4 days ago
- Entertainment
- New Straits Times
Decoding the canvas: Sarawakian artist paints with hidden meanings
It's raining when I arrive at Alliance Française, nestled along Lorong Gurney — a quiet retreat tucked into the thrum of central Kuala Lumpur. The drizzle is steady, and for a moment, I pause at the entrance, wondering if I should turn back. But curiosity pulls me forward into this intimate cultural haven.
Rounding the back entrance, I spot him immediately — Shamsul Hezri Hassan, or Syul, as he prefers to be known. He's crouched low near the doorway, a cigarette between his fingers, eyes glued to his phone.
The rain dots his shoulders, but he doesn't flinch at all, entirely at ease in the quiet moment. He doesn't look up until I speak.
"Hi," I mumble my greeting.
He rises with a smile — calm, unhurried — carrying the quiet charisma of someone who's quite used to solitude; the kind who isn't easily shaken by rain or the awkwardness of first hellos.
Inside, the air shifts. We're surrounded by his oil paintings — rich, layered, whispering secrets from the walls. He turns to me with a big smile and asks, gently, in Sarawakian Malay: " Kitak orang Sarawak juak kah?" (Are you Sarawakian too?)
I nod, and immediately his eyes light up in delight. And just like that, our conversation shifts. The dialect — a little awkward on my tongue at first — eventually finds its rhythm. It flows, hesitant then easy, like two anak Borneo rediscovering home in a room full of stories far from where they began.
If you've never played treasure hunt with a painting, you haven't encountered Syul's work. His canvases aren't meant to be consumed at a glance — they insist you slow down, look closer, lean in.
Every layer is hiding something. A message. A memory. A quiet challenge. You don't just view his art — you search it. "I don't know why I started doing it," he says, smiling broadly, before adding: "But my approach cannot be too obvious, cannot be too subtle. It must be just nice."
Just nice. The phrase lands softly but holds weight — almost like a kind of personal manifesto. It captures the essence of an artist who weaves Arabic verses into crashing waves, turns humble tree branches into world maps, and paints tiger whiskers that spell out HARIMAU MALAYA — the eyes glowing eerily in the dark.
You can see these works up close this month at his exhibition, Ambil Peduli... Sustaining What Sustains Us, on display at Alliance Française KL until August 15. Commissioned for the 2025 United Nations Ocean Conference in Nice, the exhibition doesn't preach. Instead, it offers climate reflection through the artist's eyes — quiet but insistent, like seeds planted on canvas, waiting for you to find them.
SPREADSHEETS TO PAINTBRUSHES
Syul is born in Kuching but proudly anchored in Lundu — his roots firm in Sarawakian soil. His creative spark came early, nurtured by his mother, a teacher with an artistic streak. It was through her that he first glimpsed the world of colour, form and quiet expression.
But life took a different turn. For years, he followed the corporate current. With a background in IT and an MBA from Universiti Malaya, he built a career managing water infrastructure projects — spreadsheets and site meetings by day, painting in secret by night.
"By the age of 25, I was already managing projects," he recalls, adding: "That early exposure taught me how to talk to people. Now as an artist, I feel I know what people want to see and hear."
For two decades, the art stayed private — unseen, uncelebrated — his canvas life lived quietly in the background. Until friends began to worry. "You better exhibit before someone copies your style," they warned him.
Fortunately, he listened. And when he finally stepped into the light, the response was instant. In just over a year, he found himself everywhere — more than 10 exhibitions under his belt, shows in London, and even signatures from Tun Dr Mahathir Mohamad and Datuk Seri Anwar Ibrahim inked onto his work.
"I paint when the mood strikes," confides Syul, adding: "No sketches. No plans. I just like to go with the flow."
But why oil paint, I couldn't help asking, curiosity rising.
He nods before replying: "I prefer oil because you can spread and mix colours better. Acrylic dries too fast. Once you put it on, it's done. With oil, when the mood strikes, I paint. Sometimes it gets messy when I add in more because it dries slowly, but that's part of the story."
Chuckling, Syul confesses that he talks to his paintings like gardeners talk to plants. "I stare and get ideas. Sometimes the mood comes back stronger," he admits, grinning broadly. Each canvas, Syul tells me, takes at least a month to complete – and always layered with meaning.
