‘Humming at the End of a Dream’ at San Art
By Dương Mạnh Hùng

A&M's Fresh Faces is where we profile an emerging artist from the region every month and speak to them about how they kick-started their career, how they continue to sustain their practice and what drives them as artists. Read our profile on Nghĩa Đặng here.

In 2018, you graduated from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago with a MBA in studio art. How did your experience in Chicago shape your artistic practice and conceptual development?

The School of the Art Institute of Chicago (SAIC) does not have a rigid curriculum. Since the required courses, such as art history, theories, and medium-specific courses, take up only one third of the required credits, and the rest has to be figured out on our own. It is a DIY curriculum, so it presented a very interesting and exciting opportunity for me to explore. Many of my peers knew the media that they wanted to work with, so they only took courses that aligned with their medium, be it painting for filmmaking. I was the complete opposite. I jumped around and tried my hand at everything: performance, printmaking, and textiles––with painting and drawing still being the base.

In hindsight, my approach seemed a little chaotic, but it also allowed me the freedom to experiment with a variety of materials. Each course helped me develop a personal relationship with materiality, as it showed me how a material responds to different kinds of bodily needs and emotions. This is still the way I work with materials: I do not force myself to work with painting just because it is more popular or viable. Instead, I pick the material to work with based on how they resonate with my current personal needs.

What was one important piece of advice that you were given in college?

It was from a professor in one of my advanced painting classes. This is the final course that is taken at SAIC if your medium is painting, where you develop a repertoire of material and technique that you will put together in a series of paintings. For me, since I had taken a textile course before, I wanted to incorporate some textile techniques, such as quilting or embroidery, into my work. For example, I was cutting up pastiches of canvas, found fabric, and burlaps to fuse them together to make a collage painting.

At the time, I also started exploring more personal issues, and I was invested in the idea of the confessional artwork. It is a word that I have borrowed from Louise Bourgeois, about how art making can be akin to making a confession. As I dove deeper into the confessional aspect of art making, Sam Jaffe, my professor and also a textile artist, became my mentor. Her most memorable advice for me was this: do not be so private in making art that you end up hiding too much from the audience, but you also should not view art making as putting your diary on display. She also emphasised that artists should translate personal experiences into something relatable for the viewers, so that they are not barred from the work.

You mentioned Lacan and his psychoanalytical ideas as the portals through which you unravel and examine the intricate connections between you, your internal world, and external environments. Could you share the context in which you came across Lacan, and some examples of how his ideas have assisted you in conveying your emotional experiences through painting?

Earlier on in my higher education, I became interested in the field of psychology and took many courses. I came across Lacan in a unit about psychoanalysis. I became invested in this approach, as it treats the subconscious as something that you get in touch with and understand, not fear and shun like in Freudian traditions. As I read more of Lacan’s writing, many of his ideas inform and structure how I approach art.

One of the ideas is what Lacan calls the orders of reality or experiences of existing. He presents this idea as a Venn diagram of human subjectivity with three major components: the Real, the Imaginary, and the Symbolic. The Real is the primal world of sensation, which exists beyond logic and can only be experienced via our senses to a limited degree. According to Lacan, this world is taken away when you develop your personality, as you step into the Imaginary realm and begin to establish narratives in which you are the main character. Finally, there is the Symbolic, which is the wider society that seeks to edit the way you write your story in order to fit it into more macro narratives.

So how does this all translate into my work? Firstly, I see painting as a quest to get more in touch with the Real, which is always suppressed by my narrative (Imaginary) and the editor (Symbolic). The Real bestows a freedom to explore one’s senses and enjoy colours and forms. Nonetheless, you have to exercise this freedom in moderation. Thus, for me, making art is to break a little bit away from the constraints of my ego and society, so I can be more in touch with my senses, through which I can take a deeper look into other human phenomena such as love, desire, pleasure, or fear that lies at the cross-sections of the realm.

Lacan’s Orders, comprising of the Real, the Imaginary, and the Symbolic.

What made you decide to return to Vietnam after graduation? What were your initial impressions about the country’s contemporary art scene, particularly young artists, upon homecoming?

