Counter-Monuments: Art and Memory in Post-1965 Indonesia

=== [PDF page 1] === COUNTER-MONUMENTS: ART AND MEMORY IN POST-1965 INDONESIA ALYX L. BONTRAGER (Under the Direction of Bram Tucker) ABSTRACT This thesis examines how contemporary Indonesian artists engage in memory activism in response to the silencing of the 1965-66 anti-communist genocide. Despite the collapse of Suharto’s New Order regime, state-sanctioned narratives that erase the realities of the violence and its continued impacts on daily life from official history persevere. This study asks how Indonesian artists mobilize memory in their activist artworks that address 1965-66 and the thematic strategies they employ in doing so. Drawing on memory studies, visual culture studies, and anthropology of knowledge, this thesis employs qualitative thematic analysis of artworks and accompanying texts by three artists (Rangga Purbaya, Dadang Christanto, and Leyla Stevens), concluding that Indonesian artists mobilize testimony, embodiment, and place as strategies of memory activism. Using the concept of the “counter-monument,” this thesis expands on models of memory activism and monumentalization and demonstrates the political force of visual art in contexts of repression. INDEX WORDS: 1965-66 Indonesian genocide, memory activism, counter-memory, political art, Indonesian contemporary art, counter-monument === [PDF page 2] === COUNTER-MONUMENTS: ART AND MEMORY IN POST-1965 INDONESIA ALYX L. BONTRAGER Bachelor of Arts, University of Georgia, 2024 A Thesis Submitted to the Graduate Faculty of The University of Georgia in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements for the Degree MASTER OF ARTS ATHENS, GEORGIA 2026 === [PDF page 3] === © 2026 Alyx L. Bontrager All Rights Reserved === [PDF page 4] === COUNTER-MONUMENTS: ART AND MEMORY IN POST-1965 INDONESIA ALYX L. BONTRAGER Major Professor: Committee: Bram Tucker Laura German Don Nelson Electronic Version Approved: Ron Walcott Vice Provost for Graduate Education and Dean of the Graduate School The University of Georgia May 2026 === [PDF page 5] === ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS I would like to thank Dr. Bram Tucker for his continuous mentorship and guidance, not just during the process of this thesis, but during the entirety of my academic career. I also thank Dr. Pete Brosius for his guidance in the early stages of this project. This project could not exist without his initial support. I thank Dr. Laura German for her constructive critiques, encouragement, and influence on theoretical direction. Her work has undoubtedly inspired mine, and I hope to emulate her career in the future. I also thank Dr. Don Nelson for his careful feedback, support, and added perspective. Finally, I extend my deepest gratitude to my friends, family, and loved ones for their patience and unwavering support throughout this process. === [PDF page 6] === AI DISCLOSURE: The author of this dissertation acknowledges the use of generative AI for the following purposes: organization and proofreading. This use was reviewed and authorized by the doctoral/thesis advisory committee. === [PDF page 7] === TABLE OF CONTENTS Page CHAPTERS INTRODUCTION......................................................................................................... 1 THE 1965-66 COMMUNIST GENOCIDE.................................................................. 4 LITERATURE REVIEW: CONSTRUCTING THE COUNTER-MONUMENT..... 11 Memory Studies: Conceptual Foundations of Social Memory............................. 11 Memory as a Political Tool: Top-down and Bottom-up Memory Production...... 14 Art and Visual Culture as a Political Tool............................................................. 17 Art as Counter-monument..................................................................................... 21 METHODOLOGY...................................................................................................... 24 The Artists............................................................................................................. 27 ART AS TESTIMONY: RANGGA PURBAYA........................................................ 30 Memorialization.................................................................................................... 31 Commemoration and the Archive......................................................................... 36 ART AND EMBODIMENT: DADANG CHRISTANTO.......................................... 44 Violence................................................................................................................. 46 === [PDF page 8] === Performativity........................................................................................................ 51 ART AND PLACE: LEYLA STEVENS.................................................................... 60 Haunting and the Memory Landscape................................................................... 65 CONCLUSIONS......................................................................................................... 76 REFERENCES.............................................................................................................................. 81 vii === [PDF page 9] === LIST OF TABLES Page Table 1: List of code words derived from artists’ works............................................................... 25 Table 2: Grouped Themes............................................................................................................. 26 viii === [PDF page 10] === LIST OF FIGURES Page Figure 1: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018...................................... 33 Figure 2: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018..................................... 34 Figure 3: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018...................................... 34 Figure 4: Rangga Purbaya, Starting Point, from Stories Left Untold, 2015................................. 39 Figure 5: Rangga Purbaya, Boentardjo’s Shaver, from Stories Left Untold, 2015....................... 40 Figure 6: Rangga Purbaya, Danang, from Stories Left Untold, 2015........................................... 40 Figure 7: Rangga Purbaya, Investigating Boentardjo (exhibition view), 2016............................ 41 Figure 8: Dadang Christanto, MISSING (exhibition view), 2018................................................. 46 Figure 9: Dadang Christanto, Red Rain, 2003.............................................................................. 49 Figure 10: Dadang Christanto, still from In Red or Toothbrushing, from 2015 performance...... 50 Figure 11: Dadang Christanto, For Those Who Have Been Killed, 1993..................................... 54 Figure 12: Dadang Christanto, 1001 Earth Humans (1001 Manusia Tanah), 1996...................... 55 Figure 13: Dadang Christanto, They Give Evidence, 1996-97...................................................... 56 Figure 14: Dadang Christanto, scene from gallery opening, 2003................................................ 57 Figure 15: Leyla Stevens, still of man climbing tree from Wong Samar, 2016............................ 67 Figure 16: Leyla Stevens, still of apparition from Wong Samar, 2016......................................... 67 Figure 17: Leyla Stevens, still from Rites for the Missing, 2019.................................................. 68 Figure 18: Leyla Stevens, still from Our Sea is Always Hungry, 2018......................................... 71 Figure 19: Leyla Stevens, still from Our Sea is Always Hungry, 2018......................................... 71 === [PDF page 11] === Figure 20: Leyla Stevens, still from Witness, 2016....................................................................... 72 Figure 21: Leyla Stevens, still from Witness, 2016....................................................................... 73 === [PDF page 12] === CHAPTER ONE INTRODUCTION The events between 1965 and 1966 mark a dark and traumatic time in Indonesia’s history. As Cold War tensions divided the globe, an anti-communist military coup replaced Indonesia’s government, establishing Suharto’s New Order. The beginning of this new regime is marked by the mass murder and incarceration of anyone suspected of being a part of the communist party. Today, thousands of bodies still lie in unmarked mass graves, and the 1965 tragedy is not spoken about. Instead, state narratives persist, which highlight the valor of the New Order and ignore the mass death that came as a result. This creates a culture of silence functioning at multiple scales. However, artists are using their activist works to highlight alternative narratives of the past, opposing and reconfiguring state-sponsored memory narratives. Activist art uniquely has the capacity to critique social norms and evoke change, making it a powerful tool for memory activism. However, visual art’s role in Indonesian memory activism has not been sufficiently theorized. Therefore, the research question guiding this thesis asks: How are Indonesian artists mobilizing memory in their activist works that respond to the 1965-66 communist genocide, and what are the key thematic strategies used in doing so? To answer this question, I conducted a thematic analysis of works by Indonesian artists addressing the 1965 genocide. I then narrowed my focus on artists based on the availability of publicly accessible primary (artist writings, curatorial notes, exhibition catalogues) and secondary (critics’ publications, journal articles) source material, ultimately refining the sample to three artists – Rangga Purbaya, Dadang === [PDF page 13] === Christanto, and Leyla Stevens – that exemplify the themes of memory work derived from my analysis. Drawing on memory studies, visual culture studies, and the anthropology of knowledge, this thesis argues that contemporary Indonesian artists mobilize testimony, embodiment, and place as strategies of memory activism, constructing counter-monuments that challenge state-sanctioned narratives of the 1965-66 genocide. In answering my overarching question, I demonstrate how Indonesian artists use their unique positionalities to shape memory of a contested past within the confines of state-level repression and a culture of self-censorship. By highlighting artistic depictions of memories, I present a more well-rounded understanding of complex, traumatic historical events that includes emotion and sensory experience. Incorporating visual culture into archival history is integral to representing the past outside of Western paradigms that prioritize written history. This study also contributes to the multidisciplinary nature of memory studies by combining art historical and anthropological research approaches and theoretical frameworks. The structure of the thesis is as follows: In chapter two, I situate the sociopolitical and economic conditions surrounding the 1965-66 genocide, and its aftermath, providing an analysis of both state and vernacular narratives of the events. I then move into chapter three, a literature review that outlines the theoretical foundation for understanding memory, political manipulation of the past, and the role of art in shaping collective remembrance. I use this to frame the countermonument as a way of understanding memory art activism in Indonesia. In chapter four, I explain my methodology and limitations to the project. The main body of the thesis (chapters five through seven) will focus on artist-centered analysis of the three identified strategies used in art-based memory work about the 1965-66 genocide (testimony, embodiment, and place). Each === [PDF page 14] === of these sections will begin with an explanation of the meaning and foundation of each category. I then discuss the artworks assigned to each category and describe the historical and cultural context that determines meaning within the work, explaining how the artist is executing each theme. This is supported by accompanying writings by the artist, curators, critics, and art historians. In chapter eight, I expand upon the larger relevance of my argument and situate it within broader literature, applying the concept of counter-monument to Indonesian activist works. === [PDF page 15] === CHAPTER 2 THE 1965-66 COMMUNIST GENOCIDE The political atmosphere leading up to the events of 1965 was one of extreme polarization. After conquest and colonization by the Dutch East India Company in 1602 and the Dutch State in 1800, and Japanese occupation between 1942 and 1945, Indonesia became an independent nation-state on August 17th, 1945. The first leader of the newfound nation was President Sukarno. After centuries of colonial leadership, Sukarno’s policies centered around the establishment of a unified national identity (Pancasila) that would slingshot Indonesia into the future (Cribb 2001; Vickers 2005). However, the different political branches of the time had competing ideals of what that future would look like and the exact mechanisms required to reach Cribb (2001) divides Indonesia’s contemporary political scene into three distinct branches: the developmentalists (PNI), the Islamists (NU), and the communists (PKI). He explains that: The Islamists envisaged an Indonesia whose modernity would come from the eternal prescriptions of Islam, and the communists imagined an Indonesia whose modernity would be an expression in socialism, as the historical stage beyond capitalism and colonialism, while the developmentalists imagined simply turning the formidable apparatus of state which the Dutch had created in Indonesia to the benefit of Indonesians, rather than foreigners (Cribb 2001: 226). In 1957, Sukarno established a new political system called Guided Democracy as a response to the political standoff between these parties (Cribb 2001; Vickers 2005). Guided Democracy suspended parliamentary rule in favor of a “soft” authoritarianism that gave Sukarno more power === [PDF page 16] === and say in governmental affairs (Roosa 2020c). The primary policy of Sukarno’s Guided Democracy was NASAKOM, an abbreviation of the Indonesian words for nationalism (which represented developmentalist interests), religion (Islam), and communism, which attempted to merge the three parties of thought into one. Sukarno believed the parties were not in opposition but could coexist, with NASAKOM ensuring that no party had more influence than another (Cribb 2001). However, the communist party benefited the most from this policy change. With the implementation of NASAKOM, the PKI was allowed representation in government and began to gain influence over the armed forces (Cribb 2001). The PKI was also in the process of implementing land reform laws, which often involved seizing land from wealthy landowners, usually aligned with the Islamist party, and redistributing it to local poor, largely composed of communist supporters (Cribb 2001). While Sukarno was not directly affiliated with the PKI, he supported the land reform policy, and his rejection of foreign investment made him unpopular with developmentalists (Kammen and McGregor 2012). This made him a controversial figure both within anti-communist parties in Indonesia and global democratic powers like the United The period of Guided Democracy was characterized by a decreasing standard of living, inflation, and infrastructural decline. Each party cited different blame (Cribb 2001). Sukarno believed the decline to be a lingering side effect of colonialism. The communists’ opinions reflected this but also extended the blame to capitalist bureaucrats and village elites. Both the developmentalists and the Islamists faulted Sukarno and the communist party, believing the two to be aligned with each other. While Sukarno was not directly oppressive, public opposition to NASAKOM was frowned upon. As a result, there was little intergroup dialogue between the === [PDF page 17] === three parties, which resulted in extreme polarization and political tensions amongst opposing party members (Cribb 2001). These tensions, as well as the global Red Scare, set the stage for the September 30th Movement1. While the exact events and intentions of the coup are unclear, there are a few largely accepted facts about what occurred that day (Cribb 2001; Kammen and McGregor 2012). In the early morning hours of October 1, 1965, the homes of seven high-ranking anti-communist generals were invaded by left-wing troops. Three were shot dead in their homes, while three were transported to another location and killed there. One officer survived with injuries. However, his young daughter was caught in the crossfire and killed. The bodies of the six officers, along with a lieutenant who was killed by mistake, were disposed of in a well called Lubang Buaya or Crocodile Hole. The coup was led by Lieutenant-Colonel Untung, chief of Sukarno’s presidential guard. Who exactly was the mastermind behind these events, and what their intentions were, is debated. Different