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Sections & Artworks
NƠI ĐÂY, NƠI ĐÓ: HERE NOR/AND THERE
Recently with COVID-19, Asian hate spread throughout the United States. Where there is xenophobia, redlining, racism, etcetera, can that place be ‘home?’ This predicament engenders a sense of alienation, of not belonging to a country of origin nor to land(s) of arrival. Some, however, find ‘home’ in both. Others view ‘home’ as a “changing face” whose location(s) shift as our connections and definitions also shift over time and through generations. Some view ‘home’ as a liminal space perhaps somewhere amongst the waves where hundreds of thousands of Boat People were lost, and yet where hy vọng/hope for new lives in shimmering lands of opportunity was born. Perhaps ‘home’ is here, there, nowhere, and/or somewhere in between.
Gần đây với COVID-19 , nạn kỳ thị dân Á châu lan tràn khắp nước Mỹ. Ở những nơi có sự kỳ thị người đến từ nước khác, phân biệt giàu nghèo, khác biệt chủng tộc, vân vân, nơi đó có thể gọi là "nhà" được không? Cái hiểm họa này nó tạo ra một cảm giác rằng mình không thuộc về cái đất nước nguyên thủy trước kia hoặc mảnh đất mình đã đặt chân đến. Tuy nhiên, một số người lại cảm thấy " nhà" ở cả hai nơi. Một số người xem "nhà" là một bộ mặt có thể thay đổi vì rằng nơi chốn cũng thay đổi khi các mối quan hệ và định nghĩa của nó cũng thay đổi theo thời gian qua từng thế hệ. Một số người xem "nhà" là một khoảng không gian tạm thời nào đó, có thể là nơi nào đó nơi mà hàng ngàn người đã bỏ xác ngoài khơi giữa những con sóng. Tuy nhiên, nơi đó cũng là cũng là chỗ xuất phát của những hy vọng âm ỉ về một đời sống mới ở những mảnh đất mới được hình thành. Rất có thể là " Nhà" đang ở đây, ở đó, chẳng ở đâu hết hoặc nơi nào đó ở lưng chừng.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
The Polite Guest (The Artist’s Father)
2002, Oil on panel, 11” x 10”
A figure sits with his back slouched in comfortable patience. Creases line his rumpled suit, aged face, and veined hands. His cleanly-cut and gelled hair sweeps back from his eyes looking straight ahead to the right. Fresh flowers delicately held in his lap follow his gaze and stretch out of the frame. This figure is the artist Thuan Vu’s late father, Vu Huu Chuong, who immigrated with him from Vietnam to the United States in 1975. Here, Vu depicts him well-dressed and politely waiting with a gift for an unknown host. Until when are diasporic peoples no longer ‘guests’ but those who belong in their new homes?
Quyên Trương (she/her/hers) b. 1983, Saigon, Vietnam
Untitled
2022, Hartford, Connecticut
Acrylic and paint marker on canvas, 24" x 30"
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
The New World (in Flux)
2012, The New World series (2011-19)
Encaustic on wood panel 16” x 12”
From which vantage point is this scene viewed: above, in front, or below? Is one branch a reflection of another? Made by melting, dripping, and drying layers of wax across a rotating wooden panel, the varying shades of green, purple, and yellow swirl endlessly together. The result is a dizzying land/sea/scape reflecting artist Thuan Vu’s description of a refugee’s mental landscape. Vu says, “It’s not all hard work; it can be joyful. There can be nuance, excitement, sorrow, poetry. It’s all shifting, all of the time.”
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
Kintsugi No. 15
2022, Kintsugi 1 series (2019-ongoing)
Oil on canvas 36” x 72”
In the center panel, luminous blue leaves rise/fall against a spaceless dark background towards a thin red horizontal panel. Flanking this scene are two mirrored fragmented landscapes with similar vertical red panels on either end. They recall the handles of a Japanese screen, or byōbo. By 'pulling' the screen aside, viewers imagine new perspectives of the landscapes. Artist Thuan Vu suggests this is the beauty of how a new place/home can be viewed in ways more than one, and how that capability lies within each person.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
Kintsugi No. 18
2022, Kintsugi 1 series (2019-ongoing)
Oil on canvas 48" x 41"
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
The New World (Grande Tondo 2)
2014, The New World series (2011-19), New Haven, Connecticut
Oil on Dibond aluminum panel
48" diameter
Quỳnh Lâm (she/her/hers) b. 1988, Saigon, Vietnam
Untitled No. 4 (in the series Portrait of a Tonkinese Woman)
2021, Special edition with polyptych 4 pieces
34" x 44"
Long strands of hair partly obscure the side of artist Quỳnh Lâm’s face as she peers down at a delicately-held map of Knoxville, Tennessee from 1886, the city where Lâm currently works and lives. The Tennessee River on the right of the photograph is reminiscent of the Saigon River on a similar map of Saigon (present-day Ho Chi Minh City), Vietnam from 1881, the city where Lam was born.
