Yap Jiaern approaches art through attention rather than assertion. Early sensitivity to light, colour, and subtle visual shifts shaped a way of seeing that resists simplification. What began as a practice rooted in graphic design gradually moved away from service and toward observation, memory, and lived perception. In recent works, landscapes become vessels for experience rather than scenery — places where light, time, and emotion quietly accumulate. This interview traces a practice guided by care, restraint, and a deep belief in the responsibility carried by images once they leave the studio.
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How has your upbringing or cultural heritage shaped the themes and techniques you explore in your art today?
From a very young age, I noticed I experienced the visual world in more sensitive way. On bright days, the blue of the sky did not appear as a single colour to me, it shifted gradually from deep to pale. Fields of yellow flowers were never as sharp and artificial as they looked in advertisements. And when I focused on any object long enough, I would see a faint blue line resting along the edge of the shadow, and a fine orange glow on the side facing the light. Those small, quiet details held my attention. Later on, it was natural to me to study graphic design, a field built around visual communication. My first job was with a poorly managed company, and the experience left a strong impact on me. I saw how easily design work became undervalued, and how the lack of respect often pushed designers into conflict with themselves and with their work. Over time, I found myself resisting the service-based nature of this industry. But that resistance was never toward art itself. Even when my experience with design work was exhausting, I still found myself moved by beautiful things almost instantly. A piece of art, a landscape at a particular hour of light, I often wondered why others did not see what I was seeing, even though the view was right in front of us. Eventually, I wanted to translate those moments into my own work—to turn what I see and feel into images, not for a client, not as a service, but simply in response to beauty itself. It is a wish to place my experience into visual form; I can keep doing so as long as I can.
What do you think is the most meaningful role an artist plays in society today?
The origin of artistic creation always begins with a desire to express something. We are given a body, senses and experiences, at some point, there is a quiet impulse to respond to them. An artwork is the artist’s response. Whether that response is hopeful or heavy, artists have the freedom to create. But freedom also requires awareness. A work does not stay private, it travels, reaches others and influences the way they see themselves and the world. For that reason, I believe artists hold responsibility for the messages they choose to release.
In my city, there is a graffiti artist who has been filling public spaces with the same messages like “enjoy today, forget tomorrow.” His idea of romance is to embrace collapse, to treat withdrawal from life as a form of freedom. Over time, the younger people who spend time around him began to mirror that attitude. They became less motivated, more willing to escape reality. He may not realise that by occupying public walls, his thoughts become something people absorb every day without consent. Art is used to wrap decline in the language of rebellion, to make it look cool, meaningful or philosophical. If a person chooses a self-destructive path, that is their own freedom. But spreading it, imposing it or disguising it is different. That kind of message can dissolve the life force in someone who has not yet found their footing. He has a safety net for his downfall, the young people around him do not. So I believe freedom requires self-restraint. You have to understand the power of your own work and take responsibility for its reach. For myself, this requires a certain internal discipline. I have to stay aware of my own state of mind. That is part of the work even beyond the drawing itself. If my thoughts are scattered, my work will carry that chaos into other people. Remaining aware is a form of care. It is the foundation of expression.
Do you have any rituals or habits that help you enter a creative state of flow?
Before I enter a painting state, I try to complete every other task and assignment on my plate. I need time to transition between states of mind. It is difficult for me to step out of one kind of work and immediately begin another, especially drawing is a process that need highly focus. Even answering these interview questions required a different part of my attention. So for me, drawing is something I need to commit to fully. During that period, I simplify my life. I try to eat regularly and stay in one place. No matter where I go during the day, I return to the same room at night. The arrangement of objects on my desk remains fixed. All of these habits are small, but they reduce distraction and help me settle into a focused rhythm. My mind needs physical stability to explore freely. When the environment stops demanding decisions from me, my attention can move inward.
Can you share a moment when someone’s unexpected interpretation of your art gave you a new perspective?
My work has gone through a shift in theme. Before this period, my drawings were filled with fantasy and imagination, a world that existed only in my mind. Later, without any deliberate decision, I found myself drawn to real landscapes, especially the ones around me. A few years ago, I painted a road beneath an overpass near my home, it was a simple practice piece. At sunset, the light turns that place into something luminous.
I posted the drawing online, then someone recognised the exact location. He told me he had been away from Malaysia for a long time, and the moment he saw the image, it brought him back to his hometown. That road used to be part of his daily life.
I did not expect that reaction. As I continued my practice, more responses like this arrived. People from places I have never been told me that the scenes reminded them of somewhere they once knew. Some said that the drawings gave them goosebumps, or made them teary-eyed without knowing why, and some said I was painting my own trauma. I could not fully understand their emotional details, but I felt grateful for their feedback. What began as an accidental exercise slowly changed my direction. I began to understand that a landscape is not only external, it is a container for memory. I see myself as a cup or a point of entry. The viewer can fill it with their own meaning.
Artificial Intelligence is increasingly infiltrating creative fields. Do you see artificial intelligence as a threat, a tool, or a collaborator in the art world?
When Midjourney first became popular, many people in the art and design fields began to say that our work would soon be replaced. But I think its existence has made us value the authenticity of human expression even more. As I have mentioned earlier, an artwork begins with the desire to express something, and that desire comes from feeling and experience. AI is good at understanding logic, but it does not share experience with us. Even if it is trained on vast amounts of data and can produce images that look like human work, the decision behind each pixel is still a chain of calculations without inner sensation. The surface may resemble art, but the motive inside is entirely different.
AI can draw a perfect seascape. But its action is not driven by the shock of seeing waves crash against the rocks, or the cold saltwater on their face. In that sense, AI and humans cannot fully understand each other. People still cannot be sure if AI has any form of consciousness, it even doesn’t need one. AI can exist through logic alone. Art, however, cannot. Beyond form and technique, the origin of emotion is indispensable. If Vincent van Gogh did not live the life he lived, his work would not carry the same force. His paintings are a history of longing, pain, and intense attention to the world around him. Art as a product of both humanity and reason working together. AI can be a thinking partner, it helps refine ideas, organise connections or reveal patterns we did not see. But the primary impulse, the most human part of the process, still has to come from a person.
How do you envision the evolution of your work in the coming years?
The longer I spend drawing, the more clearly I can see which stage I am in. This period of drawing landscapes has been the most grounded phase of my practice; it is a period of learning by observation rather than invention. The imaginary world I explored earlier feels as if it is sleeping somewhere, waiting for the right moment. When my practice reaches a certain point where my understanding of the real world becomes stable enough, the two parts will come together again. I do not yet know what that work will look like. To me, the future of my work is not something to design in advance. It grows in the same way a landscape changes with light: gradually, then suddenly. My task is to stay attentive, to keep looking, to keep learning, and to carry both reality and imagination with me until they find a shared form.
I am interested to see what that form will be.
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Across this conversation, Yap Jiaern’s practice reveals itself as an ongoing act of listening — to environment, to memory, and to the inner conditions that shape perception. Drawing is treated not as production, but as presence: a slow commitment to looking, feeling, and translating experience without force. Rather than aiming toward a fixed destination, the work evolves through patience and attention, allowing reality and imagination to converge when ready. What remains consistent is a belief in art as a human response — shaped by awareness, grounded in lived experience, and sustained by care for what images carry into the world.