London-based Indonesian artist Evi Pangestu’s quietly radical painting practice navigates the tension between rebellion and control. Rooted in abstraction, her works are defined by structural precision, material resistance, and a persistent return to the square—not just as a formal device, but as a metaphor for systems, boundaries, and the spaces in between. Her practice, shaped across Jakarta, Yogyakarta, Birmingham, and London, is deeply informed by lived experience and conceptual restraint. From her childhood sketches in schoolbooks to her most recent solo exhibition, Overthinking Squares at YIRI ARTS in Taipei, Evi continues to challenge the conventions of painting through repetition, distortion, and quiet defiance. Across geographies, grids, and gesso, she invites us into a slower mode of reflection—one that holds space for complexity, ambiguity, and the long process of becoming.

“There’s a political dimension to slowness—when you take time, you resist pressure to be fast, efficient, or immediately understood.” —Evi Pangestu

CNTRFLD. You began your artistic training in Yogyakarta before continuing your studies in Birmingham and London. Can you tell us about your childhood in Indonesia, and how your early experiences shaped your decision to become an artist?

EP. Yes, I initially began an undergraduate degree in Painting in Yogyakarta but didn’t complete it there. After four years in Yogyakarta, I decided to transfer to Birmingham where I finished my BA and later moved to London for my MA. No one in my family was really involved in the arts but even from a young age I was always drawing. Every time I got a new textbook, I’d fill it with sketches rather than notes. For some reasons, during elementary school I was always eager in joining loads of children’s art competitions too, but I never won. Looking back, the whole experience always felt rushed and strange, and to be honest I didn’t really enjoy it. I am not even sure why I participated ha-ha! But in hindsight, maybe those early rejections prepared me for the many more to come in the art world. Even so, I always did well in art at school and by the time I was in middle school I knew I wanted to be an artist. This decision never really changed.  At first, my parents thought art was just a phase or a nice hobby. But as I got more serious about pursuing it as a real path, they started to worry a lot, in fact they still do. I think part of what drew me to becoming an artist is that it felt entirely mine, not something I was expected to do, but something I found for myself. In a family where other paths were more expected, choosing art was a quiet way of claiming my own direction.  Looking back to those early experiences, I think it taught me to trust my instinct and keep going, even when the direction didn’t make immediate sense to everyone else.  Or perhaps I am just a stubborn person. Well, either way here I am!

CNTRFLD. You’ve studied and lived across Yogyakarta, Birmingham, and London. What led you to choose London as your home base, and how has the city shaped your practice both creatively and professionally?

EP. I’ve always been drawn to big cities. Growing up in Jakarta, I was used to the constant energy and intensity, so it felt natural to seek that same kind of atmosphere in other places. I had dreamed of studying at the Royal College of Art since high school because so many artists I looked up to had studied there. That ambition led me to move to London, which felt like home right from the start.  Visiting London as a tourist was already exciting, but living here is something entirely different. The city constantly challenges me with its fast pace, competitiveness, cultural density, keeping me motivated. At the same time there’s a balance of green spaces, the quiet moments, the way the city allows you to pause and notice the details. That duality really feeds into my practice,

pushes me to work harder while also helping me reflect more deeply on what I’m doing and why.

CNTRFLD. As an Indonesian woman working and exhibiting internationally, how has your cultural identity informed your practice? How have your identity and background influenced your experience navigating the art world outside Indonesia?

EP. My cultural identity has made me deeply aware of how I position myself and how others may try to position me within the art world. As an Indonesian artist working internationally, I often encounter stereotypical expectations: to be a cultural representative, to present something visibly “Indonesian,” or to offer a digestible narrative of where I come from. I consciously avoid being placed in that box because I don’t want my work to be exoticised or reduced to a symbol. I don’t see my role as representing an entire culture but I’m here to explore my own artistic questions, perspectives, and concerns. This is partly why I’ve gravitated toward abstraction. It gives me space to be introspective and to experiment without being pinned down by fixed meanings or external expectations. Abstraction becomes a way to refuse simplification. It invites viewers into an open, interpretive space, rather than offering a literal/immediate

narratives. In that way, my work becomes less about explaining identity and more about encouraging shared reflection beyond borders, categories, or labels.

However, this doesn’t mean I’m turning away from my roots. I am a product of my culture, and my background is deeply embedded in my work, but I choose to explore it through layered questions rather than straightforward answers. I avoid treating culture as something that needs to be visually explained or performed. I try to hold space for ambiguity, friction, and multifaceted meanings. Resistance for me isn’t about withholding answers altogether but about how I approach them. Each of my work might offer a response, but not a conclusion. The questions return in different forms, and the challenge also shifts each time. That ongoing engagement is the practice: staying open, staying unsettled, letting the work keep asking.

CNTRFLD. You’ve participated in residencies across Portugal, Japan, and the US. How would you compare the support and infrastructure for artists in Indonesia with those in other places you’ve lived or worked?

