1. The Origin from the Margin
I think my approach to the idea of periphery relates closely to the practice behind sōydivision - a kind of platform-less artist alliance. For me, this began very simply, as a response to my position as a minority and as someone who doesn’t come from an academic or institutional art background. I realized that I had already been making art since the late 1990s, but where I come from - Indonesia - art has never really been seen as a viable occupation, either socially or economically. People who make art almost always do something else to survive, or study something entirely different. Only a few - usually those from wealthy families - have the privilege of going to art school or becoming full-time artists.
So my relationship with art has always been shaped by this kind of double life: working or studying in one field while quietly nurturing creative work on the side. My bachelor’s degree was in economics, with a minor in green economics, and I completed my final semester and thesis in Erfurt, Germany, in 2007, writing about green economics. That was my first introduction to Germany - though at the time, I didn’t imagine it would become a long-term connection.
After returning to Indonesia, I continued this double life for a few more years, combining artistic work and a professional path. Eventually, in 2011, I moved back to Germany - this time to stay - with the intention of extending both my artistic and academic paths. I enrolled in a master’s program in sustainability, partly as a way to obtain a study and work visa that made sense with my academic background, while continuing to produce sound works and performances on the side
From this tension, my artistic practice - and later our collective - grew out of a need to build spaces organically, where we could show and share our work with others who have similar visions, tastes, and narratives. That’s the same impulse behind sōydivision.
2. The Hybridity of Life
At first, I never thought of it as something that needed to be sustainable or professionalized. I had a day job, and the collective work was something I did out of passion and necessity. But slowly, things became more serious.
Around that time, I also had the privilege of learning how artistic work could slowly become a way to sustain my life. It happened almost serendipitously - especially after becoming a parent. In 2018, when my first son was born, I discovered that in Germany even fathers can take paternity leave, and I decided to become a full-time dad for a while. That moment completely shifted my rhythm and priorities. Being at home gave me time and space to think differently about work and creativity. I began to realize that art could be more than a side practice - it could become a main path.
When I returned to my day job, I started adjusting my hours: from 40 to 30, then 20, then taking a sabbatical. Eventually, I resigned completely. It was a long, nearly two-year process of learning how totransition — not only financially, but mentally. For someone like me, who didn’t grow up with access to this kind of knowledge, learning how to navigate this shift felt like discovering a hidden skill set. It was both a privilege and a form of self-education - understanding how to build a life around art in a sustainable way.
After that long process, I finally decided to quit my job in late summer 2019. But only a few months later, in March 2020, the pandemic hit - a major shock. I remember thinking, maybe I made a mistake; maybe I should go back to my day job. But then, strangely, the opposite happened.
3. The Opportunist from the Crisis
After the pandemic - and in the wake of global events like Black Lives Matter, the rise of anti-Asian hate, and the war in Ukraine - there was a strong sense of urgency and solidarity among independent collectives and collaborative platforms like ours. Many of us recognized each other’s struggles and began supporting one another more intentionally.
At the same time, in Germany, we were somehow privileged to experience a shift in cultural funding. Many art institutions suddenly doubled or even tripled their resources, creating new programs - especially for artistic research and underrepresented voices. This moment became very beneficial for artists and collectives like ours. It boosted our visibility and allowed us to develop our practice in ways that were previously impossible.
That visibility helped us grow, but it also brought new pressure - the expectation to scale up, to become “professional,” more structured, more institutional. During this time, we tried to follow that direction, to make things bigger and more sustainable. But in the process, we started to lose something - the chemistry, the sense of play and trust that originally held us together. It led to many internal conflicts and challenges.
4. Collective Utopia, Ephemerality and Flux
I also realized how difficult it is to sustain this kind of collective energy in Berlin. It’s actually quite easy to meet like-minded artists here - people who share ideas and want to create something meaningful together, at least for a while. Berlin naturally attracts those kinds of encounters. But what’s hard is continuity.
The city itself has an ephemeral rhythm - people come and go. Many come here to experiment, to try out new ways of living, or to test artistic ideas in a short-term way. But when life becomes more demanding - when questions of survival, stability, or family appear - people often leave or shift their focus elsewhere.
This ephemerality, this constant flux, makes it very hard to sustain collective or utopian practices over time. You can’t always rely on the same people being around, and the structure of support that might sustain collaboration keeps dissolving. I felt this most intensely during the period when there was pressure to grow and scale up - just as we were expected to become “serious,” the ground under us kept moving.