accounts state that the coup was initiated by Sukarno to get more power within the military. Others assert that it was an independent endeavor initiated by Untung and his followers. There is even some evidence that the coup was not planned by the PKI at all, but a plot by Suharto and the American CIA to replace a communist-sympathizing leader (Cribb 2001). However, within Indonesia, the coup was widely accepted as the doing of the communist party. Due to Sukarno’s communist affiliation, he was pushed to step down and was eventually replaced by Suharto, a former general. Suharto’s reign, referred to as the New Order, was ushered in by the mass incarceration and murder of anyone accused of being affiliated with leftist ideology. The weeks following the Despite being referred to as the September 30th Movement, the coup occurred on October 1st. === [PDF page 18] === coup were filled with relentless propaganda demonizing the communist party (Kammen and McGregor 2012). It was said that the Gerwani, the women’s division of the PKI, sexually assaulted, mutilated, and then danced upon the fallen bodies of the generals (Anderson 1987; Cribb 2002). Rumors that members of the Communist Party were preparing to kill again and were being instructed to dig burial pits and create makeshift weaponry were spread over the radio and in newspapers (Cribb 2001, 2002; Roosa 2020a). The accidental death of one of the general’s young children was used to assert that communist party members were ruthless childkillers. The first deaths of what became the 1965 Communist Genocide occurred in Sumatra in early October. According to Cribb (2001), these killings seem to be the independent actions of radical Islamist party leaders local to the area. However, the mass hysteria and killings that later occurred were often triggered by the arrival of anti-communist special forces that were alleged to have been given a premade list of communists to eradicate (Cribb 2001, 2002; Kammen and McGregor 2012; Vickers 2005). However, this would not account for the total loss of the genocide. Cribb (2001) writes that, after it was clear that the murders were sanctioned by the military, paramilitary groups, local militia, and praman (organized criminals) began to take a prominent role in the killings. Soon, not just leftist activists, politicians, and PKI party members were at risk, but teachers, artists, scholars, and any other individual who dared to question New Order policy were potential victims of the genocide. Those who were not jailed or killed risked facing interrogation through torture or sexual assault. Individuals report that their loved ones would be carried away in trucks, never to be seen again (Wardaya 2013). Roosa (2020b) reveals that many victims were beaten and tortured until they would incriminate themselves or others, often with forced false === [PDF page 19] === testimony. In some areas, this created a “kill-or-be-killed” mentality, in which it was understood that if you were not actively participating in the killings, you were at risk of becoming a suspected communist yourself (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007). Perpetrators were seen as heroic and did not make any attempts to hide their crimes. Overall, it is estimated that between five hundred thousand and over one million people were murdered across Indonesia, most of whose bodies were disposed of in unmarked mass graves and cave systems or thrown to sea (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007; Eddyono 2023; Kent 2024; McGregor 2013; Pohlman 2020; Santikarma 2005; Vickers 2005, 2010). However, due to inconsistent records and the hidden nature of the bodies, the number could be much higher. The New Order government invested heavily in shaping public understandings of the events of 1965 in their favor. The state-sanctioned historical account of 1965 demonized the communist party, martyred the six generals, and downplayed the tragedy of the genocide that followed. Film, museums, statues, textbooks, annual commemorations, speeches, radio broadcasts, street names, and television programs were all utilized to enforce a complex narrative that both suppressed accounts of the events and emphasized the ever-present danger of communism (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007; Kammen and McGregor 2012; Roosa 2012). For example, many individuals today still recall “Pengkhianatan G/30/S” (The 30 September Movement Traitors), a four-hour-long film depicting the violent murder of the generals, which children were forced to watch every year in grade school (McGregor 2013). While the events of September 30th were commemorated, acknowledgement or discussion of the subsequent genocide was highly taboo (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007; Eddyono 2023). Of course, this was due to the trauma and risk that is associated with 1965, but those related to or associated with members of the PKI that had been killed also faced government-enforced marginalization and === [PDF page 20] === violations of rights through the “clean environment” (bersih lingkungan) policy which worked to keep accused communists out of public life by limiting access to public sector employment and representation in government (Heryanto 2006; McGregor 2013). Despite the collapse of the New Order Regime in 1998, the state memory work of the time still impacts contemporary conceptions of the genocide. After Suharto’s resignation, Indonesia entered a time of Reformasi, a time of political transformation toward democracy (Vickers 2005). Yet the events of 1965 remained a “public secret”, something everyone was aware of but never mentioned (Edyonno 2024). This has multiple causes. For one, perpetrators have never been prosecuted, and the state has yet to take any legal accountability for their involvement (Eickhoff et al 2017a). As a result, perpetrators and victims live together as neighbors (Wardaya 2013). The “clean environment” policy established communist sympathies as pseudo-inheritable, causing known relatives of victims to still face marginalization today (Eickhoff et al 2017a). While for some perpetrators there is a sense of shame behind their silence (Pohlman 2020), others are proud of their actions and are seen as heroes within the community. In Joshua Oppenheimer's infamous documentary, The Act of Killing (2012), he follows a high-ranking praman (organized criminal) who proudly acts out how he would torture, murder, and dispose of alleged communists decades after the actual events. Perpetrators of the violence continue to be in positions of authority, and relatives of Suharto continue to hold high-ranking positions in the government. Those who attempt to organize public gatherings or protests face the very real threat of harassment or attack from active far-right groups (Pohlman 2020). Because of this, Eickhoff et al describe the silence around the genocide as “socially constituted and institutionally internalized” (2017a: 451). McGregor (2013) presents two case studies of individuals reflecting upon their childhood === [PDF page 21] === understanding of 1965. Both state that they had very limited exposure to the genocide before attending university. Before they were exposed to alternative narratives, they had felt the genocide was inevitable, as the communist party was evil, godless, and deserved their fates (McGregor 2013). However, there have been some attempts to uncover the truth. Privately, intellectuals and NGOs research the events and even attempt to locate and recover bodies. Pohlman (2020) explains a phenomenon where citizens are using the internet to map mass graves, and Ikhwan et al (2017) explore how individuals are using various social media platforms to publicize victims’ testimonies. Eickhoff et al (2017a) write of a locally organized memorial at a mass grave site in Semarang in 2015. At the time they were writing, this was the only public memorial in Indonesia. Despite the events of 1965 now being over six decades removed and many survivors having passed away from natural causes, the cause still resonates with descendants and other young activists (McGregor 2013). McGregor points out the universality of the issue, stating that “the injustices that survivors of the violence continued to face made them one of the most marginalized groups in society and accentuated the potential implications of sectarian-based 10 === [PDF page 22] === CHAPTER THREE LITERATURE REVIEW: CONSTRUCTING THE COUNTER-MONUMENT In this thesis, I use the term counter-monument to refer to activist art that engages memory activism in such a way that memory of the past can remain in flux. In the following literature review, I demonstrate the politicality innate to both memory and art production at both the grassroots and state levels. These concepts form the “building blocks” to conceptualizing the counter-monument, which will be further defined at the end of this section. I. Memory Studies: Conceptual Foundations of Social Memory When social scientists refer to “memory,” they are referring to memory as a socially produced understanding of the past. In 2008, Roediger and Wertsch (2008) sought to formalize the discipline of memory studies through the foundation of a new journal of the same name. In the introduction to the new journal, they explain that memory is a universal, integrative experience with application in many disciplines, such as philosophy, education, literature, anthropology, and sociology. They call for the unification of theory and methodology and write that their goal is to provide an outlet for interdisciplinary conversation on memory. Yet they avoid defining memory in any direct way. Instead, a single definition of memory is not necessary. Rather, memory “is almost always most useful when accompanied by a modifier,” such as public memory, collective memory, or individual memory (Roediger and Wertsch 2008: 10). Similarly, Erll (2011: 7) defines memory as “an umbrella term for all those processes of biological, medical, or social nature that relates past and present (and future) in sociocultural 11 === [PDF page 23] === contexts.” Reflecting these sentiments, rather than providing a singular definition of memory, I will outline the lines of thought that informed the way “memory” is used in this thesis. According to Erll (2011), scholars began to think critically about memory during what she calls the “memory boom” of the 1980s. She gives multiple reasons for this “boom” including; the transition from a “colonial” to a “postcolonial” world that required the integration of multiple cultural views into one “national” history; the memory of the Holocaust and how to preserve it as survivors began to age and pass away; and increasingly advanced technology that not only made documentation easier and more accessible, but began to form people’s understandings of past events through film and television. She also explains that a shift toward postmodernism in academia sparked newfound interest in how the past was remembered. Postmodernists realized that instead of a precise, objective sequence, history was constructed, subjective, and non-teleological. Despite a broad range of backgrounds and motivations, it is this notion of the past as subjective that unites memory scholars (Erll 2011). Maurice Halbwachs (1950), the founder of cultural memory studies, argues that memory is a social rather than individual construction. Rather than one’s understanding of the past solely being an amalgamation of their personal experience, memory is formed and maintained through social frameworks like family, religion, class, or nationality. Because a memory narrative is something created, it cannot be static. Halbwachs writes that memory is not purely intrinsic but is constantly being constructed and reconstructed based on the current spaciotemporal, cultural, and political moment (Halbwachs 1950). Therefore, separate groups can have varying, selective memories of the past at any given point in time. This sentiment is expanded upon in the scholarship of Pierre Nora, who coined the term “lieu de mémoire,” or “sites of memory” (Nora 1996). According to Nora, because of our rapidly 12 === [PDF page 24] === advancing society, collective memory as Halbwachs defines it can no longer exist. Nora believes that modernity has created a separation between past and present. Rather than social groups perpetuating collective memory, we now rely on “sites of memory” to filter our understandings of the past. Nora writes of sites of memory within the context of French history, identifying key locations, objects, and symbols that form a French national identity, such as the Eiffel Tower or Joan of Arc (Erll 2011). Sites of memory exist in contrast to Halbwachs collective memory; rather than form a cohesive narrative of the past, memory sites are non-hierarchical, and individuals can choose which to integrate into their understandings (Erll 2011). Critics of Nora’s “sites of memory” point to its nation-centric perspective and romanticization of an idealized, pastoral past where “collective memory” is “pure” (Erll 2011). Instead, memory scholar Ann Rigney expands Nora’s concept, defining a site of memory as a place or phenomenon where memory can be “in the works,” meaning the site and the memory that is represented are consistently debated (Rigney 2008; Erll 2011). It is this use of sites of memory that this paper will adopt. Rigney’s interpretation of sites of memory infers that memory of the past can be manipulated. In memory studies, this is called memory work. Memory work is an “activity that generates and transforms the social world,” occurring “when human beings are actively involved in the process of symbolic transformation and elaboration of meanings of the past” (Jelin 2003: 5). In this sense, a memory worker is an agent who engages with memory of the past to invoke such transformation. Bernhard and Kubik (2014) suggest groups that can act as memory agents (or workers), such as professional historians, journalists, artists, parents and teachers, intellectuals, politicians, and so on. 13 === [PDF page 25] === Altogether, these foundational perspectives show that memory is not a fixed record of the past but a socially produced, continually reshaped process grounded in cultural frameworks, spatial contexts, and present sociopolitical conditions. II. Memory as a Political Tool: Top-down and Bottom-up Memory Production Memory scholars agree that Memory is conceptually different than History. Landsberg (2017) explains that “history” and “memory” imply different temporalities. For something to be a part of “history,” it must be separated from the present, finished, over. This separation allows for “history” to claim objectivity. Memory denies this; a “memory” admits a continuation from past to present (Landsberg 2017). Memory, too, includes emotion and nuance. These emotions and nuances continue to inform the present by shading the understanding of the past, therefore negating “objective” or detached historical knowledge and determining any degree of separation between past and present as a construction (Nora 1996). As such, the fundamental difference between understanding the past through the lens of memory rather than history is that memory recognizes that the perceptions of the past are flexible and contextually influenced. Political memory is a theoretical concept grounded in the idea of the past’s malleability. Assman and Shortt describe memory as plastic, implying that it is “volatile and transient” and that “it is constantly in flux” (2012: 3). It is this plasticity that makes memory a powerful political tool (Assman and Shortt 2012; Said 2000). By formulating narratives of the past, dominant powers can justify and normalize their political agendas. Assman and Shortt write that “it is never the past itself that acts upon a present society, but representations of past events that are created, circulated and received within a specific cultural frame and political constellation” (2012: 3, emphasis added). Said (2000) goes as far as claiming that the past is invented through selective emphasis, suppression, and manipulation of accounts of historical events. This 14 === [PDF page 26] === constructed narrative is naturalized and spread through institutions, such as schools and universities, and treated as the irrefutable “truth” (Said 2000). This can be best understood through Michel Foucault’s (1980) knowledge/power framework. According to Foucault, knowledge is both a source and a product of power. Dominant forces use their power to naturalize discourses of “truth.” In this way, power is not just a suppressive force but is productive in the sense that it allows those who hold it to shape reality through knowledge production (Gutting 2005). By formulating “truth,” those in power can shape the way that individuals think and act. Therefore, power is not only maintained within governmental bodies, figureheads, or “the elite” but is reinforced at all scales through norms, taboos, and other social institutions. Memory is also a type of knowledge that is created and then maintained. Of course, one cannot speak of memory without speaking of forgetting. If remembrance is a political act, so too is forgetting. What is removed from dominant narratives is just as significant as what is highlighted (Assman and Shortt 2012; Eddyono 2024; Erll 2011). Assman and Shortt express that “every act of remembrance... necessarily involves selective, partial, or otherwise biased forms of forgetting” (2012: 5). As reflected in Foucault’s theorizations, those with power have a greater capacity to control knowledge production and consequently, what is kept and removed from narratives of the past. Manipulation of official memory in this way is usually a tool for inciting a unified national history and nationalist pride (Mac Ginty and Firchow 2016). In his masterwork Imagined Communities, Benedict Anderson (2006 [1983]) explains how governments use knowledge production through things like print, religion, the census, museums and monuments, and school curriculum to create the sense of shared history that is a precursor of nationhood. 