Photo: Le Pho's painting "The young lady in white dress" (1931) which was the only Vietnamese artwork to be shown at Venice Biennale 2024 

1. An artist with a long history of creative work and recognition sometimes doesn’t need a written signature. At just a glance, even a young child can say, “This seems like a Picasso,” “This looks like Basquiat,” “This could be Rubens,” or “This resembles Van Gogh”—provided they have been exposed to art before. This demonstrates that a great artist with depth and an extensive body of work can be recognized through the content, composition, colors, brushstrokes, or the overall atmosphere of a piece, without the need for a written signature.

2. Artists have many ways to leave their “signature.” During the Renaissance, many master artists embedded their own images into their works. In Caravaggio’s Bacchus (1589), the artist’s portrait is hidden within the reflection of a wine jug. In The Arnolfini Portrait (1434) by Jan van Eyck, a Latin inscription resembling a garland above a mirror in the background reads, “Jan van Eyck was here.” Raphael’s fresco The School of Athens (1509-1511), a masterpiece of Classicism, features not only figures modeled after his real-life friends, such as Leonardo da Vinci, but also a curious face behind an arch on the right side of the fresco, next to Ptolemy and Zoroaster—it is Raphael himself.

3. In modern art from the 20th and 21st centuries, aside from written signatures, many artists use symbols as unmistakable personal marks. One of the most famous is the crown motif in Basquiat’s works. Alongside images of dinosaurs and skulls, his three-to-five-pointed crowns are among the most recognizable symbols. These crowns represent his desire to be “king”—a hunger for recognition and ascent—while also reflecting his admiration for artistic masters such as Leonardo da Vinci, Picasso, and Andy Warhol. The crown, symbolizing power, also embodies Basquiat’s internal struggle to create a sense of balance for Black identity and the lower social classes in a changing world.

4. When looking at works by early 20th-century Vietnamese artists living abroad, we see that, in addition to signatures and pen names, they often used personal seals. These seals served as an expression of their Asian heritage, a tradition, a habit, and even a form of certification. Some artists included both Romanized Vietnamese and Sino-Vietnamese characters in their signatures. In the 21st century, many young Vietnamese artists have revived this practice, or they stylize their signatures into graphic designs resembling seals instead of using conventional handwriting.

5. In art collecting, not all artists provide certificates of authenticity. Some artists avoid signing their work, fearing it might disrupt the composition. Others skillfully integrate their signature into the artwork itself. Some even have signatures more aesthetically appealing than the painting. However, collectors and buyers often still seek authentication. That said, not all artists issue certificates, and in some cases, they are unnecessary when the artist’s style, experience, and recognition are evident. For trained eyes, acquiring an artwork is more important than collecting a signature or a certificate. Sometimes, even certificates signed by family members of an artist can be questionable—ironically, they can be among the most skilled forgers!

6. A curious phenomenon today, particularly in Vietnam, is how some artists incorporate well-known and unmistakable signatures of famous international artists into their works. When encountering such “artworks” (or rather, “disasters”), I can’t help but feel astonished—for the artist, the collector, and even the journalists who write about them. What is the connection here? Inspiration? Imitation? Plagiarism? Theft? How does an artist justify using a globally recognized “signature” in their work? What does it have to do with their soul, their pain, their joy? And what about the collectors who acquire these works with unoriginal “signatures”? Are they indifferent? Ignorant? Uninformed? Or do they actually enjoy copies? Do they seek to imitate, to possess a “replicated” artwork?

7. A signature is also an identity. It is a legal affirmation of a person’s status and rights. In highly developed societies with strict legal systems, people rely solely on signatures rather than seals. Seals and certificates only arise when doubt and fraud exist. Given that there are billions of people in the world, it is exceedingly rare for two individuals to have identical signatures by coincidence. In the art world, identical “signatures” should not exist, and if they do, they are almost immediately deemed forgeries.

8. Artists, perhaps more than anyone else, value their “signature”—even more than their legal identity. It is the seal of their talent and professional integrity.

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang
July 6, 2024

The Beginning of the Year with the Appreciation of Antiquities

This morning, I have spent time admiring a ceramic lid from my antique Vietnamese Chu Đậu collection, with a diameter of only about 4 cm, likely dating back to the 14th century when Buddhism was still flourishing. The lid depicts an important episode in Buddhist stories—the dream of Queen Maya, the mother of the Buddha. According to the story, on the night of the Buddha’s conception, which coincided with a full moon in the summer, his mother dreamed that four celestial beings carried her to Lake Anotatta in Tibet. After being bathed and purified by them, a six-tusked white elephant appeared, holding a white lotus in its trunk. The elephant circled her three times before entering her body from the right side. Ten months later, she gave birth to the Buddha in Lumbini Garden, where he emerged from her right side.

The ceramic lid nearly perfectly illustrates this sacred vision of the white elephant offering a white lotus. Three lotus flowers and two lotus leaves are painted in a balanced and harmonious composition. Each lotus has eight petals, a well-known Buddhist symbol representing the Noble Eightfold Path, as well as the eight intrinsic characteristics of the lotus, which reflect the qualities of enlightenment: unstained (grows in mud but remains pure), purification (acts as a natural filter), patience (takes time to sprout from mud and bloom), perfection (maintains integrity, as the lotus seedpod is protected by petals), coolness (blooms in the hot summer, bringing refreshment like the nectar of compassion soothing human suffering), straightforwardness (grows upright from the mud), emptiness (hollow stem symbolizes detachment), simultaneity of cause and effect (blooms with its seedpod already formed, symbolizing the immediate manifestation of karma). By using this ceramic box in daily life, the story of the Buddha and the symbolism of the lotus are constantly recalled, unconsciously becoming ingrained in the user’s mind.