Practically speaking, I did not want to deal with the visa process to remain in America after school. Also, there is a lot of financial pressure to work in the arts there. Personally speaking, I felt out of place in the five years there. Despite having wonderful experiences, there was an absence of connection between me and the people, the weather, and the language. I can recall a specific moment when I was sitting in the train in Chicago, and it was the first snow of the season. Watching other people jostling against one another, all I felt was an oppressive, almost claustrophobic, atmosphere. It made me feel like I could not fit into any of it, and the feeling came up a lot, in waves.

So it was 2018 when I decided to come back to Vietnam, to Saigon (Ho Chi Minh City) for good. My first impression is that there is a vast difference between what the local artists are doing and what I do. It was the period that saw a wave of identity-driven politics and discourses, and I remember the term ‘decolonisation’ being the centre of most discussions I took part in. It seemed like every artist, local and diasporic, was unpacking their identity from multiple angles, and this triggered a deep fear in me about my future in Vietnam, since my work does not incorporate many identity-based discourses. Thankfully, as I persisted and continued exploring the scene, I eventually met with other artists of different generations, such as the late Lan Anh Lê or the painter Hoàng Dương Cầm, as well as owners of galleries and art spaces in Saigon. As I conversed with them, I discovered that these spaces worked with artists who explore identity politics, such as Tuấn Andrew Nguyễn, Phan Thảo Nguyên, or Trương Công Tùng, not because it was trendy to do so, but because of the artists’ fantastic skills and sensibilities in weaving stories out of their identity exploration. Eventually, I also found that the spaces and galleries here are very open to work with young artists with personal stories. So that was a preconception that I am glad turned out not to be true.

Could you share your favourite art space or gallery in Ho Chi Minh City/ Vietnam? Why are you drawn to that space and what does it offer to you/ your practice?

I would say San Art and Galerie Quynh, both self-sustaining, have made great efforts in working with and promoting their artists. I respect the trust that they have in their artists’ practice, as well as their openness in working with young artists, who may struggle to find opportunities as there might not be a readily available market for their works. I also enjoy the fact that people at San Art, such as Mary David, and Galerie Quynh, such as Quynh and Rob, make time to sit down and have conversation with me about my practice, my material choices, and other things. It is a great boost of morale for me.

Installation view of Nghĩa’s most recent solo show at San Art, titled ‘Humming at the End of a Dream’, 2024. Image courtesy of the artist and San Art.

Your practice has traversed many media, from sculptures made of found objects and print to charcoal drawing and, most recently, textile on canvas. As an emerging artist, what benefits do you think this wide experimental spectrum has granted you? Similarly, what drawbacks might stem from such seemingly endless, yet potentially short-lived, bouts of experimentation?

I have gone back and forth between different forms of drawing, for example, charcoal and graphites, and recently oil pastel and embroidery on canvas. During that shifting process of experimentation, I was mainly figuring out how to get closer to the subconscious, or at least a near-subconscious state. I want to explore how to do so most effectively, and most naturally as well. Jumping from one medium to another, I have gained the ability to open myself up and transport myself to this trancelike state of mind, whether for a brief time or a long time, where I am free to respond to my innermost fears and desires.

However, I have had to work through a lot of hesitancy before arriving at this point of comfortable acceptance and becoming open to changes. As you might already know, we were taught in school to become professional artists, and one of the requirements is to choose a main medium and stick with it. Thus, my inconsistency in material or medium can appear unprofessional to some. Nonetheless, as I continue experimenting with different materials, they have helped me understand my state of mind, which is naturally a chaotic place! As I learn to embrace my artistic hopscotch, I slowly figure out how to respond to my personal needs through art making.

Nghĩa Đặng, ‘Diners and the Theater of the Imago’, 2018, wood, steel, door viewer, mirror, TV screen. Installation view at Nghĩa's solo show at The Factory Contemporary Art Centre, titled ‘Scenes of the Imago,’ 2018. Image courtesy of the artist and The Factory Contemporary Art Centre.

