This story is about choosing the uncertain path, defying tradition, and turning raw emotional chaos into something that moves people—through the eyes and brushstrokes of a Malaysian abstract artist named Richie Tan.
Early Life & Education
I grew up in Negeri Sembilan with my grandparents. Later on, I studied at Kolej Tuanku Ja’afar up until my O Levels. Back then, I was still figuring out what I wanted to do with my life.
Sports were a huge part of my life—I was a state basketball player from the age of 15 until my early twenties. I also played badminton, volleyball, rugby, and swam regularly.
I loved the rush of performing on court, the energy from the crowd. But at 17, I broke my ankle and arm. My elbow kept dislocating from earlier injuries, and the inflammation and tendon pain became unbearable. I couldn’t walk quickly without discomfort, and that forced me to stop. That’s when I poured all my passion into my other hobby at the time – art.
Richie representing Negeri Sembilan, winning the state championships at 19 years old. Images/Richie Tan
I was often away for sports competitions, especially during business or econ classes, but I never skipped an art class. It ended up being my best subject. That’s when I knew I wanted to pursue it seriously. I told my family I wanted to go to The One Academy—it was really famous back then.
But my family said no. They wanted me to study IT or agriculture. So I tried to compromise—first with fashion design, then interior design. Still, it was always a no. Eventually, I was sent to Taiwan to study agriculture instead, as it was tied to my family’s business.
Eye-opening Experiences in Taiwan
In Taiwan, I learned the science behind plants—their needs, nutrients, and care. I came to see plants as similar to humans: they get “sick,” need “medicine” like fertilizer, and have delicate systems. That knowledge was useful for the family business, which I returned to help out for about three years.
Richie studying agriculture in Taiwan. Images/Richie Tan
Honestly, during my time in Taiwan, I learned more outside of school than in it. My university was in a kampung area, so I’d go into the city every weekend visiting art galleries. What stood out to me was the culture. The people in Taiwan are more open-minded than in Malaysia. They don’t judge you for wanting to do art. You can live your life, and people accept it. It’s not like here, where everything is more conservative.
It really was eye-opening. It made me realize that so much of what we believe is just based on what people tell us is “true.” But if no one has tried it, how do they know? In Taiwan, I saw people living differently, and that gave me the courage to try things I wouldn’t have dared to in Malaysia.
Disappointing my M’sian Chinese family
Fast forward to September 2023, and I was helping out my family business, while living with my grandfather. He told me he had a plan all laid out for my future.
But right before Chinese New Year, I had started to really feel how short life is. Several friends and acquaintances passed away—some in their 20s, 30s, 40s. It hit me hard. I didn’t want to leave this world with regrets. I realized I couldn’t wait anymore. I had to do what I love before it was too late.
Richie’s studio during his early years. Images/Richie Tan
My grandfather started to notice that I was spending most of my time painting instead of doing the business correctly. When he asked me why, I told him I wanted to be an artist. The conversation was harsh—not calm like how I’m describing it now.
Then he finally asked me, “Is this what you really want to do?” I said yes. So I walked away from the family business and chose to become a full-time artist.
Starting A Career Without a Safety Net
When I first started taking art seriously, I had no experience with exhibitions, no clue how to organize events, and no connections in the industry. But I knew one thing: I wanted to do something different—something no one had tried before.
I began by approaching galleries, thinking that was the obvious path. But early on, curators said my work was “immature.” They rejected me, saying I was too young, too inexperienced. Looking back at my older pieces, I understand now: My art didn’t have a consistent visual identity.
Images/Richie Tan
So I pivoted. I thought, what if art wasn’t just something you looked at, but something you experienced? That’s when the idea of a multi-sensory concept hit me—exhibitions where people could eat, feel, and see stories unfold in places like cafes and bars.
I pitched this to ten venues. Ten rejections. But the eleventh said yes. That was my first tiny breakthrough. It was even covered by Free Malaysia Today.
From there, I used that event as a portfolio to convince another place, then another. Eventually, I started getting into more exclusive venues like cigar lounges—not because I smoke, but because I wanted to target high-end audiences and build a reputation.
Every event I’ve done since has had a networking angle. I bring together people from different industries. Even if they don’t buy my art, they leave with new connections or inspiration. To me, that’s still a win.
Rejection and the Basketball Mentality
Rejection is part of this journey—one of the hardest parts, actually. When I go to networking events, my friends will introduce me as an artist. Some successful entrepreneurs immediately tune out, like, “OK, just another struggling artist.” That’s the stereotype here. They assume I’m broke and desperate.
I don’t go to these events to beg. I go to make connections, to see if we can collaborate. But many just don’t take me seriously—because they’ve heard the same sob story too many times.
Images/Richie Tan
When I pitch myself or my art and get turned down, it hurts. Not because of ego, but because I just want a chance to prove myself. When people dismiss me with sarcasm or indifference, I feel it deeply. It never stops stinging. But I’ve learned to channel that pain.