15 === [PDF page 27] === However, Bernhard and Kubik write that within a radical regime change, as is certainly the case for the transition to the New Order in Indonesia, memory work by state institutions takes on more layered intentions; a regime change becomes “not only about the reconfiguration of economic interests, redistribution of political power, and reordering of social relations” but also “the reformulation of collective identities and the introduction or reinvigoration of the principles of legitimizing power” (Bernhard and Kubik 2014: 8, emphasis original). According to Bernhard and Kubik, this must be done through memory work: “These two tasks cannot be realized without a re-examination of the group’s past – their historical memory” (2014: 8). In this way, memory is used to justify, legitimize, and then naturalize new regimes of power. The authors go on to explain that the chosen historical memory cannot be the complete truth but is instead selective in what is remembered and forgotten. Some narratives of the past are inevitably unaccounted for in official history (Bernhard and Kubik 2014). Official history, rather than being linear and encompassing, is merely a reflection of the politics of those with the power to speak and to censor; by contrast, local narratives may contradict state-sanctioned history, as they are informed by different information, prioritize different perspectives, framed by varying political agendum, and sometimes based within different epistemologies (Mac Ginty and Firchow 2016). Foucault refers to these opposing narratives as counter-memory. While Foucault’s power/knowledge theory explains how dominant groups use their power to maintain an official narrative, counter-memory outlines how laypeople resist official history (Foucault 1977). Counter-memory refers to the voices of those whose histories are removed from the linear, unified canon. It acts as a method for oppressed or underrepresented groups to reclaim their histories. Counter-memory accounts for subjectivity, emotion, and localized nuance that official 16 === [PDF page 28] === history often denies. If official history is the narrative that justifies the domination of the elite, counter-memory is an act of resistance against such. Gutman and Wüstenberg’s (2021) memory activism can be understood as an extension of counter-memory. Gutman and Wüstenberg define memory activism as strategic “commemora[tion of] the past in order to publicly address the dominant perception of it” (2021: 1071). This definition reserves memory activism for non-state actors with the larger public as their intended audience, both of which have been contested within the Indonesian context, as will be discussed below. While Foucault’s counter-memory does not imply action, memory activism requires intentional use of memory for a cause. Gutman and Wüstenberg specify that this does not necessarily imply change – people can use memory activism to maintain a current memory regime. However, Indonesian artists act as memory activists by strategically both highlighting and creating counter-memory to contest dominant narratives of the past. III. Art and Visual Culture as a Political Tool It would be difficult to deny the significance of visual media within the political realm. There is vast literature on how art, architecture, and aesthetics are used by regimes to visualize their political ideologies. For example, Nazi Germany intensely monitored art production and banned certain themes and styles, and the Soviet Union adopted a particular architectural style that reflected its economic and political ideals (Johnson 2004; Mitchell 2003). In fact, part of the top-down memory work of the New Order was the monitoring of art production (Dirgantoro 2021). Dirgantoro (2021) explains that, wanting to succeed where Sukarno had failed, one of the priorities of the New Order was national development. A part of this development plan was the production of a distinctly Indonesian artistic culture. This came to consist of an amalgamation of Western Modernist aesthetics of abstraction and traditional visual 17 === [PDF page 29] === imagery from around Indonesia (Dirgantoro 2021). The state commissioned art of this kind throughout the public realm, including building interiors, murals, and other public art displays, often appropriating patterns and imagery from indigenous cultures within Indonesia’s borders to depict the “idealized, unified diversity” of the archipelago (Kent et. al. 2023: 56). The underlying implication of the New Order’s policy on art and visual media was that it was to be apolitical (Dirgantoro 2021). Few, if any, artists referenced 1965 or criticized the New Order directly. In the rare instances that 1965 was referenced, it was done so in cryptic ways that obscured the artists’ true opinions and allowed them to deny political intent. The New Art Movement, an artist group active in the seventies, produced political art (Kent et. al. 2023). However, it was done in vague, abstract ways that are not obviously political. New Art Movement member and prolific political artist FX Harsono explains that political artwork produced during the New Order “tends to use a lot of metaphors or symbols that are difficult for the military to understand, so they were not particularly attentive” (Harsono 2023: 298). The New Order also commissioned large-scale monuments to commemorate the events in their favor. As previously mentioned, the bodies of the generals were disposed of in a well now known as Lubong Buaya. Upon this site, a large statue was erected to memorialize those killed during the coup. The monument portrays heroic statues of generals, and the platform they stand upon contains a large frieze depicting the scenes of their murder. The carvings demonize the PKI, showing them murdering the generals and the Gerwani happily dancing on their remains (Santikarma 2005). There is no mention of the subsequent genocide. Instead, imagery of the monument at Lubong Buaya justifies the elimination of the communist party and erases the tragic aftermath from canonical history (Schreiner 2005; Vickers 2010). Schreiner (2005) explains that the monument acts as the “mythical origin” site of New Order Indonesia, showcasing Indonesia’s 18 === [PDF page 30] === strength in the face of communism. Santikarma (2005) echoes theoretical criticisms of memorialization, stating that monuments serve to end discussion of the event by finalizing a singular narrative. Of course, this narrative leaves out the truth of the hundreds of thousands of victims of the 1965 genocide and their descendants who still feel marginalization today. Lubong Buaya exemplifies top-down memory work, as mythic history is used to legitimize power and manufacture nationhood. On the other hand, art can be a powerful tool for bottom-up political change. Scholars of art activism, or artivism, argue that art has political significance, as it has the potential to better reflect subaltern or popular realities (Bierhanzl and Cools 2022; Beyes and Steyaert 2011). This is because art is given a unique privilege to both react to society and critique it. Bierhanzl and Cools (2022) write: It is from this perspective on art as a social or intersubjective practice that the significance of art as disruptive, critical, and/or transformative. For, as a social practice, art intervenes in a social field in which it is confronted with a dominant pregiven logic of perceiving… the critical and transformative potentialities of art depend on the art’s capability to break through this logic, to make visible the interdependencies of perceiving and interacting, and to propose new ones… Finally, in this way, we may discern… an educational and emancipatory dimension regarding art’s significance (Bierhanzl and Cools 2022:114, emphasis added). Bierhanzl and Cools (2022) explain that art has not only the power to contest dominant narratives of the past but also to break ontological boundaries, making it possess powerful emancipatory potential. In other words, “art is granted the power to reconfigure the fabric of the sensible, which is the prerequisite for any political impact” (Beyes and Steyaert 2011: 112). However, there is little said about the use of art in memory activism in post-1965 Indonesia. Adams (2001) writes that there has been minimal inquiry regarding activist art 19 === [PDF page 31] === produced in oppressive authoritarian regimes. Even so, discussion occurs within primarily Western European frameworks (Black et al 2024). Jurriëns (2020) writes that Indonesian art activism tends to be performative, transmedial, and participatory. However, he targets art activism addressing contemporary environmental issues rather than art as a historical critique. Black et al (2024) directly address Gutman and Wüstenberg’s (2021) model, stating that it does not account for all historical and epistemological contexts, especially those of Asia and the Pacific. They explain that a majority of studies addressing memory activism have been rooted in European experience and theoretical frameworks. To situate memory activist studies within the nexus of Asia and the Pacific, an expanded definition of memory activism is required. For example, many parts of Southeast Asia have experienced extended and powerful memory work at the state level, sometimes for postcolonial nation building, but also because of interstate conflict. This is certainly true for Indonesia, and because of this, it may be dangerous for nonstate actors to oppose state-sanctioned narratives. In response, Black et al (2024) highlight the use of artistic approaches in memory activism in Asia and the Pacific. They explain that “both literally and metaphorically, the arts of image-making, storytelling, and political performance allow memory activists to activate forces and dialogues that are beyond rational, state, or even human control. They are often more oriented toward perspectives rather than policies, presenting such shifts as a critical step in the complex process of political and social change” (Black et al 2024: 474, emphasis added). However, they adopt a broad definition of “art,” focusing on oral history, storytelling, and archival practices. They only briefly address the events of 1965. Overall, the result of the New Order memory regime is that any discussion of the September 30th Movement and the subsequent genocide is extremely taboo. This makes “remembering” and resistance in a traditional sense, as outlined by Gutman and Wüstenberg’s 20 === [PDF page 32] === definition of memory activism, very difficult. Instead, people remember in different ways, unique to Indonesian ontologies. Therefore, an aporia exists regarding the use of visual art for memory activism regarding the 1965-66 genocide. The current literature does not account for nuances created by the complex social dynamics that make discussion of the events taboo, the intensive memory work of the state that limits empathy for victims and their descendants, or Indonesian ontological understandings of the landscape. I argue that understanding “art as a counter-monument” fills these gaps. IV: Art as Counter-monument As shown in the above analysis, art can also be used as a bottom-up, grassroots memory work, or, as I argue, for memory activism. According to Bieler (2020), who is writing through the lens of Nora’s “sites of memory,” official memory sites, such as monuments, signal a separation between history and the present, solidifying one narrative and closing the possibility for the existence of others. From a top-down perspective, official monuments are memory tools used to solidify dominant narratives of the past, literally “writing it in stone.” They serve as a tangible manifestation of memory that can be used to naturalize state power (Johnson 2004; Mitchell However, what Bieler (2020: 346) deems counter-monuments, “critically engage the aesthetic and political premises of their [official monument’s] existence.” The term “countermonument” was originally coined by James E. Young, who defines it as something that establishes itself “in opposition to the traditional memorial’s task, illustrat[ing] concisely the possibilities and limitations of all memorials everywhere” -- the limitations being the emphasis on a singular narrative (1992: 227). In this way, counter-monuments serve a similar purpose as counter-memory, acting as tangible representations of subaltern memories. 21 === [PDF page 33] === I argue that, rather than being limited to physical monuments, politically engaged art, performance, and other visual media at large can, too, serve as counter-monuments through their ability to appeal to memory. According to political philosopher Chantal Mouffe, public political art acts as a counter-hegemonic force that re-politicizes public space by making conflict and political disagreement visible (2008). This encourages debate, which can consequently result in social change. While she is writing in the context of radical democracy, I apply this notion to art as counter-memory, in which political art can make multiple narratives visible within the public sphere. Mitchell (2003) explains that social participation in art leads to the formation of collective memory in which multiple narratives of the past can exist simultaneously – a quality that is integral to counter-memory. Widrich (2014) expands on this artistic memory intervention with his theory of the “performative monument.” He describes a performative monument as a politically relevant, collaborative, and participatory public performance. The performance becomes “monumental” in the sense that it works to become a part of the memory of a past event. Those who participate become producers of said “monument,” allowing it to represent multiple memories rather than a single, dominating narrative (Jurriëns 2020; Mitchell 2003). Building off Mouffe’s theories on public political art as counter-hegemony, Widrich’s “performative monument” provides another instance in which politically engaged art can serve as memory activism through the production of counter-memory. By merging and elaborating on Bieler (2020), Mouffe (2008), Widrich (2014), and Rigney’s (2008) interpretations of Nora’s “sites of memory,” I formed the concept of countermonument that will be used in this thesis. Where Bieler uses the term counter-monument to mean literally a physical monument that criticizes the traditional monument’s appeal to a 22 === [PDF page 34] === singular, closed narrative of the past, I extend “monument” to refer to more of what Rigney deemed a “site of memory,” or a symbolic representation of memory in which memory can remain unsettled and in flux. Using Mouffe’s understanding of art creation and display as inherently political and Widrich’s concept of a performative monument, which deems art creation as a monumental practice where multiple narratives can be represented, I argue that art used to contest dominant historical narratives can be considered a counter-monumental practice. As will be elaborated below, Indonesian artists form counter-monuments with at least three main objectives: surfacing hidden testimony, embodying emotion, and centering place. 