In your first solo exhibition, titled ‘Scenes of the Imago’, 2018, at The Factory Contemporary Art Centre, you mentioned that you were fascinated by the ways in which artists invoked the sense of touch, scale, and interactions through their works. How have you attempted to realise this in both your object-based and painting practice?

To me, the found object is a medium that I used mostly to address personal melancholy or feelings of attachment in my personal history. For the show at The Factory, I took the base of my grandmother’s Soviet sewing machine that I used to play with. This base had a few different small compartments. It was the spot that I used to hide all of my treasures, like marbles, toys, etc. While these relations were not made obvious in the works, it was still cathartic–and gratifying–for me to use objects with that kind of personal attachment as material, and to see it in the context of my exhibition.

As for the sense of touch, scale, and interaction, I am fascinated by how artists can translate these experiences into materials, without using words. For my first solo exhibition, alongside the personal melancholies, I was also interested with the sense of scale: the scale of the table, of proportion shifts when seen through a door lens, and other things. There was one installation in the show at Factory, titled ‘Diners and the Theater of the Imago’ (2018), where I played with scale. The table, the main component of the installation, was raised way higher than a normal dining table, 15 cm higher to be exact. This raised height was meant to evoke the uncertainty of a kid sitting at the adults’ table, where the feet cannot touch the ground. What I hoped to achieve was to convey these feelings, these memories, as truthfully as possible, and somehow they will evoke something in the viewers. I also find it helpful to watch other artists who have worked with the same medium and concept, and learn from the way they handled the process of translating experiences into material.

‘Milk for Tonight,’ 2023, embroidery thread, oil pastel on Aida fabric. Image courtesy of the artist and San Art.

In your latest solo exhibition at San Art, titled ‘Humming at the End of a Dream’, you have incorporated textile threads into your canvas presentations. Which work(s) in the exhibition most successfully exemplify your durational engagement and nuanced application of the threads’ essence into your paintings? Please share more about the context of these specific works.

For this show, it is more about the sense of sight, specifically the visual effect of colours. As I mentioned in the booklet, each colour, from the Baker-Miller pink to the baby blue, elicits a specific response. All of these different effects carry nuances, as if you are listening to the feelings being communicated through vibrant colours without any actual verbalisation. So that was an interesting thing that I discovered when I made a shift from charcoal drawing in black and white and began working with a lot of colours.

Moreover, it is a human response to be excited by the alluring glow of colours. I was talking to a person at the opening, who was drawn to the painting ‘Milk for Tonight’ (2023) specifically because of the initial feeling of sweetness and innocence from its yellow tones. Then, as they were drawn closer, they noticed a bit of red, and they felt as if the red shard broke their initial impression about the work. All of a sudden, they became anxious about what else was within the painting! So colour not only draws you in with its various shades of vibrancy, it also gives you the signal to unpack a spectrum of emotions.

Another theme which emerged during my time working on these paintings is the fine balance between density and flatness, between intensity and quietude. As I embroider the threads onto the canvas, I can feel the psychological intensity that comes from repeated and durational actions. You can see the intensity reflected in the way the material forms the figures and colour patches, where threads are densely packed against one another. In contrast, oil pastels are flatter and softer, which give a sense of ethereal lightness, a juxtaposition that I enjoy experimenting with in these recent paintings.

You are teaching Art and Art History at Hoa Sen University. How did you manage to balance your time between your university duties and your personal creative work? Does your teaching experience also feed into your artistic practice?

Aside from art-making, teaching is a passion of mine and it is no less demanding. I guess I have been doing it via compartmentalising. For example, when I carry out my teaching duties, I create this teacher character whose authority demands attention; I will alter my tone, my posture, and my demeanour accordingly whenever I go to school in order to get into that character. After school is over, I leave that character behind at the door and return to myself and my art.

It sounds complicated but I feel a sense of relief when taking off that role. Then I can resume my creative work as a small reward at the end of the day. I guess that is one way my teaching experience influences my artistic work. Secondly, art making is a very solitary process. Most of the time, I am with myself, and I can easily become stuck in my own thoughts. So teaching is a very effective way to create meaningful social interactions. To interact, to impart knowledge, to talk to students and answer questions: all of these give me the chance to reflect on my knowledge as well. And it does help a lot with public speaking, which is not something that I have been good at.