If one approach doesn’t work, I find another. If a gallery says no, I create my own event. If someone says I’m not good enough, I work until I am.
That mindset comes from my years as a basketball player. On the court, you can’t hesitate. You miss the shot, someone takes the ball from you. You fall—you get back up. You get blocked—you try a different angle. That’s exactly how I handle my art career. I adapt, but I don’t stop. I’ve always been stubborn like that!
No Business like Showbusiness
From the beginning, I’ve been a one-man show. Every idea, every pitch, every contact—I’ve had to handle it all on my own. I think up the concept for each event, do the research, plan the execution, identify potential partners, and pitch to sponsors. I’ve worked with brands like Kairos luxury watches, WinePLUG, Noodle Mansion etc, gotten product and voucher sponsors, and pitched stories to the media. I contact the press myself—The Star, The Today, anyone who might listen.
Every event is more than just an art show. It’s a collaborative, multi-sensory networking experience. I always make sure attendees walk away with something valuable—whether it’s knowledge, new connections, or creative inspiration. Even if they don’t buy anything, I want them to feel enriched.
Images/Richie Tan
I’m not just the artist—I’m the planner, promoter, performer, and producer. And yes, every event is a performance. There’s entertainment value in what I do. It’s not just about the painting; it’s about the process, the atmosphere, and the emotional impact.
It’s not easy doing this alone. Execution is tough when you’re constantly sourcing your own team and materials, explaining your ideas from scratch every time. I have to be the resource-gatherer and the visionary.
I’ve tried joining committees and teams, but none of them could match my vision or standards. My concepts are always evolving—I push for better constantly. And that’s hard for others to keep up with.
But after my most recent event, some true friends stepped in. Only recently did I get a manager from YM International, thanks to an introduction from a friend. It’s the first time I’ve had help handling the bigger picture.
The True Cost of Chasing a Dream
When I walked away from the family business, I left with nothing. No support, no money. It was tough. But I had to do it. Otherwise, I’d never know if I could make it.
I borrowed money from friends just to survive. I had zero in my bank account. I stayed on couches, cut back on food, saved wherever I could.
Yet, there is a special friend who lent me a room to stay after I left. Until now, I’m really grateful that he has been with me from the beginning of my journey. My studio wasn’t in KL—it was at my grandfather’s place in Negeri Sembilan—to avoid paying for space in the city. During events, I stayed with friends to cut costs.
I’d be lying if I said it was easy. Art is unpredictable. You don’t know if someone will buy a piece this month—or next year. Sometimes, you make nothing for months, and expenses still pile up. Touch ‘n Go, petrol, meals, art supplies—it adds up fast in KL.
I’m constantly thinking 24/7. My brain’s always active, always overthinking. That’s why I get headaches that never fully go away. Sometimes I take pills to dull the pain, but I’ve never gone to therapy. Maybe because I’m afraid that if I lose the chaos in my head, I’ll lose the fuel behind my work.
Some fellow artists have warned me about this. They’ve told me to be careful—not to burn out, not to use up all my stories too fast. They’re afraid I’ll lose my fire if I paint just for love and no longer from pain. And that stuck with me. So I’m learning to pace myself, to save pieces of my story for later chapters.
An Unexpected Emotional Support
There were moments when I was close to giving up. Last year, I hosted five events, and I felt like I was getting nowhere. It became a major breaking point for me.
Just before Chinese New Year, I told my mom I wanted to give up. I really meant it.
I was emotionally exhausted, financially in debt, and deeply stressed. I told her I wanted to find a stable 9-to-5 job. I didn’t want to carry this burden anymore.
Caption: Richie with his mum. Images/Richie Tan
But my mom said, “No. You have to continue because I have seen your efforts and persistence. It doesn’t matter if others don’t agree with you, and don’t know you. The most important thing is that you are clear and understand where you want to go. As long as it’s the right path. You live for yourself, not for others. You will definitely succeed.”
I was shocked. I didn’t expect her to say that. She reminded me of how far I’d come—from nothing—to getting featured in FMT, China Press, meeting Hong Kong stars, and getting recognized in both the art and influencer circles.
That was the first time I ever cried in front of my mom. For half an hour, I couldn’t stop. I rarely cry, but when I do, it’s because something means a lot to me.
Thanks to her, I kept going. And that’s how I became the artist I am today.
Overcoming Depression
My journey into art was somehow inspired by a famous artist, Jackson Pollock who died in the 1950s and most part of it came from real life. When I was 12, my parents divorced, and that sent me into a decade-long depression.
Images/Richie Tan
Painting helped me express everything I couldn’t say out loud. I’m talkative, sure, but I don’t open up about my personal story easily. That story lives in my artwork. Each piece is based on a personal chapter, and because of that, my style keeps shifting. Now I’m working to build a cohesive artistic identity—an IP that people can recognize as distinctly mine.