ART PILGRIMAGE
Travel fuels Syul's art — it stirs something deep within him. Europe, especially, holds him captive. In the way museums live in the middle of city life. In how art isn't confined to frames or galleries, but breathes alongside morning coffee, metro rides and market chatter.
A self-taught artist, Syul is obsessed with the masters — Caravaggio, Rembrandt, Botticelli, Monet. Over the years, he's made pilgrimages to see almost every major work — spanning from the drama of the Baroque to the elegance of Art Nouveau.
His favourite? The Uffizi Gallery in Florence. There, he once spent 45 quiet minutes in front of a single Caravaggio, lost in silent conversation with the canvas — reverent, reflective, in awe.
But not every moment abroad is so polished, he's quick to tell me.
A trip to Spain one time took a took a turn for the "not-so-good". He had his passport and money stolen. Stranded, he was forced to rely on the kindness of friends. But, from that experience came That Flamenco Girl — a painting full of fire and defiance.
The names of the friends who helped him then are hidden in the folds of her skirt. Her hand? Boldly flipping the middle finger at fate. "When I came home, I realised... what an experience. Cool lah," he says with a good-natured grin.
Meanwhile, one of his canvases declares in block letters: TRAVELLING TURNS YOU INTO A STORYTELLER. Elaborates Syul with a slight shrug of his shoulders: "If I don't tell stories with words, I'll do it with paint."
CLIMATE WHISPERS
Syul's current exhibition takes on climate change — but not with new works. These are older pieces, pulled from years past, re-examined through a different lens. "These paintings are old — some from 10 years ago," he shares, adding: "When I decided to exhibit, I looked through everything again... and then I realised, most of them can be linked to climate change."
And they do — powerfully.
The centrepiece, Bila Dilambung Ombak, created during a personal storm in 2019, now pulses with a new urgency. Its turbulent energy mirrors the chaos of rising seas and shifting weather — a reflection of both inner turmoil and planetary threat.
Meanwhile, Nowhere To Go speaks for the birds — disoriented, their migratory paths scrambled by a changing climate. Then there's Concrete Jungle, which stands as a quiet protest against deforestation and the creeping sprawl of careless urban planning.
Yet despite these themes, Syul stops short of calling himself an activist. "Maybe as Sarawakians, we like the environment," he says with a half-smile, adding softly: "Nature comes naturally to us."
At 45, Syul takes life and art at his own pace. "I don't rush for anything. Just chill," he says, before adding with a smile: "If 40 people show up after three days of promo, that's good enough. Work with whatever limitations you have and be satisfied."
Incidentally, he tells me that he chose the name "Syul Hezri" for pure ease. "I didn't want my gallery name to be too long. Why stress?"
That zen-like ease Syul carries in conversation flows seamlessly into his art practice. There's no ritual, no rigid schedule. When boredom creeps in, he simply picks up a canvas and starts painting.
"With a canvas, you can do it anywhere, anytime," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world.
He dabbles in mural art once — briefly — but quickly realised it wasn't not for him. The scale is exciting, but the restrictions of physical movement feel limiting, he confides. Syul prefers the intimacy and freedom of a canvas — something he can turn, flip, lean in close to. Something that moves with him, not the other way around.
Critics have commented on his brushwork, but as far as Syul is concerned, perfection isn't the point. "Art is about stories, even the mistakes," he states softly. A clump of paint thicker in one area tells the story of a mistake he tried to cover up.
His self-portrait, styled like a Time Magazine cover, carries the message "SELF-TIME", a reminder that no matter how busy life gets, always find time for yourself. "Don't get carried away with the fame of the front page," he advises sagely.
HIDDEN IN LAYERS
There's an easy affability to Syul — a warmth that draws you in — but what truly sets him apart is his quiet authenticity. His paintings don't shout. They unfold, layer by layer, rewarding those who are willing to slow down and really look.
"I want people to know the story behind each painting," he says, adding simply: "That's what makes my art interesting."
Collectors have come to him with special requests — asking for hidden names, verses, or personal messages to be woven into his work. He obliges, embedding private meaning beneath brushstrokes. It's one of the ways he funds his art, along with a small line of merchandise — T-shirts printed with fragments of his paintings.
Outside, the rain taps steadily on the windows, a soft percussion to the quiet force of his work. On the walls, messages pulse in oil and colour — unhurried, insistent — asking us to linger, to really see.
Because if art can hold a mirror to our climate crisis, maybe it can move us to care — even just a little — before it's too late.