23 === [PDF page 35] === CHAPTER FOUR METHODOLOGY The above theoretical orientation sets the framework to answer the following research question: How are Indonesian artists mobilizing memory in their activist works that respond to the 1965-66 communist genocide, and what are the key thematic strategies used in doing so? To answer this question, this study employs a qualitative, interpretive research approach, using thematic analysis to examine visual artworks and accompanying writings by artists, critics, art scholars, and curators (Bernard 2018). Through an inductive coding process, recurring patterns were identified and grouped into overarching themes. I began with a broad internet search to accumulate a list of Indonesian artists who address 1965 in their works. From previous research, I had already accumulated a few journal articles that discussed Indonesian artists and artworks. I began my search here, exploring the galleries and other artists that the artists discussed where exhibiting with. I then continued my search in scholarly databases such as Google Scholar and WorldCat. From these two steps, I was able to compile a list of globally renowned artists about whom scholars have written. I then moved on to a simple Google search for artists and exhibitions addressing 1965. I also looked for exhibitions with themes of memory, censorship, and historical critique to see if they featured any Indonesian artists addressing 1965. This produced several artist websites, gallery exhibitions, critics’ reviews, news articles, and interviews with various artists who use their works to critically approach dominant narratives of 1965. I was able to produce a list of twelve artists who directly 24 === [PDF page 36] === address the 1965-66 genocide, as well as a list of their publicly available works that have 196566 as their main topic. From this list of artworks, I thematically analyzed and coded main themes and methods of addressing the past. Looking at each piece separately, I wrote down key themes I was seeing in the work and in accompanying writings. The list of code words can be found below (Table 1). I then grouped each theme with those that had similar meaning or effects, as well as how often they appeared together in the works (Figure 1). For example, I found that corporeal imagery was often associated with depictions of violence, and addressing the archive often involved “artist as researcher”. Table 1: List of code words derived from artists’ works 25 === [PDF page 37] === Table 2: Grouped Themes From this process, I was able to determine that Indonesian artists contest dominant narratives in three main ways, each with their own accompanying subcategories. First, artists use their works to highlight testimonies of survivors and their descendants. This is done through memorialization of the dead, individual commemoration, and contestation of the archive in which the artist takes on the role of archivist to highlight hidden narratives. The second way artists critique dominant narratives is by contesting the apathy of the state through embodiment. This is done through corporeal imagery of violence and the use of performativity in artworks. Finally, artists invoke the significance of place in Indonesian ontology by recreating the memory landscape and addressing haunting and the agency of the landscape. However, there were some inherent limitations to this approach. First, my data were limited to publicly available online sources with English translations. I was also unable to see artworks in person, which would allow me to have better insight into the context the work exists 26 === [PDF page 38] === in and the ambiance or presence of the work. These factors can be integral in determining meaning. To mitigate this, I chose works that had accompanying primary source material addressing the work itself or the artist’s approach, such as artists’ writings, interviews, or curatorial notes. Of course, there are similar limitations regarding availability and reliable English translations. My positionality as an outsider also limits my ability to determine cultural subtleties that may contribute to meaning. To supplement these issues, I turned to secondary source material such as articles by art historians or critics who have expertise in Indonesian culture and history. My original list of artists ranged from those with large portfolios and dozens of publicly available interview transcripts, articles, and personal writings to artist that had only short excerpts in exhibition catalogues. Because of these limitations, I narrowed my analysis to center on three artists based on the availability of primary and secondary sources to accurately determine the meaning and intent behind the works. While each artist addresses each theme in one or more works, I chose to have one artist exemplify each theme. This is supported by the primary and secondary sources available for each artist. A brief biography of each artist can be found below. Descriptions of and justification for the themes can be found in the following section. I. The Artists2 Rangga Perbaya (https://ranggapurbaya.com/) Rangga Perbaya was born in Yogyakarta in 1976. He works in mediums such as photography, installation, and performance. His work addresses 1965-66 using themes of I must address a discrepancy regarding how in which these artists are able to openly critique dominant narratives of 1965-66 despite the taboo surrounding discussion of the event as I have described. I was unable to find a direct answer to this during my research. However, I can assume it must depend on where the artist exhibits and/or lives. Dadang Christanto and Leyla Stevens both tend to exhibit outside of Indonesia. 27 === [PDF page 39] === “collective memory, history, and archives,” and employs a research-based approach to his art making (https://ranggapurbaya.com/). His work highlights stories of survivors such as his grandfather, who was disappeared during the events of 1965, making him the exemplar for Art as Testimony. Dadang Christanto (no personal website) Dadang Christanto is arguably the most renowned artist of the three chosen. He was born in Central Java in 1957 (Art Gallery NSW). Notably, being of Chinese descent, a population who were key targets during the violence due to preexisting prejudice and the association of China with communism, Christanto’s father was a victim of 1965. He was taken in the night when Christanto was eight years old and was never seen again (Art Gallery NSW). Christanto was a part of the New Art Movement, joining in 1987. However, he did not openly discuss his background or directly reference 1965-66 in his works until moving to Australia in 1999 (Dirgantoro 2020; McGregor 2018). His contemporary works support peace and reconciliation in the global context of violence. His visceral performances, installations, and studio artworks throughout his career make him the figurehead for Art and Embodiment. Leyla Stevens (https://leylastevens.com/) Leyla Stevens is a Balinese Australian artist who works primarily in photography and film. Her work addresses the sociopolitical issues of contemporary Bali, such as the impact of tourism and surf culture on Balinese livelihoods. Her work on 1965-66 incorporates Balinese-Hindu cosmology, directly representing ghosts and spirits and their interactions within the modern Balinese landscape. This makes her the ideal figurehead for Art and Place. 28 === [PDF page 40] === By outlining the research approach, limitations, and rationale behind the selection of artists, this methodology sets the foundation for understanding the interpretive lens guiding this study. The analysis that follows examines how each artist mobilizes testimony, embodiment, and place to challenge dominant narratives of 1965-66 and construct alternative histories, and how their works contribute to the discussion of art as memory activism. 29 === [PDF page 41] === CHAPTER FIVE ART AS TESTIMONY: RANGGA PURBAYA “Art as testimony” acts as memory activism through depicting what has been eliminated from dominant narratives, addressing the inherent absences, and unsilencing people’s experiences. My conceptualization of “art as testimony” comes from the work of Dirgantoro, who writes that “most Indonesian artists place oral history and testimonies from the survivors and witnesses at the heart of their works. They do so in various ways, including reimagining the events based on ethnographic research, creating (counter)-memorial works, or digging deep into their personal and collective memories” (2023: 276). Building upon this, I determined three ways that Indonesian artists use testimony within their activist works: memorialization, commemoration, and reconfiguring the archive. By memorialization, I refer to the mass representation of the dead and physical representations of the event in public memory. A lack of public memorialization of the events prevents any feelings of communal reconciliation. By removing grief and remembrance of the 1965 victims from communal space, victims and their families are isolated, as their history is removed from public collective memory. In this way, artists are creating alternative spaces for the memorialization of the victims. Commemoration works as the counterpart for memorialization, instead focusing on the commemoration of particular individuals and their stories. Rather than umbrellaing all memory within a memorial space, artists commemorate 1965 victims by highlighting their individual testimony, therefore humanizing the victims. Finally, artists mobilize these testimonies to counteract the official archive. The archive refers to official documentation of the events of 30 === [PDF page 42] === 1965. Traditional archives focus on the written documentation of historical events. Instead, artists are creating a counter-archive that centers not only on documents that may have been ignored in the official narrative, but also on oral history and material objects. Rangga Purbaya’s oeuvre of works that address 1965 exemplify these categories. I. Memorialization Purbaya’s Letter to the Lost One (2017) is an installation piece that effectively works as a memorial to those lost in 1965. Purbaya asked friends and collaborators from Living 1965 (1965 Setiap Hari), a collective that works to document stories of survivors and witnesses of 1965, to each write a letter to their missing loved ones. The letters are addressed to parents, grandparents, and friends and usually highlight the stories of their capture and death and the feelings surrounding them. These letters were then displayed on the walls of an exhibition space, “effectively turning the house into a memorial to the victims,” where individuals could mourn and remember their deceased relatives (Dirgantoro 2023: 285). In the second iteration of the display in 2018, Purbaya lights the room with blue, UV lighting – a reference to forensic investigation. The lighting makes the onlooker feel as though they are unveiling a secret, using investigation techniques to find clues that bring one closer to the truth. Images of both iterations of the exhibitions can be found here: https://www.ranggapurbaya.com/page7.html. Letter to the Lost One (2017) works as a memorial by creating a space to remember the dead. Purbaya writes that “Letter to the Lost One is dedicated to the dead, to the missing one and most importantly to us, that have to suffer this terrible heart broke. To respect those whose names did not have a place in history or even mentioned in conversations” (Purbaya N.D.). By dedicating the installation “to us, that have suffered,” Purbaya has created a space for those who have lost to find reconciliation and grieve those they have lost. This, too, acts as memory 31 === [PDF page 43] === activism through the display of the narratives removed from national discourse. One of the letters displayed reads: Mom, Dad, I do not know you. There is no name that can be called. Even the face. You can't even enter the country's historical vocabulary. So long you have been deleted. Blackened. Drowned. Removed. Omitted. Through a long journey and a search that is never smooth, your figures are present. There is no name that can be called. Especially face. What emerges is heartbreaking and sad stories. This country allows its young children to search for history with the shadow of a red river that smells of blood. Heads cut off from the body. Shots that invade full bodies of life. Mom, Dad, Even though you are forcibly removed from this country, I will always remember you fully. Your devoted figures, thirsty for knowledge and ideas about generations who are aware of education will be preserved all the time. You are the first generation of Indonesian teachers whose knowledge has not been absorbed and passed down from generation to generation. I was sad and angry but realized it would not change anything. Mom, Dad, I bow my head deeply for you. My deep respect for you. You will never be lost in my memory. Will always live and I live. You are a blazing fire to keep searching and exploring the truth of this country. Fitri Mohan (Purbaya N.D., emphasis added) Despite being removed from national history, the memory of the author’s mother and father acts as resistance to state narratives that deny their existence. The final line, “You are a blazing fire to keep searching and exploring the truth,” implies that the continued remembrance of the victims will drive the search for truth. Art that memorializes the events of 1965 catalyzes such remembrance. Purbaya’s Landscapes of Deception (2018), too, addresses the lack of memorialization of the victims of 1965. The work is a series of twelve photos of both urban and rural landscapes 32 === [PDF page 44] === (Figures 1, 2, 3). There is nothing overtly political or even narrative within the photos. They are traditionally composed, edited, and displayed salon-style (Dirgantoro 2023). However, this seemingly benign narrative set up by Purbaya takes a turn when the audience sees an image of Luweng Grubug, a notorious killing site during the genocide (Dirgantoro 2023) (Figure 1). Purbaya’s photo shows the sinkhole-like entrance to a cave system shrouded in light coming through jungle trees. The cave appears to be isolated in the forest, and the lighting creates an ephemeral, otherworldly overtone to the image. An Indonesian audience would likely recognize this site. Since 1965, Luweng Grubug has become a prominent tourist location, despite being well known to locals as a past mass grave (Dirgantoro 2023). Fans of Purbaya would also recognize the site as the place where the body of Purbaya’s grandfather was allegedly buried, as showcased in his 2015 work Stories Left Untold. The series then takes on new meaning. Rather than visually appealing photographs, the images are key sites from the 1965-66 genocide, including mass graves, interrogation sites, and make-shift prisons (Dirgantoro 2023). Figure 1: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018 33 === [PDF page 45] === Figure 2: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018 Figure 3: Rangga Purbaya, photo from Landscapes of Deception, 2018 34 === [PDF page 46] === Like Letter to the Lost One (2017), Landscapes of Deception (2018), too, works to memorialize 1965 as a form of memory work. In a description of the series on his website, Purbaya writes: The Landscape of Deception talks about my anxiety about blurring contexts, the historical setting of violence in one place. A beautiful location, sometimes storing a completely different history. Behind the subtle and graceful scenery, hidden dark stories, gloomy and heartbreaking, far from their appearance and designation. It could be that the beauty was intentionally made to obscure the dark history, and was carried out by the government or the local community with the aim of diverting the past from us. One of Indonesia's dark history is Tragedy 65. At that time hundred million innocent humans were killed and their bodies were thrown away in places far from the crowds and covered by scary stories to avoid people to come. But today situation has changed. These places also changed. The places were opened as tourist places, inviting people to come. These places turn into stunned, organized and well-maintained space. Far from the grim and gloomy impression which the murder took place. History is no longer discussed. People then forget. And today we don't realize it. In fact, we are often lulled by the elegance of the place, so we never question it again. It turns out that beauty can also deceive us. (Purbaya N.D.) Purbaya addresses the state-level silencing and censorship regarding 1965 by insinuating that the scenery of these landscapes is “diverting the past from us.” However, rather than allowing his audience to be “lulled by the elegance of the place” so as to “never question it again,” Purbaya equates each landscape with Luweng Grubug, a known killing site. These places then become a sort of “hidden” memorial in themselves. Due to the lack of public memorials, individuals create memorial sites of their own. Eickhoff et al (2017b) describe a mass grave site in Semarang in which locals have set up makeshift tombstones to represent the dead that rest there. Similarly, by establishing these places as key sites of 1965 through documentation, Purbaya is establishing them as memorial sites that are then venerated through his artistic practice. The act of photographing the site sets it apart from the surrounding 35 === [PDF page 47] === environment, the