Children on a bicycle

The day after the Social Evening of the ASEAN+ age-group chess championships, Berik, Hamid and I visited Ernest Zacharevic at his studio on Malay Street. I had originally planned to go after the tournament wrapped up, but when I heard that Berik had already been invited, I thought I’d tag along.

The studio is currently hosting a weekend exhibition that's running until the end of August. It's deeply personal to Ernest. It’s his response to a corporate dispute with AirAsia, who had used his Children on a Bicycle mural in their airplane livery without his permission. The matter has yet to be resolved. Although legal action is still on the table, Ernest hasn’t brought the case to court just yet. In the meantime, this exhibition is his way of saying that this wasn’t right. It’s a mix of outrage, frustration and quiet defiance.

What’s troubling is how common this sort of thing has become. A large business appropriates a well-loved piece of public art, confident that the artist, often an individual with far fewer resources, won’t be able to push back. That imbalance is glaring. In Ernest’s case, this wasn’t just a mural. It was part of a larger vision to inject creativity into George Town’s heritage core, back when the idea of street art hadn’t yet caught fire. The work took root. People came to see it. It became iconic. And now, others want to profit from it without so much as a courtesy call. On the other hand, we, the organisers of the championships, went out of our way to seek permission from him to use the artwork as the backdrop of the chess event. That's the difference between responsibility and irresponsibility.

His studio itself feels like a creative haven. Downstairs and upstairs, a small team of collaborators was at work, immersed in various projects. And tucked in a corner, I spotted a collection of vinyl records and naturally, I gravitated toward it straightaway.

In conversation, Ernest shared how he first arrived in Penang in 2012, largely unknown. He approached the GTWHI or the MPPP with a proposal to add some life to the heritage zone through wall art. But the idea met resistance. Many property owners were hesitant to grant permission for something so new, so untested. Eventually, the Cheah Kongsi took a chance on him. They let him paint on an otherwise unremarkable wall along Armenian Street. One that, Ernest was told, would be demolished within six months. He poured himself into the mural anyway. More than a decade later, that wall still stands, and so does his Children on a Bicycle—although it had a fresh repaint not long ago.

Before we left, I gave him one of the tunics specially made for the officials and Malaysian players in the chess championship. I hope he liked it.

Looking back, what struck me most wasn't just the mural, or even the exhibition. It was the reminder that boldness often begins quietly. A single idea, a stroke of paint on a wall once thought temporary, can outlast every doubt, resistance, vandalism and threat of erasure. Sometimes, the most lasting change is the one no one sees coming.