Exploring Layers of Decolonisation and Craft: A Conversation with Marcos Kueh

Courage, storytelling, and a profound connection to heritage define the work of Marcos Kueh (b. 1995), a Malaysian-born artist now partially based in the Netherlands. With an academic background in graphic design and in advertising, and a deeply personal journey through craft, Marcos’s woven billboards bridge ancient traditions and contemporary narratives. As a recipient of the Mondriaan Fonds grant in 2024, his installation at Art Rotterdam’s Prospects highlights the complexity of his practice; intertwining decolonisation, personal growth, and the often-overlooked sophistication of craft.

What ties your work together conceptually?
“My work is rooted in storytelling,” Marcos begins. “Growing up in postcolonial Malaysia shaped how I see the world. Decolonisation as a discourse can sometimes feel Eurocentric, as much of its academic framing emerged within European institutions. Yet the process itself was driven by the agency of colonised nations, whose voices are essential to understanding its complexities. As someone from a formerly colonised country, I find that the way we speak about decolonisation is inherently different. What language do we use to talk to ourselves, and how do we communicate our stories to others? Those questions lie at the heart of my practice.”

For Marcos, textiles serve as a bridge between past and present. “Before pen and paper, the ancestors of Borneo told stories through textiles. As a contemporary weaver, I see my work as an extension of that legacy, speculating on what stories I want to leave for my generation and the next.”

How did your journey into textiles begin?
“My background is in graphic design and advertising, but I’ve always been fascinated by local visual culture. Textiles, in particular, carry immense storytelling potential. Initially, I approached them purely academically, researching their history and cultural significance. I worried whether society - and especially my family - would accept me as a textile artist. In Borneo, textiles are often associated with the underprivileged, and pursuing them felt risky.”

The turning point came in the Netherlands, where he transitioned from studying textiles to physically working with them. At the Royal Academy of Art, The Hague, he discovered a textile workshop and visited the TextielMuseum. “For the first time, I truly understood the craft’s complexity. Using the loom involves intricate problem-solving: calculating tension, designing patterns, even understanding chemical dyes. It shifted my perspective: people from the villages are far from primitive; their systems are incredibly sophisticated. That realisation changed how I see craft, but also myself. I stopped feeling like I had to apologise for where I come from.”

How does decolonisation influence your practice?
“When I first discussed decolonisation at school, I’d often break down crying,” Marcos admits. “The topic is academic, but for those of us who’ve lived through these systems, it’s deeply personal. That emotional weight influences not just how I speak about decolonisation, but how I present my work. It’s layered and invites different interpretations. Some people see beautiful textiles, others engage with the deeper stories.”

For Marcos, hospitality is another lens through which he explores decolonisation. “Being hospitable is a craft. How you treat someone, host someone, it’s a skill. In my work, I think about who I’m hosting in this conversation and how I use language to include them. Different cultures view the world and its stories differently, and I want my work to reflect that generosity.”

How do you balance traditional craft with contemporary concepts?
Marcos sees parallels between indigenous practices and modern systems like capitalism. “In traditional cultures, there’s a time for everything; for example stories of harvest, life, death. It’s similar to how campaigns work in advertising. You assess when a story needs to be told and how it can have the most impact. I often compare these practices in my work to show how they intersect.”

This duality is reflected in his installations, where textiles - his woven billboards - are often suspended from ceilings. “It’s like walking through a rainforest,” Marcos explains, “but instead of leaves and trees, you’re surrounded by woven advertisements. It’s a playful reimagining: what if Borneo, not New York, were the cultural epicentre of the world?”

Why do you often suspend your work above eye level?
“That’s such an interesting question. I’ve never thought about it before,” Marcos admits thoughtfully. “In many museums, artworks from colonised cultures are displayed at eye level or below, framed as curiosities rather than celebrated as cultural treasures. My decision to suspend my work might have been a subconscious response to that dynamic.”

Many of his installations culminate in a large woven poster suspended like a waterfall, inspired by Borneo mythology. “In the ancestral stories of Borneo, it is said that our ancestors descend to earth through waterfalls to visit the living,” Marcos shares. By asking people to look up, I’m inviting them to shift their perspective, to see these stories and their heritage with new respect.

How has the Mondriaan Fonds grant influenced you and your work?
“The grant gave me courage,” Marcos says. “In postcolonial countries, we’re taught to be cautious about resources, opportunities, about everything. This grant felt like approval to create freely. It’s emotional, too. Art isn’t just about resources; it’s about emotional readiness. When someone believes in you, it pushes you to do your best, not just for yourself, but for society.”

What will you be showing at Art Rotterdam?
“At Art Rotterdam’s Prospects, I’m presenting an installation originally created for Manifesta 15, where it was exhibited in a 17th-century church in Barcelona,” Marcos explains. “Growing up in a postcolonial country, I questioned whether my interest in Christianity was driven by faith or by the desire to align myself with Western ideals. The installation is a deeply personal reflection of that struggle. It’s a split work, divided down the middle, representing the constant internal negotiation of identity as a postcolonial subject: the tearing between acceptance and rejection, the feeling of being incomplete. Positioned in front of the church’s historic religious paintings, it also served as a confession to the Church: ‘With the faith you brought us, we still struggle.’”

Written by Emily van Driessen