same way a statue or plaque might in a traditional monument. By then displaying the photos to a public audience, viewers can reflect upon these sites. While perhaps not knowing the exact events that occurred in each place, the audiences can infer what may have happened, inserting their own experiences into the photographs. The subtle nature of the photographs and Purbaya’s accompanying description encourages the audience to consider what other places may be hiding a dark history. In this way, both Purbaya’s Letter to the Lost One (2017) and Landscapes of Deception (2018) serve as modes of memory activism through memorialization. By providing a setting for onlookers to remember their lost loved ones and exposing the integration of 1965 in the lived environment, Purbaya reinserts the events of 1965-66 into public discourse and allows alternative means of reconciliation. II. Commemoration and the Archive Art as commemoration acts as a parallel to art as memorialization. However, I use commemoration to refer to art that focuses on an individual rather than memorializing the victims of 1965 as a whole. Artists often use commemorative practices to mourn a lost family member or loved one. This also serves to humanize the victims by allowing audiences to form a direct connection, putting a face to the name, so to speak. Artistic practice can also serve to counteract the official archive by recentering alternative narratives and forms of remembrance. Below, I will discuss “art as commemoration” and “art to contest the archive” in unison, as they appear together in Purbaya’s earlier works Stories Left Untold (2015) (Figure 4, 5, 6) and Investigating Boentardjo (2016) (Figure 7) that center around his research into the story of how and why his grandfather, Boentardjo, was killed during the 1965-66 genocide. While both works 36 === [PDF page 48] === commemorate the life and loss of his grandfather, Purbaya also uses his research practice to critique the official archive of documentation that supports the canonical history of the genocide. Stories Left Untold (2015) is a documentation project in which Purbaya uncovers the truth about the death of his grandfather. He writes that “It was only after the end of the Suharto’s regime in 1998 that my parents told me about what had happened to my late grandparents. Boentardjo Amaroen Kartowinoto, my grandfather, was captured and probably killed during the massacres that occurred throughout Indonesia in 1965” (Purbaya N.D.). Before this, Purbaya had little knowledge about the life of his grandfather, much less notions of who he was as a person. To form an understanding of his grandfather, Purbaya turns to his living relatives, gathering stories through interviews and documenting objects that family members held on to that represent his grandfather’s memory. Stories Left Untold (2015) is then a photo series of portraits of family members and stand-alone objects that Purbaya has curated to form a manifestation of his grandfather’s life and memory. Each image is accompanied by a caption that explains the context of the object or scene depicted. This includes the previously mentioned photo of Luweng Grubug, the alleged resting place of Boentardjo. Despite being the representation of the end of Boentardjo’s life, Purbaya titles the image “Starting Point,” to insinuate that this is where his investigation began (Figure 4). Portraits of family members are also displayed, each captioned with commentary about Boentardjo, whether it be a memory or their feelings about the alienating circumstance of his death. For instance, a photo of Danang (Figure 6) is captioned “this wound cannot be covered, but must be cured” (Purbaya N.D.). 37 === [PDF page 49] === Stories Left Untold (2015) serves as memory work through both commemoration and criticism of the archive. By accumulating the memories of various family members into one assemblage, Purbaya has commemorated the loss of his grandfather. Through the process, he reinserted his grandfather into family history, providing those that new him an outlet to express their grief outside of stigmatization and allowing those who were unaware of the circumstances of the grandfather’s death to place him within their historical memory. Purbaya writes: This story of my vanished grandfather brought a desire inside me, to dig deeper into our very private history. Almost every member of my extended family whom I have interviewed since then told me about the sadness and adversity they had experienced due to our family history. Still, most of them were reluctant to discuss this issue. It feels like opening an old wound. It was disheartening that some of the younger ones do not even know what I was talking about. (Purbaya N.D.) Purbaya is also formulating an alternative archive. In an interview with the Goethe Institute, Purbaya describes the process for creating Stories Left Untold (2015). “We are trying to dig deeper into the story by visiting the scenes, concluding interviews, and browsing documents and archives,” he writes, comparing the process to “collecting and arranging a puzzle to get a bigger narrative” (Purbaya and Scheider N.D.). Indeed, by using oral history and material objects to build and display the narrative of his grandfather’s death, he is at once countering the dominant narrative that erases victims’ testimonies and contrasting traditional, colonial archival practices that prioritize written documentation. As such, this example illustrates the transformative potential of art to contest dominant memory regimes and cultivate new forms of remembrance. 38 === [PDF page 50] === 39 Figure 4: Rangga Purbaya, Starting Point, from Stories Left Untold, 2015 === [PDF page 51] === Figure 5: Rangga Purbaya, Boentardjo's Shaver, from Stories Left Untold, 2015 Figure 6: Rangga Purbaya, Danang, from Stories Left Untold, 2015 40 === [PDF page 52] === In his second work centering on his grandfather, Investigating Boentardjo (2016), Purbaya, too, uses strategies of commemoration and counter-archive to perform memory work. According to Dirgantoro, in Investigating Boentardjo (2016), Purbaya “assume[s] the role of an archivist” (2023: 284). For this work, he gathers his grandfather’s print documentation from family members, including diary entries, photographs, official documents, and certifications. These are then displayed inside two glass cases as one would find in a museum (Figure 7). Figure 7: Rangga Purbaya, exhibition view of Investigating Boentardjo, 2016 In the same way as Stories Left Untold (2015), Purbaya is commemorating his grandfather by highlighting his individual story. However, he is also directly confronting the archive. He refers to his grandfather’s documents as “artifacts” and calls the project an “investigation” (Purbaya N.D.). By using the language of a scientific pursuit or criminal 41 === [PDF page 53] === investigation, Purbaya implies a sense of objectivity to the narrative he is presenting. The clinical, almost sterile display of the documents in glass cases also reflects this notion. He has created his own, alternative archive in the same language as the state, presenting the circumstances of his grandfather’s death as objective fact, albeit facts that go against dominant narratives. Purbaya employs a similar strategy in his most recent work, The Silent Survivors (TBD), which, at the time I am writing this, has yet to be exhibited. However, he discusses his work in a submission to Inside Indonesia (Purbaya 2025). He describes The Silent Survivors (TBD) as a photo essay/research project in which he works to uncover the lives of ex-political prisoners of 1965. He got inspiration for the project after finding an assemblage of photographs and personal documents from a flea market in Central Java and is now attempting to reconstruct the survivors’ accounts (Purbaya 2025). In his discussion of the project, he blatantly addresses the archive: The material evidence, marked by humidity damage and the wear of neglect, provides an unusually direct window into a period whose archival record remains fragmentary. Weathered photographs such as those depicted here, capture visages long omitted from public memory, while accompanying letters, identification papers, and personal artefacts illuminate the quotidian dimensions of endurance, survival strategies, and acts of resistance. Together, they form a corporeal archive through which silenced voices can be heard once more (Purbaya 2025). This description shows that Purbaya is actively and intentionally engaging in memory work through his deconstruction of the official archive, irrefutably engaging in memory. Taken together, Purbaya’s oeuvre demonstrates how testimony becomes memory activism through the use of memorialization, commemoration, and the reconfiguration of the archive. In Letter to the Lost One (2017), Purbaya creates a communal space for mourning and remembrance, converting intimate letters into a shared monument to the disappeared. In 42 === [PDF page 54] === Landscapes of Deception (2018), seemingly neutral images trigger collective recall of the suppressed events of 1965. The places depicted in the images then become memorial sites in that they come to symbolize resistance to erasure of the violence that has been so naturalized within the lived environment. Earlier projects, such as Stories Left Untold (2015) and Investigating Boentardjo (2016), work as commemoration by personalizing loss. They also contest the archive by addressing its inherent absences, including excluded testimony and means of documentation. Read through the lens of counter-memory and memory activism, these works contest hegemonic narratives by inserting situated, lived memories into the public sphere. Documenting the testimony of survivors and their living relatives works “in direct opposition and attempts to refute in consciously political ways, the New Order’s hegemonic narrative celebrating the massacres” (Pohlman 2020: 65). In this sense, Purbaya’s testimony-based works operate as counter-monuments: they mobilize art’s capacity to make absence visible, to keep memory “in the works,” and hold open attempts at closure. Ultimately, his oeuvre models how artistic research and display can make grief and remembrance a political act, vital to creating a historical memory where multiple narratives can be represented. 43 === [PDF page 55] === CHAPTER SIX ART AND EMBODIMENT: DADANG CHRISTANTO “Art and embodiment” refer to art’s capacity to appeal to viewer’s emotions. This notion is derived from Svašek (2007), who explains that the power of art objects to generate social change comes from their ability to influence viewer emotion. She writes that art objects “reproduce the agency of their commissioners, makers, and users” and “they evoke emotional reactions within and amongst individuals and urge people to take certain actions and positions” (Svašek 2007: 85). Through sensory triggers, art can act as a vehicle that allows its audience to embody the message of the artist. These emotions can range from anger and disgust to hope and awe. Overall, an artist can evoke empathy from their audience. Duncombe (2016) breaks down the emancipatory potential of art when applied in an activist setting. He explains that, on one hand, the goal of activism is “effect” or to evoke tangible change within a given circumstance. On the other hand, art has the goal of “affect” or to induce a powerful emotion or message in its viewer. When merged, art activism creates what Duncombe refers to as “æffect” – affect that results in effect. Duncombe explains, “people do not soberly decide to change their mind and act accordingly. They are moved to do so by emotionally powerful stimuli” (2016: 119). The “æffect” of activist art provides that stimulus. Good activist art allows the viewer to embody the intended message of the artist, moving them to take action. Duncombe (2016) argues that not all political art can be considered activist art. Duncombe differentiates the two, defining political art as art with politics as a topic and activist 44 === [PDF page 56] === art as art that produces æffect. However, this distinction is not realistic in regard to activist art about 1965. These definitions do not account for the intense memory work at the state level and the social consequences of blatant critique of state censorship. Instead, this thesis takes the stance of Mouffe when she writes: One should not see the relation between art and politics in terms of two separately constituted fields... between which a relation would need to be established. There is an aesthetic dimension in the political and there is a political dimension in art. This is why I have argued that it is not useful to make a distinction between political and non-political art. From the point of view of the theory of hegemony, artistic practices play a role in the constitution and maintenance of a given symbolic order or in its challenging, and this is why they necessarily have a political dimension... the real issue concerns the possible forms of critical art, the different ways in which artistic practices can contribute to questioning the dominant hegemony” (2008: 4). In this way, any critical art should be considered political, especially in the wake of such extreme top-down memory work, as is the case with the New Order’s depictions of 1965. In this instance, remembrance is an act of resistance. In depicting the 1965-66 genocide, artists embody emotion within their works in two ways: corporeal depictions of violence and performativity. Given the tragic, violent nature of the event, artists often depict visceral displays of violence either directly or through symbolic references. This evokes a feeling of abjection in the audience, ultimately allowing them to feel empathy for those who suffered such violence. Performativity does not simply refer to performance art. Instead, performativity refers to art’s ability to reconstruct, reinterpret, or “act out” social reality through symbolic means, allowing the audience to participate in social construction (Jurriëns 2020). This too evokes empathy by allowing the audience to temporarily embody the lived experience of the artist or subject matter. It is through the display of violence and its performative elements that Dadang Christanto constructs the memory of 1965 with his works. 45 === [PDF page 57] === I. Violence Christanto is notorious for his visceral depictions of the human body, whether that be through his signature abstracted human head motif or the use of his own body in his performance works (Dirgantoro 2020). When addressing 1965, the bodies of Christanto’s work are subject to extreme violence both representationally and symbolically. Dirgantoro (2018, 2020) provides an analysis of one of Christanto’s more recent projects -- MISSING (2018). MISSING (2018) is an exhibition piece held at Wei-Ling gallery consisting of abstracted portraits of individuals who have been subject to violence. The exhibition consists of large-scale paintings and sculptures. I will be focusing on the installation of over 100 individual portraits displayed along the gallery walls (Figure 8). The portraits portray imagery of violence against victims of 1965. Each portrait shows a unique face, bruised, bloody, with fearful expressions. The paintings are harsh, composed of Figure 8: Dandang Christanto, MISSING (installation view), 2018 46 === [PDF page 58] === violent slashes of acrylic and charcoal on a background of raw canvas. Dirgantoro (2018) explains that the untreated canvas is meant to evoke the burlap bags that would cover the victim’s face during transport. Christanto revealed that he got the idea for this installation after hearing of a photographer during the events of 1965-66 who would take photos of alleged communists as they entered interrogation centers (Dirgantoro 2020). Christanto then imagines what the faces of the victims may have looked like after the harsh treatment they would have endured. Dirgantoro (2020) unpacks Christanto’s reference to photography, stating that, while the images a camera captures are usually understood to represent “reality,” trauma of such a degree exists outside of comprehensible understanding. Instead, Christanto uses these exaggerated, violent portraits to embody the pain and trauma the victims must have felt. The deep scratches of the charcoal, the heavy expressions of the individuals, and the occasional dash of red signal trauma to the audience and reference an imagined weapon and attacker that is no longer there. The overwhelming number of portraits, too, inspires a visceral reaction in the audience. Below is an excerpt from the exhibition pamphlet released alongside the exhibition: The powerful images that emerged from the artist’s expressive strokes in the series trigger an intense sensation as a means to evoke empathy from the viewer. The representation of pain is amplified by the sheer number of the individuals that loom over the viewer in the exhibition space… At the same time, as viewers immerse themselves in the exhibition space, they may also experience a sense of “empathic unsettlement,” a term used by Dominick LaCapra to explain an aesthetic experience of simultaneously feeling for another and becoming aware of the distinction between one’s perception and the experience of others. For most viewers, the pain and suffering of the victims represented in the artworks, were not experienced first-hand, these traumas thus remain “owned” and unshareable even after they are communicated, particularly when one takes account of the artist’s creative processes in the making of these works. 