By removing temporal and spatial indicators in both the map and overall black-and-white portrait, Lam blurs the boundary between reality and the imagined—the old homeland/nước and a new homeland/nước.
This photograph is a part of a self-portrait series in which Lam positions herself as a “Tonkinese Woman” from the late 19th-century and holds up historical artifacts related to Vietnam and Knoxville.
Quyên Trường (she/her/hers) b. 1983, Saigon, Vietnam
Nước
2023, Hartford, Connecticut
Acrylic and mixed media on canvas
36" x 36"
This painting glows with a warmth that spreads from its center and permeates space past its four corners. Swooshes of ghostly red paint appear like mythical beings emerging from blue spillages reminiscent of bodies of nước/water. Thin, grid-like stripes of red recall sails or scales on this lively ocean.
For artist Quyên Trương, nước/country/water is “both a place we fled and a vehicle for escape; nước represented immense loss and hope for new life.” Thus, the different-colored swirls and drops on this canvas express how hopes, anxieties, and fears were/are still felt by Vietnamese Boat People long past their journeys across the South China Sea post-1975.
Thu Tran (he/him/his) b. 1940, Thái Bình, Vietnam
Emotion
2017, Bridgeport, Connecticut
Oil and acrylic on canvas
35” x 40”
CÙNG NHAU / TOGETHER
Many families were separated at land, where they were forced to leave members behind; at sea, where starvation, storms, and piracy were harsh realities; and at borders, where some members were rejected while others were accepted. Those who remained together depended on each other when faced with a myriad of cultural and political challenges in foreign lands. Perhaps it is with people and not just places where we find safety, support, and ‘home.’
Nhiều gia đình đã bị chia cắt trên cạn, nơi mà họ phải bỏ lại người thân và gia đình phía sau, trên biển, nơi mà cái đói, bão tố, và hải tặc là những thực tế khắc nghiệt, hoặc tải cửa ải biên giới, nơi mà một số thành viên trong gia đình được chấp thuận còn số khác lại bị từ chối. Những người nào còn gắn bó với nhau thì dựa vào nhau khi mà phải đối mặt với hàng vạn thử thách về văn hóa, chính trị ở một đất nước mới.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
Transients (Father), 2004, Charcoal and pastel on paper, 40” x 26”
Transients (Mother), 2004, Charcoal and pastel on paper, 40” x 26”
Transients (Three Sisters), 2010, Oil on canvas, 30” x 30"
Transients series (2003-ongoing)
This series is inspired by the Vietnamese craft tradition of using charcoal powder to inexpensively render photographic likenesses of deceased family members. Artist Thuan Vu subverts this tradition by depicting, enlarging, and blurring living figures and removing them from time and space. In doing so, Vu depicts loved ones as tender memories which often fade in and out of focus throughout time. They are endearingly recalled by food shared, scents remembered, places, and people. By placing these works on museum walls rather than on altars, Vu also represents their lives as living and not just lived––worthy of admiration by many.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
Kintsugi No. 17
2022, Kintsugi 1 series (2019-ongoing)
Oil on aluminum panel
60" diameter
Kintsugi No. 4
2019, Kintsugi 1 series (2019-ongoing)
Oil on linen on board
24" x 24"
Gold, reds, purples, and blues criss-cross these flower still-lives. Trace the 'cracks' where the paintings are fragmented and notice how they are made more beautiful because of them. Kintsugi is the Japanese practice and philosophy of sealing together pieces of broken pottery/trauma with gold/healing. Artist Thuan Vu applies this to painting. These works reference the Vietnamese diasporic people's process of collecting and connecting fragments of their memories and those of their families who experienced countless hardships before, during, and after migration. They recognize and emphasize that the Vietnamese people are not the corpses in well-known Vietnam/American War images, but a present, resilient people whose lives persist.
Thu Tran (he/him/his) b. 1940, Thái Bình, Vietnam
From Heart to Heart (Từ trái tim đến trái tim) 2021, Bridgeport, Connecticut
Acrylic on canvas
30” x 24”
Radiating from the center of this painting in artist Thu Tran’s characteristic abstract style is a golden heart. Surrounding it are melding pools of primary blues, reds, and yellows whose surfaces curve with touches of light and shadow. For Tran, these colors represent the foundation from which all other colors and emotions derive.