EP. Doing residencies abroad gave me the chance to step outside my usual context and really reflect on my practice. What I found valuable was the time and space to work without distraction, and the exposure to different ways of thinking, making, and organising artistic life. Because the residencies I joined tend to be quite brief (a month or less), I always felt like there’s a sense of urgency to produce or respond quickly. Working in Indonesia has felt quite different. Our people are incredibly warm, and I’ve found it natural to build genuine friendships even in professional settings. Opportunities often emerge organically through personal connections, shared spaces, and long-standing community ties. The pace is more relaxed and less structured, which has taught me patience, flexibility, and how to stay grounded without relying on external pressure.

Moving between these two modes has shown me what I need to stay engaged with my work. It’s helped me find a more sustainable pace that I can carry with me wherever I go.

CNTRFLD. Your work is known for exploring rebellion and control through grids and modified canvases. What drew you to this conceptual framework, and how did the square become such a central motif in your practice? What does the square represent to you, and how do you see it reflecting larger personal or societal themes?

EP. When I studied in Yogyakarta, the teaching method was quite conservative and many painting lecturers discouraged working on square canvases because of the symmetry and compositional challenges. I saw this as a chance to rebel (a little) and started making canvases that were almost square but still a rectangle, 60 x 70 cm. When I moved to the UK, I felt free from those constraints and began painting almost exclusively on square canvases, simply out of joy. Later, during my MA, when I returned to experimenting and investigating theories, I realised this journey made a lot of conceptual sense. Over time through long reflections, the grid naturally emerged. Grid has always been there in my work anyway, but finally I came to understand how deeply interconnected and interchangeable it is with the square as two sides of the same structure. I love the rigidity they provide and how they offer solid foundation for me to explore and experiment within. The square evolved beyond just a formal shape and became a kind of boundary of something to push against, contain, distort, or break.  The square and the grid reflect concerns of control and rebellion, but not in a fixed or dramatic way. It’s more of an ongoing negotiation. I’m intrigued by what happens when systems begin to fray or when things that appear ordered reveal their instability. The square in particular can be seen as a metaphor for control, representing how we internalise structures—whether cultural, familial, or historical—and locate our own autonomy within or despite those frameworks.

CNTRFLD. Neon yellow is now almost synonymous with your work. What significance does this colour hold for you, and how did you decide to limit your palette so intentionally?

EP. When I moved away from figure, I also wanted to move away from colour theory and all philosophical weight that often comes with it, so limiting my palette started as a kind of rebellion. I first made a conscious decision to strip things down and experimented with other colours as well, but neon stood out as it is loud, abrasive, and visually immediate, which really intrigued me. Over time I realised there was something personal about it too. Back when I was a student, I always used yellow highlighters to mark important things in my textbooks. So, in a way, neon yellow almost unintentionally became a marker of attention, focus, and urgency in my work as well.

Limiting my palette simplifies the surface, but it complicates the process in a productive way. I believe it sharpens the presence of structure, material, and process, allowing them to speak more directly without the distractions of colour relationships or symbolism.

CNTRFLD. Many of your works play with unconventional structures and embrace material resistance. Can you walk us through your process — from building stretchers to finishing a piece?

EP. When I work with modified structures, I usually start by altering the stretcher bars by either adding wooden forms or carving into the existing frame. These physical changes shape the foundational tension of the piece. I often make a smaller version first to see if the idea would work before committing to a larger scale. Once the structure is set and secure, I wrap it tightly with canvas. Stretching the canvas can be quite demanding, especially with larger works because I have to pull very tightly but not so tight it rips the fabric. Sometimes, even after everything is stretched, I stand the piece up and realise it doesn’t feel right so I have to un-stretch it to fold differently or even adjust the structure further.

When the canvas is properly stretched, I prime the surface with gesso to get it

ready for painting. Then I use the help of ruler, level, and grid of my camera to find the square that adapts to the modified ground. It takes a lot of stepping back and forth, trying again and again until I arrive at the “perfect square.”  I also work with standard unmodified frames, which actually might be the series I make the most of: Stretched Lines. For these works, I begin by drawing a grid directly onto raw canvas. I then stretch the canvas onto a square stretcher frame, causing the drawn grid to distort. This distortion is key because what starts as a precise, controlled system is pulled, warped, and shifted by the act of stretching. After the canvas is stretched, I prime it with clear gesso and decide how I want to respond to the disruption.

CNTRFLD. You’ve recently exhibited across Asia—including solo presentations in Seoul and Taipei—at a time when many art scenes in the region are rapidly evolving. What are your thoughts on the current state of Indonesian contemporary art within this broader context? Are there artists or movements rooted in Indonesian heritage that you feel are pushing boundaries or resonating on a wider regional or global stage?

