My 5 piece series responds to lifelong trauma from an abusive childhood in Vietnam. It is a critique of filial piety in Confucian society; contemplating my biraciality; titled ‘No Lotus’ after Buddhist monk Thích Nhất Hạnh's teachings on Non-Duality, “No mud, no lotus”.
- Chảo
A candle of my head life cast in wax, embedded with dried lotuses, placed into a found wok. The melting of my wax portrait is melancholic, meditative and anxious as I cling onto a former life in Vietnam and a self that is so treasured yet so haunting.
- Hương
A series of concentric iron rings bound by red rope to resemble spiral incense found in temples to mourn lost relatives. As incense is ephemeral, I create a concretely permanent rendition in the medium of iron, signifying lasting impact of Confucian filial piety in society that is supported yet crippled by this hierarchy. The iron disintegrates the pyramidal to rust over time suggesting a degradation of such dictatorial principles.
- Quê
A sculpture evolving from a more organic, experimental metalworking, I weld scrap iron bars to mimic rock pools of my mother's war torn home, Hải Phòng. I’ve always felt calamity around the same bodies of water that disrupted her childhood. The piece is set into a glass base filled with a pool of water that is agitated by a motor creating waves, contrasting with the static metal shards that will be corroded slowly as water oxidises iron.
- Chua
A series of large jars of preservative liquid, imitating the Viet tradition of preservation of organic matter—whether snake wine, fermented pickled vegetables, or the Agent Orange victim still borns in formaldehyde. I use this convention to hold onto decaying memories, symbolised by plants from my former life: mushrooms, lemongrass, orchids, lotuses etc. They become remnants in amber,
- Tóc
The most intimate and terrifying: a performance. I braid hair of women close to me, and of strangers, to replicate the uncomfortable limited intimacy with my mother. She sold her hair in her youth in order to survive; she always treasured the length of mine. She braided my hair every night for school—although painful like most of our interactions, it was her way of anxiously caring as a young mother who had lost her own mother after childbirth. The red string braided in hair connects all female-inherited intergenerational trauma.