47 === [PDF page 59] === Christanto’s works have always been firmly on the side of the victims and survivors of human rights violation. As his works appeal to the sense of justice and humanity, in this exhibition, they are also unavoidably, shocking. The shock function, as Brian Massumi argues, ‘does not so much reveal the truth as thrust us involuntarily into a mode of critical inquiry,’ particularly on the issues of 1965-66. What we could consider is how these works function to stimulate our thinking through visual signs and the body, particularly if we contextualize the shock against the effort by the Indonesian state to suppress and silence the victims and survivors’ narratives. (Dirgantoro 2018, emphasis added). Above, Dirgantoro (2018) explains how visceral depictions of violence that produce shock, even abjection, work to insight conversation about 1965-66’s covered history. While the production produces empathy, it also produces confusion and unease, forcing audiences to confront the memory of 1965 and its subsequent erasure. Christanto portrays violence symbolically through the use of color. Turner and Barclay explain Christanto’s color coding: “red for violence, brown for dried blood and black for dark or repressed memories, relieved occasionally by rare flecks of gold as a symbol of enlightenment” (2011: 82). Christanto frequently uses red in his works addressing the 1965 violence. For instance, his installation commissioned by the Australian National Gallery of Art, Red Rain (Hujan Merah) (2003) was the first time Christanto openly made a piece about his experience of the 1965-66 genocide (McGregor 2018). Red Rain (2003) (Figure 9) is a large-scale installation that hangs from the ceiling of the gallery. A large platform is covered with small photos of individuals killed during 1965. Each photo is laminated, alluding to the identity cards that differentiated those of Chinese descent, who were targets during the 1965 events (Turner 2007). This could also be a reference to the special demarcation on identity cards those labeled “communist” were forced to display of the New Order’s “clean environment” policy (Heryanto 2006). From each photo hangs a singular red string that spills to the floor, pooling slightly when it reaches the ground. The result is a powerful 48 === [PDF page 60] === allusion to the violence committed against the victims, both socially through the reference to the identity cards, and physically through the red string, which resembles streams of blood falling to the floor. Figure 9: Dadang Christanto, Red Rain, 2003 49 === [PDF page 61] === Christanto similarly uses red to evoke blood in his performance In Red, sometimes referred to as Tooth Brushing (Figure 10). The piece was first performed in 1979, and again later in 2015 and 2017. While in 1979 he had yet to openly discuss his works in the context of 1965, the later performances can be read in conjunction with his openly critical pieces. The audience’s first impression of In Red focuses on the stark juxtaposition between red and white. Christanto wears a white shirt and sits behind a white bowl resting upon a stark white tablecloth. The bowl is filled with a dark red liquid – beet juice – meant to resemble blood. Christanto then begins to splash the liquid on his face and hands, causing the “blood” to splatter against the tablecloth and his t-shirt. At some point in the performance, Christanto begins to brush his teeth with the bloodlike liquid, suggesting “how inhumane violence, like the act of brushing your teeth, becomes an everyday reality” (Wei-Ling Contemporary 2018). Figure 10: Dadang Christanto, still from In Red or Tooth Brushing, from 2015 performance 50 === [PDF page 62] === The use of red as “blood” in both Red Rain (2003) and In Red evokes visceral emotion in its viewers. The shower of red created in Red Rain (2003) first seems to urge the audience to reach out and run their fingers through the fringe. Only after realizing that the red originates from a human figure does the audience begin to equate the red with violence. This intense juxtaposition produces abjection. Referring to the ribbons as “rain” and the mass curtain of red the bodies have produced alludes to the sheer mass of those killed in the genocide. The reaction to violence at such extremes and in such quantity evokes empathy as Dirgantoro (2018) describes in regard to MISSING (2018). In Red, too, creates juxtaposition. The table Christanto sits at is set for a meal. However, the audience is surprised when he instead splashes the red liquid on himself and then begins to brush his teeth. The casualness with which Christanto performs such actions with what resembles blood causes the audience to question what other residues of violence may be embedded in their daily life. The performance also alludes to the way some Indonesians live with the legacy of 1965. Perpetrators of the violence still walk the streets, and mass graves have yet to be unearthed. However, people are forced to live alongside it, ignore it, and adapt it into their routine. Through representing violence, Dirgantoro uses shock to capture the viewer’s attention. The display produces horror and dismay, triggering empathy in the audience through the work’s embodiment of the victims’ suffering. This also forces the audience to confront the subsequent silencing at the state level, and perhaps their own role in the formation of memory around the genocide. II. Performativity While, of course, Christanto is in many ways a performance artist, his works also have an aspect of performativity. Jurriëns explains that “performativity is not limited to performance 51 === [PDF page 63] === art” (2020: 235). Instead, the performative nature of an artwork is in its engagement with the audience and its ability to embody and portray a message, experience, or feeling. Jurriëns writes, “performativity refers to artistic gestures that stimulate and are shaped by dynamic interactions with the time and space in which they are situated, and with the audiences they are targeting. These gestures are meant to encourage the audience to engage with and influence, or change, the sociopolitical realities highlighted by the activist cause at stake” (2020: 236). An artwork that is performative is sensorial, making the audience feel actively engaged with the work and its message. The oeuvre of Christanto is nothing if not performative, and this can be seen throughout the entirety of his career. The pieces that most express the performative nature of Christanto’s work are his three masterworks of the nineties: For Those Who Have Been Killed… (1993)3, 1001 Earth Humans (1001 Manusia Tanah) (1996), and They Give Evidence (1996-7). It should be noted that Christanto did not openly discuss these works in the context of the 1965-66 genocide at the time of their creation. The New Order regime was still active, albeit heading towards its collapse in 1998, and Indonesian censorship laws prevented Christanto from making any allusion that his work was a response to state affairs (Turner 2023). Instead, Christanto claims to be reacting to “violence across the world at any time or place” (Turner 2023: 234). However, it was not until many years later, after relocating to Australia, that Christanto revealed that For Those Who Have Been Killed… (1993) was indeed about the 1965-66 genocide The full name of the piece is For Those: Who Are Poor, Who Are Suffer(Ing), Who Are Oppressed, Who Are Voiceless, Who Are Powerless, Who Are Burdened, Who Are Victims of Violence, Who Are Victims of a Dupe, Who Are Victims of Injustice (1993). 52 === [PDF page 64] === and its aftermath (Turner 2023). I argue that the other works listed above can be read in that lens, too. Even if Christanto is meaning to embody universal loss rather than a particular event, his work cannot be understood in isolation from his intimate, firsthand experience with the 1965 tragedy, which resulted in the loss of his father. Furthermore, his works after leaving Indonesia, such as MISSING (2018), openly grapple with the realities of 1965. As such, each of these pieces embodies the sensorial experience, materiality, and emotion of such an event. For Those Who Have Been Killed (1993) (Figure 11) is a large installation piece. Large wooden poles intersected with smaller bamboo pieces hang from the ceiling. Each pole is knobbed at the top, anthropomorphizing the poles by referencing the profile of a human head. The inanimate poles are then visually transformed into figures, pierced by the bamboo sticks. The centerpiece of the installation is another figurative wooden sculpture laid horizontally upon thin wooden dowels. The piece is full of tensions; heavy, massive poles hang from thin wire, held rigid by the nail-like branches that pierce them. The fallen figure, equally as weighty, is held above the ground by frail twigs, as the surrounding act as witnesses. Christanto refers to the figures as trees, grouped as a forest, that serve as silent witnesses to violence (Turner 2023). Their anthropomorphic composition also insinuates that they could represent the silent bystanders of 1965. However, they do not watch idly; the figures are literally puppeted by strings, and the smaller wooden spikes pin them into position, just as the New Order used memory work to compel the country into silence. The installation embodies the sensation of forced silence and the tensions of grief and trauma ignored. Gallery visitors are then invited to interact with the work. Guests are encouraged to leave personal tokens in honor of victims of injustice. Many people left flowers, letters to deceased loved ones, or testaments to global tragedies. As a part of the work’s accompanying performance 53 === [PDF page 65] === piece, Christanto, too, venerates the site. After covering himself in clay, a moment which Turner (2023) suggests symbolizes the yet uncovered victims of 1965, Christanto sprinkles flower petals atop and around the lying figure before tossing them around the surrounding installation. The audience’s involvement in the creation of the piece forces them to confront their own experiences of trauma and violence, joining their grief with that of Christanto. It is in this way that the audience can embody the message Christanto communicates in the artwork. Figure 11: Dadang Christanto, For Those Who Have Been Killed, 1993 In 1996, Christanto created 1001 Earth Humans (Figure 12), a public installation consisting of 1000 life-size figurative statues (Christanto being the 1001st). The figures are placed within the shallows of the surf off Marine Beach, Ancol, home to an amusement park 54 === [PDF page 66] === (Turner and Barclay 2011). The figures stand naked and vulnerable in the water. Their shoulders are tense, and their arms hang rigidly at their sides. They are waiting at the edge of the water, watching as onlookers from the beach enjoy their leisure. Turner (2023) explains that Christanto intended the piece to be a commentary on forced displacement and dispossession in the name of economic development. He was directly responding to the construction of the Kedung Ombo Dam in the mid-eighties, which resulted in the mass dispossession of local villagers. The piece also speaks of memory and forgetting. The figures were made of a fiberglass composition, which eroded in the water (Turner and Barclay 2011). As the figures stood waiting, they eventually disappeared into the sea, “vanishing as uncounted thousands of Indonesians had vanished in the ‘Killing Times’” (Turner and Barclay 2001: 79). Onlookers watched as the figures eroded, becoming bystanders to their disappearance. In this way, Christanto has created a Figure 12: Dadang Christanto, 1001 Earth Humans (1001 Manusia Tanah), 1996 55 === [PDF page 67] === powerful, emotional display that embodies both the physical decay of bodies thrown to sea during 1965 and the eventual decay of memory at the hands of censorship. They Give Evidence (1996-97) is the final piece of Christanto’s performative works that I will be discussing. They Give Evidence is another figurative piece consisting of larger-than-life human sculptures organized in a linear grid. The figures are compositionally similar to those in 1001 Earth Humans but present themselves with a stoic calm rather than anxiety. Each figure holds out clothing, made stiff by resin to keep shape as if someone were wearing them (Seiz 2005). Viewers are encouraged to walk among the figures, allowing guests to “observe them up close, as individuals” (Seiz 2005: 3). Seiz (2005) predicts that this up-close exposure allows the audience to feel compassion for the figures by observing the anguish they emit. Figure 13: Dadang Christanto, They Give Evidence, 1996-97 56 === [PDF page 68] === Figure 14: Dadang Christanto, scene from gallery opening, 2003 Christanto reveals that the work is meant to symbolize “the continuity between the old and new violence” (quoted in Turner and Barclay 2011: 78). In other words, it represents the way trauma transforms based on positionality and time. In an educational pamphlet that accompanies the piece in the New South Wales Art Gallery, curator Natalie Seiz writes: The figures are … [a representation] … of ‘victims holding victims’; those who have disappeared and those who are left behind to grieve. Dadang has noted that the clothes his figures hold are not the figures’ own but represent those left by the body and soul of those who once wore them. Yet the flow and ‘continuity between old and new violence’, of people disappearing, brings another pervasive silence once they are gone. (Seiz 2005: 3). This interpretation clearly aligns with representations of the 1965-66 genocide. Two types of victims exist: those who were killed and those who are forced to carry their trauma in exile and 57 === [PDF page 69] === shame. The latter must “carry” the former in silence. However, Christanto’s figures present the evidence of victimhood, forcing the audience to confront the source of their trauma. Christanto’s accompanying performance adds another layer of meaning to the piece (Figure 14). Seiz (2005) describes the performance in the same pamphlet. During the official opening of the NSW Asian galleries, where the piece is displayed, Christanto had first covered the figures in black plastic and tied them with red string. During the performance, he ceremoniously uncovered the figures. Seiz explains that “the covering was a symbol of the dual oppression they [the figures] were facing: they were already silent figures, but being covered in black plastic silences them once again and forces them to physically disappear” (2005: 3). By uncovering the figures, Christanto is giving them the opportunity to express their sorrow. In this act, Christanto has embodied the grief and oppression that those tied to 1965 continue to face. However, he relieves them of some of that oppression by giving them the opportunity to speak or “give evidence.” In this way, They Give Evidence (1996-97) and its accompanying performance encapsulate the complex layers of victimhood produced by state-sanctioned persecution while also providing a sense of reconciliation. Overall, Christanto’s work leverages embodiment through shock and abjection, as well as performativity, to transform viewers’ sensory reaction to artworks into confrontations with suppressed history. The deformed faces of MISSING (2018) shock the viewer, forcing an uncomfortable empathy that prompts an evaluation of state-sanctioned censorship, while Red Rain (2003) and In Red confront the processes that uphold institutions of violence. The three works, For Those Who Have Been Killed (1993), 1001 Earth Humans (1996), and They Give Evidence (1996-97), operationalize Jurriëns’s performativity – artistic work that engages with 58 === [PDF page 70] === spaciotemporal subjectivity, action, and contextual nuance – to embody the lived experience of the artist, audience, and subject matter. Such strategies appeal to emotion, which, according to Svašek (2007), is a prerequisite to action. This reflects Duncombe’s (2016) theory of æffect which places activist art in a unique position to inspire political action through emotional engagement. In this way, Christanto’s body of work functions as a counter-monumental practice, as it prioritizes the subjectivity and emotional nuance of memory, allowing the past to remain in flux without erasure of marginal narratives. 