How was your experience at A. Farm International Art Residency in 2020? Looking back, what were some advice that you would give to other young artists who are seeking residency opportunities?

My residency at A. Farm coincided with the four-month long lockdown in Saigon. While others might have lamented such a circumstance, I appreciated the chance to sit down and talk to other residents for hours, bouncing ideas back and forth to kill time. That is one thing that I think young artists should look for in a residency, an opportunity to naturally share their thoughts. I would suggest they look for a residency that has more than two artists, in the same space. Or at least one that offers window frames to be in conversation with as many people as possible. We call them talking partners, and these people do not have to be artists as well. Do not think about residency as a time to solely focus on art making, because you can do that daily. For me, it is equally, if not more important, to bounce ideas and socialise meaningfully about art.

“Do not think about residency as a time to solely focus on art making, because you can do that daily. For me, it is equally, if not more important, to bounce ideas and socialise meaningfully about art.”

Name a Vietnamese/regional artist and an international artist who have greatly altered your aesthetics and conceptual thinking. In what ways have these artists been influential to you?

Aesthetics is hard because when you work with multiple media, you are different in alignment with different groups of artists. But overall, I think I am most influenced by artists who implement this idea of confessional artwork. Thus, I would choose Louise Bourgeois as the international artist and Trong Gia Nguyen as the Vietnamese artist.

While it seems easy to be confessional, it is actually a hard thing to do well. I am stuck between a rock and a hard place. The rock is my perception, emotion, and experience, and the hard place is how others perceive my work and the experiences that I am “confessing” to them. Thus, there are many traps that I can fall into, one of which being emotional projection, or emotional dumping, on other people. I cannot assume that the viewers are willing to accept whatever emotion that I am throwing at them. So I have to juggle constantly between being truthful in my confession while not projecting too much of my emotions.

That is why I was interested in the tactics and manoeuvres of Trong and Louise Bourgeois, even though their works are largely different. While they work with personal confession, they do not suffocate the viewer with their own anecdotes. Instead, they pinpoint their stories within this larger, more universal phenomenon, in which their experience is only one manifestation. For Bourgeois, it is the bodily pain of women, for Trong, the vulnerability of his own “roots”. And they give the viewer space to step inside that phenomenon and relate to it. For example, when I looked at some of Trong’s work, I rediscovered this feeling of losing my history of self when I lost my toys, when I lost my baby chairs, when I lost all of these things... So they create the chance for me to step inside that larger phenomenon with them and evoke empathy.

What are your hopes and concerns for the art in Vietnam and Southeast Asia at the moment?

This is a moment where Southeast Asian artists are receiving a lot of attention and recognition globally. While this increase in representation does matter, I hope it can open up opportunities for us to find ways to self-sustain past the burst of exotic excitement. I also hope that artists in the region can maintain their personal path as somewhat separate from their collective identities, which can overlap with exotic frameworks and expectations.

And it is not only the duty of the artists; the whole ecosystem, including galleries, museums, dealers, curators, and writers, need to be aware so that we do not unconsciously create a performative script for the artists, which is always the most counter-productive thing. However, I also recognise that, at least for young artists, it can be difficult to consciously remain distant from trendy conversations.

Are there any upcoming exhibitions/projects that you would like to share?

I think after San Art, I am taking a break. As for upcoming exhibitions, I have received a few invitations from spaces in Vietnam, but have not accepted any yet. So that's to be determined. Nonetheless, I am excited to continue my new mode of art making with fabric, pastel and embroidery, and to see what other potentials might spring from their union. For the San Art show, I was exploring more personal things… smaller vignettes of myself. During this break, I am thinking of expanding my thematic scope by returning to the idea of relationships between the self and the others and finding intersecting undercurrents that connect the self, the other, and a land. There are a lot of possibilities waiting to be explored!

Nghĩa Đặng’s ‘Humming at the End of a Dream’ is on view at San Art, from 6 April to 9 June 2024.