country where so much of our cultural history remains under-documented, that role feels more important than ever.
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