59 === [PDF page 71] === CHAPTER SEVEN ART AND PLACE: LEYLA STEVENS Memory has significant ties to place. Memory can be held within the landscape, triggered by monuments, ruins, or natural features (Johnson 2004; Leong 2021, 2023; Pohlman 2020; Nora 1996; Trigg 2009). Trigg (2009) explains that notions of embodiment and spatiality unite in one’s sense of place. “Place” as a construct gives space for the performance of memory. Places of trauma and violence, however, create new, more complex relations between place and memory. In recollections of trauma, the body remains located in the “here and now,” yet the individual relives the embodied experiences of the past. Assman and Short explain this more simply: “trauma creates a paradoxical situation. In this case, time does not propel the disappearance of the (re)-emergence of memory. It leads from presence to disappearance, then to reappearance” again (2012: 6). Therefore, the relationship between place and trauma is a spatiotemporal one, in which trauma operates outside of linear concepts of time. Trigg (2009) writes that this dissonance between competing senses of time at one location results in a spectral, uncanny feeling, which he refers to as “haunting”. The theoretical concept of haunting originates from Jacques Derrida (1993). In a framework that he calls “hauntology,” Derrida rejects the idea of a linear narrative of past, present, and future. Instead, temporality exists contemporaneously in which events from the past, the current contexts of the present, and ideas of the future continuously interact and influence one another to form lived reality (Derrida 1993; Beiler 2020). He extends this notion of haunting to the political realm, explaining that dominant hegemony exists through the repression of 60 === [PDF page 72] === alternatives to the norm. “Haunting” as a discursive practice is a way to oppose this. He also introduces the “ghost” as a conceptual tool, defining a ghost as an idea that is not quite present nor absent, but continues to influence the current moment. Derrida’s “ghost” can be literally a spirit of the dead, but it can also be used more conceptually as anything unfinished or unresolved that is removed from daily life yet continues to “haunt” the present. Auchter (2017), however, uses the “ghost” in its literal sense and applies this concept to memory activist theory. She writes that ghosts, by nature, are agents of memory due to their simultaneous existence in the past and present. Ghosts are not just “from the past,” they are the past manifested in the present. Therefore, ghosts disrupt any idea of a linear narrative of history. Because of this, Auchter explains that “ghosts should be considered disruptive memory activists, as by definition they alter traditional, state-centric, mechanisms of memory and memorialization” (2017: 117). She provides the example of the ghosts of the Rwandan genocide who continue to exist despite state narratives that want to confine them to the past. This phenomenon is extremely relevant to understandings of ghosts and haunting in Indonesia. Ghosts and haunting become very real in Indonesia. In many cases, the spirits of the victims of 1965 appear to their loved ones and communicate with the living world. This phenomenon is documented throughout the archipelago. Kent (2024) explains that this supernatural remembrance is an act of memory work, as victims’ physical (bones, belongings, clothing fragments) and ephemeral (dreams, visitations, signs in nature) presence disturb the dominant narratives of the past. Kent (2024) begins her argument by discussing the mass death in Timor-Leste during the period of Indonesian occupation between 1975 and 1999. Like in Indonesia, bodies of many of the victims reside in mass, unmarked graves. Without proper burial, spirits are left in a liminal state in which they can 61 === [PDF page 73] === become agitated and have negative impacts on livelihood, including within the political sphere. To placate and honor these spirits, citizen-led operations work to locate and then properly bury these bodies. Kent (2024) writes that her interlocutors state that the spirits help them find their bodies and ask for ways of commemoration. In this way, there becomes a “collective action” between human and nonhuman agents, in which the dead have agency in memory work. Kent (2024) elaborates this argument by claiming that the dead behave as memory workers in the sense that they demand to be recognized despite dominant narratives that try to both deny their existence and keep them in the past. Through their interactions with the living, the spirits bring their memory to the public’s attention. Kent (2024: 501) explains that “it is in their entangled spectral-material presence – as spirits and as bones – that the dead act upon the living, promoting emotional reactions and actions, and sometimes disrupting the commemorative narratives and practices that underpin elite-led nation-and-state-building. In these ways, the dead can be understood as possessing a form of agency.” With this agency, the dead can fulfill the role of memory activist. While Kent’s (2024) argument does not take place within the context of 1965, the theory is still relevant, as a similar phenomenon of the unburied dead “haunting” the living can be seen throughout Indonesia. For instance, Pohlman (2020) reports of haunting in the Gunung Sewu Karst region of Central Java, Eickhoff et al (2017b) describe haunting at a mass grave site outside of Semarang, and Leong (2023) depicts haunting at multiple locations in and surrounding Jogjakarta. Pohlman (2020) explains that much like in Timor-Leste, the spirits of the dead in Indonesia can remain stuck in a liminal space between life and death. “Bad deaths,” such as the mass murders of 1965, cause the sites in which the killing happened to become haunted (angker). Pohlman (2020) provides a functionalist explanation for the hauntings. She writes that haunting 62 === [PDF page 74] === is a tangible form of trauma that gives the griever something to do about it. In order to process their trauma, individuals will attempt to appease the spirits of the one they lost. In this way, haunting serves the function of allowing individuals to process death and trauma. It also allows for the memory of 1965 to remain in public discourse in a seemingly nonpolitical way. Like Kent’s (2024) spirits, the dead in Indonesia are able to use their agency to contest state narratives. This phenomenon is exemplified in Bali. Balinese Hinduism recognizes the existence of the seen realm (sekala), the land of the living, and the unseen spirit realm (niskala) (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007). Balinese Hinduism’s elaborate cremation ritual is meant to allow the spirits of ancestors to pass into the realm of the dead. If there is no body to cremate, the spirit becomes stuck in a liminal space between worlds, where it can become irritated, restless, and sometimes malevolent (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007). The spirit is then tied to the location of violence, like the way Pohlman (2020) describes. Because the niskala and sekala realms are tied together, actions in one realm have a consequent reaction in the other. The restless spirits of 1965 then appear to their relatives in dreams, contact them through spirit mediums, or speak in visions or through “whispers” (Dwyer and Santikarma 2007). In this way, the dead in Bali are active members of society, and they, too, have an agency in which they can act on the living. Indonesian conceptions of haunting, particularly within a Balinese context, are greatly tied to the landscape. This can be seen in Pohlman’s description of angker sites; spirits are tied to the location of where their bodies lay or where the violence occurred through what her interlocuters describe as a sort of “left over residue” (2020: 67). On Bali, the relationship between the seen and unseen realms is mitigated through the landscape through spiritually significant landmarks, natural formations, or places of violence. The spirits of the unburied dead 63 === [PDF page 75] === are tied to the locations of violence or other spiritually significant markers, as Pohlman (2020) describes. Eickhoff et al (2017b) call these sites of violence where ghosts of the dead reside “memory landscapes,” or the unseen realm where the past remains unsettled and multiple temporalities become entangled, emphasizing the significance of the spatial dimension in memory formation and maintenance. Despite the unspoken nature of 1965, sites of mass violence in Semarang shape the way locals interact with the landscape. Some fear and avoid these areas, while others venerate. Leong (2023) expands this idea, arguing that the network of mass graves within the unseen world creates a counter-reality where subaltern memories can exist and be expressed despite dominant narratives and state-sanctioned suppression. Instead of being “at rest,” the spirits of 1965 continue to exist within these memory landscapes, actively and continuously working with the living to shape narratives of the past. These understandings of haunting and place align well with art and memory activism as I have described it. I have already established that haunting contradicts linear, unified narratives of the past, and memorialization, in its traditional sense, cannot accommodate the plurality of memory that haunting implies. However, Bieler (2020) writes that incorporating hauntology into commemoration practices can prevent the false consolation and closure often asserted by a traditional memorial by keeping narratives open and allowing for plural perspectives. In the same way, a counter-monument has the capacity to represent this multiplicity, leaving room for contestation of ideas and highlighting minority voices. In this way, both art and place-based haunting are modes of counter-memory, and the two join forces within the counter-monument. By centering the landscape and its non-human inhabitants, artists can reflect on how the past continues to influence the present. 64 === [PDF page 76] === Artists employ place as memory work in two ways. First, artists highlight the memory carried by ghosts, spirits, and other nonhuman agents that exist within the hidden landscapes. Second, understanding the landscape as agentive, artists evoke the memory landscape in their work, allowing this place-based memory to exist in other settings. In this way, BalineseAustralian artist Leyla Stevens uses place’s tie to the spectral realm to explore traces of 1965 in contemporary Balinese landscapes. Pulling from her cultural heritage, Stevens uses her artistic practice to “not only locate 1965 memory through survivor perspectives, but also within less defined narratives from those who acted as unwilling witnesses to these times” (Stevens 2021: Due to the interrelated nature of nonhuman agency and the memory landscape, I will not separate the discussion of the two themes. For clarity, I will provide basic details about the organization and timeline of Stevens artworks. Of Love and Decomposition is a solo exhibition held at Firstdraft gallery in Sydney, Australia. The exhibition contained three individual video projects. The two that will be discussed here are Wong Samar (2016) and Witness (2016). Their Sea is Always Hungry (2018) is a single-channel video shown at UNSW Galleries. However, There Sea is Always Hungry (2019) is a video project for UTS Art that also contains the two additional video works, Kidung/Lament (2019) and Rites for the Missing (2019). I. Haunting and the Memory Landscape Wong Samar (2016) (Figures 15,16) is Stevens’s most direct reference to unseen worlds. Referencing a study done on mental illness in Bali by Lemelson and Suryani (2006), Stevens demonstrates how spirits of the dead have real impacts on the living (Stevens N.D.). The study narrates the story of a man referred to as Nyoman (name anonymized), who, after witnessing the massacre of 1965, entered a state of psychosis in which he “lived in two worlds,” and could 65 === [PDF page 77] === interact with the dead (Stevens 2021). While taking some creative liberty, Stevens bases Wong Samar (2016) largely on Nyoman’s story. Stevens describes the contents of her work in detail below: The video, which was displayed on a large wall monitor with the sound on headphones, narrates the story of an unnamed man who in 1965 witnesses a massacre in his village. The man narrowly escapes being killed as he has had a premonition: when military men arrive in his village, he hides away up in a tree. Since that event the man experiences a debilitating psychosis and is marked as a withdrawn and isolated figure within his village. He also is haunted by the presence of spirits named wong samar, whom he develops an ongoing relationship with. The story is recounted by a female voice in Indonesian through a prose-like narration. It begins by a slow pan across a verdantly green coconut field, pulsating with a chorus of crickets. As the video progresses, we watch an older man dressed as a rice farmer, reenact the moment whereas a young man he escapes being killed by hiding up a coconut tree… The camera follows him as he climbs up the tall trunk and reveals how from this vantage point, he watched military men hack his fellow villagers (and members of his own family) to death with machetes. The video shifts back to the empty coconut field where, gradually, an apparition of the spirits that haunt him, the wong samar, appears and stands motionless as the camera slowly pans across the field. The narration continues to recount his relationship with these spirits and his trauma from 1965, which he names through the Balinese concept of ngeb [fear or awe]. Expanding on her description, Stevens then argues that ngeb can be understood as a form of resistance. Nyoman does not see these spirits as malicious, but rather as a part of a reciprocal relationship in which he appeases them in return for wisdom. Through engagement with the spirits, the man is “both surrendering, carrying, and coexisting with his trauma” (2021: 93). She then clarifies that not all Balinese hold magico-religious beliefs to this level and, of course, Nyoman’s post-traumatic mental condition is not necessarily a reflection of how all Balinese interact with the unseen worlds. However, she states that “what this story does propose is an alternative form of redressing: where in the absence of official reconciliation, an engagement with spirits is both a form of healing and resistance” (2021: 93). 66 === [PDF page 78] === Figure 15: Leyla Stevens, still of man climbing tree from Wong Samar, 2016 Figure 16: Leyla Stevens, still of apparition from Wong Samar, 2016 67 === [PDF page 79] === Figure 17: Leyla Stevens, still from Rites for the Missing, 2019 Stevens’s Rites for the Missing (2019) (Figure 17) demonstrates such an act. Rites (2019) takes place along a relatively undeveloped part of the Balinese coastline that is rumored to be the site of a mass grave. Steven describes the work: As evoked through its title, Rites is framed as last rites for the missing dead in this site. In the video we see a female performer unwinding a long piece of white cloth through the landscape. The white cloth, which is evocative of the cloth used to wrap the dead in Balinese Hindu cremation rituals, is used here to wrap the landscape. Rites begins with a series of slow landscapes of the abandoned villa and its surroundings. Then we see a series of close-ups of the performer who is unwinding a long stretch of white cloth wrapped around her body. We then see a sequence of images where the performer slowly unwraps this stretch of cloth, to create a long white line in the landscape. At times, she places the cloth over shrubs, on the ground and around trees. Other times the cloth is secured outside the camera frame, and we see the performer enter the frame from one end and pulling the white cloth behind her until it is stretched across the frame. (Stevens 2021: 101). Because the dead are tied to the landscape where their bodies lie, Stevens demonstrates a reparative, funerary act being performed upon the landscape as an act of reconciliation for the dead. At the same time, the performance can be framed as “a remembering of those whose memories remain silenced within the archive” (Stevens 2021: 103). Spirits and the landscape are each an extension of the other. By recognizing this and engaging with the landscape as one would with the dead, one is able to counterpose the erasure of their death and have an outlet for 68 === [PDF page 80] === their veneration. Like with Nyoman and his ghosts, engaging with the unseen realm in this way is counter-memory in practice. Engagement with the spirit realm can also be seen as resistance to state-centered memory that prioritizes a singular narrative. Because ghosts are situated in both the past and present, addressing the dead as agentive members of society opens the past for re-interpretation. This notion can also be seen in Rites (2019). Stevens explains: For a viewer watching this video performance there is a sense of obfuscation created through subtle time slippages and non-linear cuts between the two channels. The work plays with slippages between the two channels, often repeating the same image across the two channels, but slightly out of sync. What does become apparent over the duration of the video is that this temporal ambiguity between the two channels reveals co-existing temporalities within the landscape. Rites thus reveals the present pasts embedded within this site and also seeks to allow for transitory, performative modes of remembering (Stevens 2021: 101-102, emphasis added). The laps in time between the two monitors visually depict the entanglement of past and present in sites of extreme violence, reflecting Trigg’s (2009) understanding of traumatic memory and Derrida’s (1994) hauntology, as ghosts act as a manifestation of this transtemporal haunting. Stevens engages with this notion of temporal entanglement as it relates to the spirit world in Our Sea is Always Hungry (2018). The fourteen-minute video is narrated by two women, one older and one younger, speaking in both Indonesian and Balinese. The women are having a conversation about the events of 1965 and how it has been both remembered and forgotten. At one point, one woman ponders the fate of those who have not yet been properly buried, stating that they can hear bones calling out: Still sometimes I can hear them. (Tetap saja, saya masih mendengar mereka.) Those missing, I can hear their bones. (Yang hilang itu. Saya bisa dengar tulang-tulang mereka) Calling from those forgotten places under the ground. 