EP. There’s a strong sense of momentum in the Indonesian art scene. While it’s still

navigating its own growing pains, I see a lot of potential for more layered and thoughtful conversations to emerge in the coming years. What’s especially exciting is how that energy is beginning to connect with broader regional and global dialogues. A new generation of artists is emerging, deeply rooted in local contexts but unafraid to experiment with form, language, and international references. This hybridity makes Indonesian art increasingly resonant on a wider stage.  What I find compelling is how many artists are revisiting elements of Indonesian heritage, not in a nostalgic way but as a way to question and reframe it. Artists like Tromarama, Jompet Kuswidananto, and Maharani Mancanagara are great examples.  They work with ideas rooted in local culture whether through materials, mythology, or symbolism, but approach them with a contemporary and critical lens. It’s the balance between specificity and experimentation that I think resonates both regionally and internationally. The broader context is still shifting. While infrastructure and institutional

support in Indonesia can be inconsistent; the strength of the community and the rise of independent initiatives continue to drive things forward. I believe as more regional connections are built, there’s a sense that Indonesian contemporary art isn’t just participating in the global conversation but it’s going to help shape it.

CNTRFLD. Your most recent solo exhibitions—Structure Control in Seoul and Overthinking Squares in Taipei—suggest an ongoing dialogue with form and structure. Can you share what you’re currently working on and what future projects are on the horizon?

EP. I’ve always had an ongoing dialogue with form and structure because it’s something that consistently returns in my practice. I’m drawn to how systems in visual, architectural, or conceptual can both confine and liberate. I like to challenge those boundaries through repetition, rhythm, and spatial play. For me structure isn’t just a visual language but also a way to think through control, instability, and the spaces in between. Coming up, I’ll be returning as an alumnus for a residency with PADA Studios, which I’m really looking forward to. It will allow me to revisit my previously postponed research related to the Unknown Addresses series, which explored ideas of dislocation, imagined spaces, and the tension between presence and absence. Concepts I strongly feel connected to but need to investigate deeper. The residency is also an opportunity for me to challenge myself materially. I want to step outside of my familiar processes and

begin experimenting with new materials and textures, allowing room for unpredictability and surprise. I'm curious to see how these new materials might shift the way I think and make, maybe even lead me to unexpected directions.

CNTRFLD. What challenges have you faced as an emerging artist working between multiple cultural contexts, and how have you learned to navigate—or even use—those challenges as material for your practice?

EP. I feel that in Indonesia my work is often seen as too minimal, too conceptual, or even unfinished, whereas in the UK it might be viewed as fairly typical within the contemporary landscape. That contrast used to make me question where I belong. There’s a sense of always being in-between, too much of one thing for one context and not enough for the other. But over time I’ve realised that this discomfort is one of the emotional engines of my practice. The constant negotiation and trying to make sense of where I stand feeds directly into my work.

I intentionally use basic painting materials like canvas, stretchers, gesso, and paint. I am keeping it simple not because it is easy but because it gives me room to wrestle with bigger ideas. My process is rarely smooth. There’s always a push and pull between what I want and what the work demands. But through that tension, I learn to compromise with the painting itself. The process becomes conversation and collaboration, not just an outcome. This negotiation mirrors my experience of living between cultures. I may not always feel like I fit in, but my practice gives me a space to process and exist in that in-betweenness. In a quiet way, each painting becomes a resolution, or at least a moment of mutual understanding between me and the world.

CNTRFLD. For aspiring Indonesian artists who may be considering a similar path—moving abroad, working in abstraction, or challenging formal conventions—what advice would you offer, especially about staying grounded while pushing boundaries.

EP. I can share what’s helped me so far: to keep experimenting, stay curious, and not rush in understanding my own or anyone else’s work. Moving abroad or working in abstraction can feel disorienting and often times there’s pressure to make your work make sense to others. I’ve learned that explanation doesn’t have to mean simplifying. Being grounded for me just means staying close to what feels honest with your questions, your doubts, your way of looking. Pushing boundaries isn’t about escaping meaning but it’s about finding your own. Just keep going, even if it takes time to make sense to others or to yourself.

About the artist.

Evi Pangestu (b. 1992, Jakarta) is a London-based Indonesian painter whose practice explores the dynamic interplay between rebellion and control through the lens of abstraction. Rooted in her long-standing investigation of the grid, Evi challenges the conventional boundaries of painting by manipulating its fundamental components—canvas, stretcher, and paint—into sculptural, often non-rectilinear forms. Her signature use of fluorescent yellow and minimalist interventions highlights the tension between structure and formlessness. Evi’s most recent solo exhibition, Overthinking Squares at YIRI ARTS in Taipei (15 February – 8 March 2025), deepened this inquiry, using the square not only as a visual motif but as a conceptual anchor. In this body of work, she reimagines the grid as a site of compromise, transformation, and meditative resistance—balancing modernist logic with traditional cycles of renewal. A graduate of the Royal College of Art, her evolving practice continues to engage with abstraction as a means of rethinking form, control, and possibility.