I don’t just paint because I enjoy it—art became my lifeline. I painted constantly—almost obsessively—because if I didn’t, I don’t think I’d be here today. Painting is my therapy. It’s how I process depression, intrusive thoughts, and even suicidal ideation. Instead of hurting myself, I pour it all into my canvas. I’ve never taken therapy or been officially diagnosed, but I know my pain—and I know how to release it. Art keeps me grounded, focused, and alive.
Despite the pain of that chapter in my life, I’ve made peace with it. My parents are doing fine now, and we’re all in a better place. I have two older sisters, and we’re all quite close. Our relationships with our parents were more like friendships—equal parts love, independence, and growing up fast.
Abstract art v.s. Traditional art
Some people think abstract art is meaningless or too easy. A lot of people—especially those who don’t understand art—see abstract work as something detached from real life. They expect art to be something recognizable, like a portrait or a realistic scene, so they struggle to connect with abstraction.
But for me, abstract art is a direct line to the subconscious. It’s not about being understood—it’s about being felt. A traditional portrait shows you an image, but abstract art shows you emotion.
Images/Richie Tan
Let me give you an example. If someone paints a family photo, with a sad child and a happy one, you can feel the emotions on the surface. But you still don’t know what they’re thinking inside. A photo of a crying child only tells you one story.
With abstract art, though, you’re not confined. You can look at it from multiple perspectives. You might sit with it for a while and suddenly a new meaning emerges. It leaves space for the viewer to feel and interpret in their own way. That’s what drew me to it.
When I was in Taiwan, I visited galleries all the time. I noticed something: when people looked at realistic paintings, they’d glance at it and move on quickly. “Oh, it’s a private jet,” and that’s it. But with abstract pieces, they’d stand there for 30 minutes, even an hour. Just absorbing. That’s when I realized—if someone looked at my art for more than two minutes, that was enough for me. That’s the power I wanted to create. That’s why I started.
If someone looks at my painting and truly feels it, then they’ve heard my story—no words needed. If they just think it’s a nice painting, that’s fine too. Not everyone will get it. Even if you tell someone your story directly, they may not understand or might respond carelessly, which can hurt more than silence. But when people tell me they can feel my work, that’s when I know I’ve succeeded.
Some people have purchased my art because they connected with the emotion behind it. A few were from the UK—they shared that my work made them feel understood, like someone else had been through what they’d been through. That’s the highest compliment I could ask for.
Breaking Through in Malaysia
Being an artist in Malaysia comes with its own unique challenges. There’s still a lack of deep art appreciation here. People often associate art with decoration—something to fill a wall—not as a medium for healing, provocation, or cultural commentary.
Malaysia is a multicultural nation, but sometimes we don’t know how to fully celebrate that diversity. Art has the power to bridge that gap. It can express stories that words cannot. It can serve as social commentary—especially when you’re not allowed to say certain things out loud. Instead of directly confronting sensitive issues, art lets you communicate through metaphor, emotion, and symbolism. It softens the blow but keeps the truth intact.
Art also has the potential to grow our creative economy and showcase Malaysian talent to the world. Right now, art is often relegated to commercial graffiti or tourism posters, but it can be so much more. It can be fashion, performance, architecture, therapy—it can cross into any industry.
Final words: Advice for art students
For readers who are younger artists, maybe in their teens, who are thinking of pursuing art or fashion design, even though it’s not the ‘safe’ career path, here’s my advice:
If you insist on doing it, then go all in. No matter the industry, you need to study—study the craft, study the business, and study how to stand out. I can’t give you the answer because only you know it. But you do need to know how to pitch, how to plan six steps ahead. That’s essential.
Also, talent without hard work is nothing. That’s all I can say. You might have talent, but if you don’t go out and show yourself, no one will recognize you. And that’s a completely different skill set you’ll need to develop—it’s hard, I know, but nothing worth having comes easy.
A lot of artists say they don’t want to touch the business side of things, but if you don’t, you won’t make it. You don’t need to be a business expert, but you do need to touch a little bit of everything so you have the philosophy and foundation to understand how things work.
Now, I tell people honestly: if you want to do this, save up first. Make sure you have at least two years of living expenses—six figures, if you can. And that’s only if you already have some foundation in art. Build your resources, your network, your body of work. You can do it!
Richie Tan is an artist with a diverse portfolio. Each piece he makes is a one-of-a-kind creation, never to be recreated. For those who connect with the emotion and energy woven into the work, this is a rare opportunity to own a truly original artwork. A curated selection of paintings is now available for collectors and art enthusiasts, with prices ranging from RM4,000 to RM50,000. Commissioned pieces are also available, tailored to suit your vision and budget.
Learn more at www.richietan.com or connect with Richie directly through Instagram @richietgf.
📲 Connect with Richie
🌐 Website: www.richietan.com
📞 WhatsApp / Contact: +60 10-219 1053
📸 Instagram: @richietgf
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