69 === [PDF page 81] === (Memanggil dari tempat-tempat yang dilupakan di bawah tanah) They are still here. (Mereka masih disini) (Their Sea is Always Hungry, 2018, translation in Hearman 2023: 149) This dialogue serves as a voiceover to montages of contrasting, seemingly timeless, and decidedly modern images of the landscape, including beaches, jungle, roads, and toll bridges. In some cases, the images are layered atop one another, symbolizing the palimpsest of memory and history located within the landscape (Stevens 2021) (Figure 18). Embodiments of spiritual figures also make an appearance (Figure 19). The voices later reveal that they are “not quite human but something that could be described as being “closer to the realm of trees,” and they describe their reality as “sitting parallel to the human world, so close that at time they overlap” (Stevens 2021: 94). This is a clear reference to the entanglement of the sekala and niskala realms. Being an extension of the natural world, the spirits exist in both the spirit realm and the living realm and are a continuation of the past to the present. Overall, Rites for the Missing (2019) and Their Sea is Always Hungry (2018) reveal the transtemporality of place-based memory. The natural world acts as a mediator between the niskala and sekala landscapes, encapsulating memory from both worlds from the past into the present. In this way, the non-human agencies embedded within place form what Stevens calls the “spectral archive,” or “the hidden histories inscribed in a place” (2021: 83). Because the landscape is agentive, it registers the spectral remains of what has occurred there, creating what Eickhoff et al (2017b) refers to as the “memory landscape.” 70 === [PDF page 82] === Figure 18: Leyla Stevens, still from Our Sea is Always Hungry, 2018 Figure 19: Leyla Stevens, still from Our Sea is Always Hungry, 2018 71 === [PDF page 83] === The memory landscape is exemplified in Stevens’s Witness (2016) and Kidung/Lament (2019). Witness (2016) (Figures 20, 21) centers around a banyan tree. Banyan trees are seen as powerful spiritual locators in Bali, as it is believed that spirits are attracted to the tree. As such, they are often marked with checkered cloth and a shrine for daily offerings (Stevens 2021). The particular banyan tree featured in Witness stands at an alleged site of a mass grave that has now been developed into a busy intersection. Following the themes expressed in Rites (2019) and Their Sea (2018), the tree acts as a visual marker for nonhuman agents that have “witnessed” the ongoings at the site across time, including the massacres of 1965 and subsequent development of the region. This is reflected in a shot shown in Figure 21 in which twisting powerlines blur into the branches of the banyan tree. Figure 20: Leyla Stevens, still from Witness, 2016. 72 === [PDF page 84] === Figure 21: Leyla Stevens, still from Witness, 2016. The motif of the banyan tree as a representation of the memory of the spectral realm is repeated in Kidung (2019). Stevens references the same tree depicted in Witness (2016). However, Stevens remarks that “where my previous work Witness situated the tree within the temporal flow of the site, this time I present only abstract close-ups of the tree, forming a stronger symbolism and focus on the tree as a sentinel to the missing dead” (2021: 99). In an interview, Steven states that she thinks of the tree “as almost as a sort of central character in this history” and “a kind of witness to those events” (Stevens 2020). Two of three channels that make up Kidung center around this tree, while the central monitor displays a woman chanting a lament in the “traditional ceremonial style… that’s done in Bali (Stevens 2020). Curator Alia Swastika reveals that the woman singer is Cok Sawitri, “a writer and dramaturg born and bred in Bali, who has experienced a number of events related to this political violence” (Swastika 2019). The ballad sung by Cok Sawitri was written by Stevens, combining the dialogue from Their Sea is Always Hungry and witness accounts of the 1965 violence experienced by Stevens’s father. 73 === [PDF page 85] === (Stevens 2021; Swastika 2019). Some of the experiences described occurred at the site of the banyan tree. Like in Their Sea, the dialogue of Kidung recounts the memory of the landscape. Purbaya and Christanto, too, turn to place as a key theme in their activist works. This can be seen in Purbaya’s Landscapes of Deception (2018). Like in Stevens’s Rites (2019), Purbaya photographs and exhibits these sites as a method of veneration and acknowledgement of the memory the sites hold. By demarcating the landmarks from the surrounding landscapes, Purbaya has created a kind of map of the 1965 memory landscape. Christanto references the agency of the landscape in his installation piece Witness (2004), in which a series of metal sculptural elements are hung within the canopy of a forest. Christanto describes the forest as a witness to 1965: The trees became witness when there is [sic] slaughter in the forest. I am curious to ask where is my father? The body? But nobody answer about that, nobody and I ask to the trees... If they can talk if they can explain, they will explain about the brutality of the regime (Christanto, quoted in Kronenberg and Herbert 2006). While Stevens uses the Balinese-Hindu understanding of the niskala realm to conceptualize memory held within the landscape, the significance of place as a site of memory is not limited to a Balinese audience. Memory in Indonesia is deeply tied to the landscape, where physical environments, spiritual realms, and traces of historical violence become entangled. Through Balinese ontological understandings of haunting and the landscape, the work of Stevens depicts how place is an agentive force that holds and expresses memory. Stevens’ work then becomes a form of counter-memory. Through her films, Stevens foregrounds the spectral presences of the dead and contested histories that remain unresolved. Reflecting theories of Kent (2024) and Auchter (2017), Stevens demonstrates that spirits of the dead are memory workers that actively influence the living. By calling on the memory held within the landscape, Stevens uses her art to develop 74 === [PDF page 86] === the memory landscape of the 1965-66 genocide. By foregrounding haunted sites, spiritually charged natural features, and landscapes embedded with traces of violence, Stevens mobilizes place as a form of counter-memory and expands memory activism into realms beyond the human. This serves as counter-monumental practice, as incorporating “haunting” into remembrance rejects the separation between past and present that is so often mobilized in topdown memory work. 75 === [PDF page 87] === CHAPTER EIGHT CONCLUSIONS “Before we can reconcile, people need to be aware of what has happened, so they can see the event from various perspectives” (Rangga Purbaya, quoted in Setiawan 2018). “In Milan Kundera’s words: ‘the struggle of man against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.’ We must remember because the regime and its fascist movements will try to shut out the past, but its dangerous for the future. So, I hope that my work encourages the Indonesian pubic to open up and discuss their future as a nation” (Dadang Christanto, quoted in The Peak: 56). Archives and official histories often present as neutral or self-evident but when challenged, reveal themselves to be determined by discursive systems of power and desire. I’m interested in how the past is remembered, and locating who has been made absent from established canons… One reflection is that I work towards a reparative engagement with these histories, such as staging a lament or providing alternative forms of memorialization. Hopefully the work is also not only concerned with excavating hidden histories but also presenting the possibility of healing and reparation. (Leyla Stevens, interviewed by Tiarney Miekus, 2023). This thesis began with the problem of how to remember an event that has been systematically silenced. In Indonesia, the 1965–66 genocide persists not through official memory but through absence, trauma, and the traces that refuse erasure. Existing models of memory activism, largely grounded in Western contexts, fail to account for the layered ontologies, risks, and forms of witnessing that shape Indonesian engagements with the past. By examining the works of Rangga Purbaya, Dadang Christanto, and Leyla Stevens, this study has argued that Indonesian artists mobilize testimony, embodiment, and place as strategies of memory activism that challenge the state’s long-standing narrative and construct what I have theorized as counter-monuments. 76 === [PDF page 88] === Across these artists’ oeuvres, memory is mobilized as a tool for political critique. Purbaya’s work creates spaces of memorialization and personal testimony that reinsert erased histories into public consciousness and expose inherent absences in the official archive. Christanto’s embodied, performative engagements with violence and loss mobilize affect to confront viewers with what has been disavowed. Stevens extends memory activism into realms beyond the human by foregrounding spectral landscapes, spiritual presence, and the agency of place itself, revealing the ways the past continues to act upon the present through haunting and nonhuman witnesses. Taken together, these artists illuminate a spectrum of counter-memory practices that destabilize the singular, linear narratives promoted by the New Order and its aftermath. However, while I have written these artists as singular representatives for each tool of memory work, this was merely a heuristic tool. There is plenty of overlap within and across the themes and subthemes I have outlined. For instance, memorialization can be seen in Stevens’s Kidung (2019), as the banyan tree serves as a manifestation of the dead who are then lamented. Above, I have explained how Landscapes of Deception (2018) mobilizes the memory landscape, and Christanto references non-human agency within his works. In the same way that Christanto uses violence to spark conversation, the clinical way Purbaya narrates violence “almost automatically triggers a conversation between the viewer and the artist about the places, objects and people portrayed” (Setiawan 2018). As demonstrated in the artists’ quotations that prelude this section, what unites the artists, then, is understanding their artistic practice as memory work. Purbaya highlights the importance of an understanding of the past formed from multiple perspectives. Christanto speaks of his work as a tool to reopen the discussion of the events of 1965. Stevens positions her work in the critical discourses surrounding the archive and 77 === [PDF page 89] === memorialization. This is done through the mobilization of marginalized testimony, emotional embodiment, and ontologies of place. In this way, artworks that contest dominant narratives of the 1965-66 “communist” genocide can be understood as counter-monuments. The artworks discussed are objects of counter-memory as defined by Foucault (1977). Like Nora (1996) and Rigney’s (2008) “sites of memory,” they symbolically demonstrate memory in flux through opposing singular linear narratives of history. They prioritize marginalized testimonies and embody layered emotion, allowing the viewer to empathize with victims. Through engagement with spectral memory, these counter-monuments demonstrate how history continues to influence the present and the trans-temporality of trauma, ultimately providing alternative forms of remembrance and reconciliation in a highly complex historical, cultural, and sociopolitical context. While I am not suggesting that the three methods presented here (testimony, embodiment, and place) are universal in all instances of art-based memory work, I do believe that a critical understanding of the ways visual media and official histories are both manipulated for political means is vital, especially in the modern age. There has been great innovation since the nineties when Nora declared that technology had greatly changed how public memory is maintained, shifting from socially shared collective memory to his “sites of memory”. Now, for better or worse, the internet has created an age of global mass communication. While this allows everyday citizens to more easily insert their narratives into public discourse, it also allows politicians, corporations, and even government offices to communicate memory narratives directly to the public via social media. Through videos, social media posts, documentaries, and more, the language of memory is visual now more than ever. In this onslaught of historical narratives now publicly accessible, it is important to consider what there is to be gained from certain narratives 78 === [PDF page 90] === being highlighted, and perhaps more importantly, what is being silenced. Art-based memory work, or the counter-monument, provides one way of counteracting those silences and encouraging critical reflection on the political intent of top-down memory initiatives. Theoretically, this thesis demonstrates that counter-monuments in Indonesia need not be physical structures; they can be research-driven installations, embodied performances, or even landscapes imbued with spectral presence. Drawing from Foucault’s counter-memory, Derrida’s hauntology, and Gutman and Wüstenberg’s concept of memory activism, the project shows that Indonesian artistic memory work complicates and expands these frameworks. In particular, the Indonesian case reveals how memory activism can emerge through subtle gestures, through nonhuman agencies, and through practices that honor testimony even when testimony cannot be safely spoken. The implications of this study extend beyond this particular case study. By foregrounding the political and affective force of visual art, this research highlights the essential role artists play in reconfiguring cultural memory under conditions of repression. It also demonstrates the need for memory studies to incorporate non-Western epistemologies, particularly those that recognize spiritual, place-based, and relational forms of remembrance. Future research might include interviews with artists and survivors, ethnographic engagement with communities surrounding memory landscapes, intersectional analysis of artists’ works, or comparative work with other post-authoritarian contexts where art intervenes in histories of mass violence. Examining how the three modes of memory work derived here (testimony, embodiment, and place) are relevant across different cultures could produce interesting insights into the universality (or lack thereof) of memory work. I also see potential in an examination of different artistic media’s ability to 79 === [PDF page 91] === convey memory politics. Many of the works discussed in this thesis are film, photography, or installation-based. How might painting, sculpture, and other forms of visual media compare? 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