This work was inspired by the concurrent COVID-19 pandemic during which Tran recognized the need for collective empathy and love. Thus, a curvy white line from near the top right edge extends through the heart and past the left edge—reaching for connection từ trái tim đến trái tim.
Quyên Trường (she/her/hers) b. 1983, Saigon, Vietnam
Names Like Fireworks
2022, Hartford, Connecticut
Acrylic and paint marker on canvas
3' x 3'
"I come from a family of people with names, / Real names, not-afraid names, with colors / Like the fireworks… / Names that take a moment to say, / Names you have to practice.” -Alberto Ríos
Names sweep, dance, and burst in brightly-colored fireworks across the canvas. Inspired by the poem "Day of the Refugios" by Alberto Ríos, artist Quyên Trường recalls how names are important markers of our individual and cultural identities. Often mispronounced, her late father's name, Dung, can be traced in a painting nearby. She recalls how he never accommodated the mispronunciations by changing his name but would instead introduce it proudly.
Hồng-Ân Trương (she/her/hers) b. 1976, Gainesville, Florida
00:10:43:17 (from series Treatment for a Year of the Rabbit)
2017, Durham, North Carolina
Archival pigment print, edition of 5
10" x 7.5"
SỰ MẤT VÀ SỰ TRẢ LẠI : LOSS AND RETURN/
REDEMPTION
According to the 2020 U.S. Census, the estimated Vietnamese population in the United States is 2.2 million. This section spotlights the resilience of this large and growing Vietnamese community in the United States, rarely recognized in history, art history, and museums. Written are the lives of the Vietnamese diaspora in a celebratory present and anticipated future. How have they returned ‘home’ after experiencing unforgettable losses?
Theo số liệu thống kê của Mỹ vào năm 2022, dân số người Việt tại Mỹ vào khoảng 2.2 triệu. Con số này cho thấy sự lớn mạnh và vững vàng của dân số người Việt tại Mỹ nhưng lại ít được công nhận trong lịch sử, lịch sử nghệ thuật và trong ngành bảo tàng. Được viết ra đây là đời sống của những người xa xứ để chào mừng những gì của hiện tại và những phỏng chừng trong tương lai. Làm sao họ có thể trở về "Nhà" sau những trải nghiệm mất mát khó quên?
Antonius-Tín Bui (they/them/theirs)
b. 1992, Bronx, New York
Không Có Gì Bằng Mà Với Con
2022, New Haven, Connecticut
Installation comprised of traditional Vietnamese garments donated by Vietnamese communities all over the country, specifically Orange County, Bronx, Denver, and Houston
Tied together from floor to ceiling, these traditional Vietnamese garments, or áo dài, are a safety net of embrace, the promise of renewal, and an undeniable statement of the Vietnamese people's vibrancy and connectedness throughout past, present, and future generations. From the top to the bottom, the colors of the áo dài change from red, to orange, then purple, white, and blue. They recall the hundreds of thousands lost at sea, in war, and in memory reaching forth and up towards the sunrise/sunset of their loved ones continuing on to live their wildest dreams.
Antonius-Tín Bui (they/them/theirs)
b. 1992, Bronx, New York
Floating in Forgiveness, 2020
Instead, I Am Alive, 2020
Cyanotypes developed on and in the Cape Cod National Seashore using materials specific to the Vietnamese-American refugee experience
Amidst an ocean blue background floats ghostly white Vietnamese áo dài spliced by the outlines of fishermen's nets. Without their owners, they recall the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Vietnamese Boat People on the perilous journeys from Vietnam. And yet, the child's áo dài on the right stands upright and animated. Despite the losses of loved ones to the sea, the water/nước can be returned to as a site of life, memory, and home.
Antonius-Tín Bui (they/them/theirs)
b. 1992, Bronx, New York
Upon Skin, Upon Stone
2020, 12:09 dance narrative film
Vietnamese Catholic song and self-written/recorded poetry play as the artist Antonius-Tín Bui and their sibling, Theresa-Xuan Bui, perform intuitive dancing at three Vietnam Memorial Sites across the United States East Coast. The film complicates understandings of these public monuments as sites identifying American soldiers as the primary victims of the Vietnam/American War while the many Southeast Asians lost to it, including Vietnamese, Cambodian, Lao, and Hmong people, remain nameless on the black reflective stone. In an act of radical redemption, the Bui siblings inscribe themselves and their ancestors upon the stone as they dance across it.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
Kintsugi No. 9
2021, Kintsugi 1 series (2019-ongoing)
Oil on linen 30” x 30”
The Kintsugi 1 series began with solely black-and-white flowers as a eulogy to the artist Thuan Vu's late father, and has since introduced many new colors which can be found nearby. Here, Vu includes a lone patch of blue––the color he associates with memory. The bright patch starkly contrasts, or lifts, the somber bouquet of monochromatic flowers. Its surface maintains the rough texture of the linen material underneath the smooth flowers, revealing one of the many layers of the painting. This references how history too contains layers of memories, grief, and joy.