At the same time, it was extremely difficult to sustain this kind of scaling in practical terms - both organizationally and economically. And outside of our small circle, the world was going through what felt like a poly-crisis: the energy crisis following the war in Ukraine, then the rising instability and polarization after the events of October 7. These global tensions affected everything - the economy, social relationships, and even the connection between artists and institutions. Funding started to shrink, and many of the relationships that had supported collectives like ours began to deteriorate.
5. Mutating Instead of Scaling
So in the end, scaling up proved almost impossible - and maybe not even desirable. That’s why I’ve stepped away from calling sōydivision a “collective.” The word feels too utopian, too idealized. What feels more honest now is to call it a collaborative platform, an artist alliance, or even a study group - something that stays flexible, small, and responsive.
After realizing this, we began to transform and mutate our projects. Instead of chasing large-scale productions like festivals - we once organized one with multiple venues and dense programming over two weeks - we turned our focus toward smaller, more continuous series. For example, Soy & Synth, our longest-running series, has now reached almost 55 editions this year. Together with Pedro Oliveira, we also run Jendela Sonorama, which happens about four to six times a year, focusing on sound, listening, and collaborative encounters.
Between 2017 and 2025, we’ve organized, produced, or participated in more than 300 artistic formats - performances, concerts, screenings, talks, and collaborative events. For me, that number represents exactly what it means to become many rather than big: a steady, cumulative practice that grows through small gestures, intimate gatherings, and long-term continuity rather than through expansion or spectacle.
From these ongoing series, new collaborations began to emerge naturally. People who took part in these events often ended up working together on other projects or joining larger artistic productions. For example, one of the Jendela Sonorama sessions I did with Pedro evolved into a cinematic and musical theater piece titled Tahan Guentar, which we premiered and later restaged at Cinema Transtopia. Similarly, several artists who were involved in Soy & Synth later became part of my production at Ballhaus Naunynstraße. These connections and outcomes are, for me, one of the most valuable aspects of this small-scale but continuous way of working - it allows art to grow slowly, through trust, proximity, and shared curiosity.
6. The Suburb of Hype
For the past years, we’ve been based in different parts of Berlin. Before settling in Schöneweide, our two longest stays were at Ufer Studios in Wedding and at Sari-Sari Project Space in Schillerkiez, Neukölln. Those years felt like extended residencies - both spaces were quite central and vibrant, located in neighborhoods that were already part of the city’s cultural “map.”
Our move to Schöneweide wasn’t really a strategic or artistic decision - it happened more organically, through life itself. When my family grew and our second child was born, it became impossible to stay in our small apartment in Kreuzberg. The rent there was simply too high for four people, so we moved to Schöneweide because it was the most realistic and sustainable option for us at the time. In 2023, I also received a studio through BBK und Kulturräume, located at Novilla, and gradually, sōydivision’s practice began to shift here as well. Around the same time, we started collaborating with the art association Moving Poets, which runs the project spaces and gallery on the first floor of the same building. Between 2023 and 2024, we slowly began programming and organizing activities in this shared environment, and now we’re officially one of Novilla’s partner project spaces.
Schöneweide itself feels deeply connected to this approach - it’s on the periphery of Berlin, both geographically and symbolically. Once an industrial area of East Berlin, it carries traces of working-class history and post-reunification transition. It also used to carry - and still partly carries - the stereotype of being a stronghold for right-wing and neo-Nazi groups, especially during the 1990s and early 2000s, when xenophobia and social frustration were particularly visible in parts of former East Berlin.For us, being based here embodies our ethos: staying close to the ground, working within overlooked spaces, and building community in places often left outside the city’s cultural spotlight. The periphery, in this sense, becomes our center - a site of possibility rather than limitation.
7. Becoming Many, Not a Thing
All of this reflects how I perhaps understand periphery as a state of mind: being always in progress, small, fragmented, and flexible - not fixed or finalized. It means resisting, questioning the temptation of centralization and stability, and instead embracing vulnerability and constant transformation. I no longer see artistic growth as becoming “big,” but as becoming many - distributed, interdependent, and alive.
That’s also where the title of this essay comes from: “We Are Many, But Probably Not a Thing.” It captures the way we exist - not as a single, stable entity, but as a living constellation of people, gestures, and moments. We are fragments that keep finding each other, forming temporary solidarities, and then transforming again.