Thuan Vu (he/him/his) b. 1973, Saigon, Vietnam
The New World (Portal)
2013, The New World series (2011-19)
Oil on aluminum composite 48" diameter
Thu Tran (he/him/his) b. 1940, Thái Bình, Vietnam
Autumn Passed (Mùa Thu Qua)
2018, Bridgeport, Connecticut
Oil on canvas
36" x 36"
Hồng-Ân Trương (she/her/hers) b. 1976, Gainesville, Florida
01:12:14:21 (from series Treatment for a Year of the Rabbit)
2017, Durham, North Carolina
Archival pigment print, edition of 5
10" x 7.5"
Hồng-Ân Trương (she/her/hers) b. 1976, Gainesville, Florida
01:13:58:16 (from series Treatment for a Year of the Rabbit)
2017, Durham, North Carolina
Archival pigment print, edition of 5
10" x 7.5"
A figure in a white áo dài, or Vietnamese traditional garment typically worn by women, is blurrily-captured cycling on a street in Vietnam from behind the trunk of a tree. Centered below the figure in bold white numbers is a timestamp for when this moment can be found in archival video footage shot by American and Australian soldiers in 1960s Vietnam. These soldiers would often zoom in on those dressed in áo dài and trail them with their lens before shifting their focus.
Artist Hồng-Ân Trương resists this voyeurism and documentary ownership by stilling the figures’ movements in photographs. She subsequently gives them “new possibilities of that moment, the moment before, and the many moments after…as a way for those [figures] to somehow have survived.” A radical act of narrative reclamation and redemption, these photographs also offer back a glimpse and ownership of ‘home’ for Vietnamese diasporic peoples.
Kenny Nguyen (he/him/his) b. 1990, BenTre Province, Vietnam
Motherland Series No. 5
2023, Charlotte, North Carolina
Hand-cut silk fabric, acrylic paint, canvas, pins
72" H x 55" W (flat)
62" H x 48" W x 4" D (undulated)
Hundreds of sage green, royal blue, and white-painted silk strips meet and overlap across an undulating canvas. A few of the green pieces left unwoven dangle and partially obstruct the blue silk. This welcomes the viewer to push back the strands and peer beyond into water-hued depths. There, rectangular pops of bright reds and oranges peek between the blues like glinting reflections of a sunrise/sunset. Both the greens and the blues, representations of land/nước/water, meld into the white–the color of both death and renewal. A celebratory, colorful mosaic appears where the three colors meet.
Using silk is a method of connecting to Nguyen’s Vietnamese identity and for expressing ancestral resilience. He says, “Silk is a surprising fabric. It’s delicate yet strong. To destroy a piece of silk is a breakthrough…Something new might come out of it, something more exciting.”
Kenny Nguyen (he/him/his) b. 1990, BenTre Province, Vietnam
Infinite Thread Series No.11
2022, Hand-cut silk fabric, acrylic paint, canvas, pins
72“H x 55“W (flat)
62“H x 48“W x4“D (undulated)
Silk torn into hundreds of strips and covered in colorful orange, blue, green, red, and pink paint were woven and placed on canvas to create what Kenny Nguyen calls a “deconstructed painting.” Unlike traditional paintings, Nguyen makes these works with an imagined body in mind. Thus, his paintings dance across and off of the wall with a sculptural three-dimensional quality that recalls the ebbs and flows of land/nước/water.
Like land/nước/water, each time one of these paintings is installed, the result is different. This impermanence is a metaphor for the mutability and multiplicity of identity and how it relates to home(s), especially for migratory peoples like Nguyen who immigrated to the United States from Vietnam in 2010.
Quyên Trường (she/her/hers) b. 1983, Saigon, Vietnam
Sông-Sống
2023, Hartford, Connecticut
Mixed media on canvas
36" x 36"
Slicing through yet swirling amongst a calming sea of turquoise and yellow is a maroon “S.” The tails of this letter spill and drip back-and-forth across the canvas, dancing and mixing with small blue and yellow orbs which glow against its dark hue.
In Vietnamese, sông means river and sống means to live or survive. By disrupting the churning channels of water representing the Mekong River (Sông Mê Kông) in this painting with a blood-like color, artist Quyên Trương points to the “life-giving and life-altering impact of sông on our humanity’s navigation of nước to sống.”
Thu Tran (he/him/his) b. 1940, Thái Bình, Vietnam
Twilight
2019, Bridgeport, Connecticut
Oil on canvas
36" x 36"