Art was originally created for religious purposes. Before the advent of writing, or when literacy was not yet widespread, humans relied on imagery to represent beliefs, myths, and sacred narratives. In Western history, art reached its peak with the spread of Christianity, particularly during the Renaissance, which began in 13th-century Florence and flourished in the 15th century. This period saw the use of oil painting to depict biblical stories. Giorgio Vasari (1511–1574), an Italian painter, architect, art historian, and biographer of the Renaissance, authored Lives of the Most Excellent Painters, Sculptors, and Architects. This work is considered the ideological foundation of Western art history and remains widely referenced in modern biographies of Renaissance artists, including Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) and Michelangelo (1475-1564) . Vasari credited Jan van Eyck (139-1441), a master of the Northern Renaissance, as the father of oil painting. Western history and art textbooks also claim oil painting as a European invention.

However, a scientific article published by NBC on April 22, 2018 (https://www.nbcnews.com/id/wbna24261371) , provides concrete evidence challenging this belief. Research on the Bamiyan cave paintings in Afghanistan—found behind the two colossal Buddha statues destroyed by the Taliban in 2001—reveals that these artworks date from the 5th to 9th centuries and were created using oil-based paints. Experiments conducted at the European Synchrotron Radiation Facility confirm that these paintings were made hundreds of years before oil painting techniques emerged in Europe. The findings, published in the Journal of Analytical Atomic Spectrometry, establish these as the earliest known oil paintings in the world. Researcher Yoko Taniguchi states: “This is the earliest clear example of oil paintings in the world. Although drying oils were used by the ancient Romans and Egyptians, they were only applied in medicine and cosmetics.” Painted in the mid-7th century, these murals depict Buddhas in vermilion robes, seated in meditation amidst palm leaves and mythical creatures. Scientists discovered that 12 out of 50 caves contain oil-based paintings, likely using walnut and poppy seed oils as drying agents. This discovery proves that Asians, not Europeans, were the first to invent oil painting.

An Eastern proverb states: “There is always a higher mountain beyond the one we see.” This reminds us of the limitations of human understanding and the importance of intellectual humility. The vastness of the world holds many undiscovered truths, and countless pieces of knowledge remain unrecognized—either due to natural limitations in research or systematic control by dominant powers through funding and academic influence. The antiquities preserved in families, clans, and communities serve as records of cultural heritage, both material and spiritual. Exploring one’s cultural roots, ancient wisdom, and national history fosters intellectual independence—allowing individuals to understand their position and identity. Thus, the appreciation and collection of antiquities go beyond mere personal interest; they embody a refined sense of cultural preservation, a natural continuation of tradition, and a deep connection to national identity.

Pham Thi Diep Giang

Milan, February 3, 2025

Where to go and how long to travel to find home?

1. In Vietnamese, there are two commonly used words to describe movement in daily life, which are often interchangeable: “Đi” (to go) and “Về” (to return). However, when using “đi,” it carries an outward meaning, whereas “về” implies a specific place that is already known or previously mentioned, indicating familiarity. To make it easier to visualize, “đi” is like throwing a boomerang, and “về” is when it comes back. People usually say “đi ăn” (to go eat), “đi chơi” (to go out), “đi học” (to go to school), etc., but no one says “về ăn” (return to eat), “về chơi” (return to play), or “về học” (return to study), etc. People say “về nhà” (to return home), but no one says “đi nhà” (to go home), and when emphasizing the return, they combine both words into “đi về nhà” (to go home). At that point, “đi về nhà” encapsulates an entire journey: leaving and returning. With this compound phrase, it can sufficiently convey the meaning in English, whether as “home-coming” or “going home.”

2. Throughout human history—as a community, a species, and even as individuals—it has been a great journey of “Going” and “Returning.” This movement, for any reason: seeking shelter, food, escaping diseases, fleeing wars, natural disasters, spreading or protecting faith, longing for adventure and exploration of new lands, or pursuing freedom, has written grand, blood-soaked, glorious, bitter, or shameful histories. Many individual destinies have become blurred and nameless as they embarked on their own “going” and “returning” journeys. Among these, the journey to find a place called “home” is perhaps the most noble.

3. "This seekingfor my home ... was my affliction. ... Where is my home? I ask and seek and have sought for it; I have not found it" - Walter Benjamin in exile, quoting Nietzsche, 1939. Walter Benjamin—a German-Jewish philosopher and renowned cultural critic—born into a wealthy family in Berlin, was forced into exile due to the Jewish genocide, fleeing for eight years until deciding to end his life with an overdose of morphine in September 1940 to avoid falling into the hands of the Nazis at the French-Spanish border. At that time, his belongings handed over to the Figueras court included "a leather briefcase like businessmen use, a man's watch, a pipe, six photographs, an X-ray picture, glasses, various letters, magazines, and a few other papers whose content is unknown, and also some money." These “other papers” were later lost, leaving only his identity documents. This raises speculation about whether these might have been the lost manuscripts of “On the Concept of History” or “A Berlin Chronicle,” which were later published and became famous under the titles “Theses on the Philosophy of History” and “Berlin Childhood Around 1900.” Since starting exile not as a choice but as a necessity and an escape (his brother was executed in a concentration camp in 1942), Benjamin’s philosophical and personal reflections on history became an ongoing theme. As he admitted in “Berlin Chronicle,” homesickness was a primary motivator for his writing, hoping that “at least these images would allow readers to sense how deeply the writer had been deprived of the security that once enveloped him in childhood.”

4. The journey to find “home” and the desire to “return home” have inspired enduring artistic works. Known as one of the earliest ancient literary works still read today, addressing a journey home—it is the Odyssey, passed down orally from the 7th–8th century BCE. It recounts the 10-year journey of King Odysseus of Ithaca after the Trojan War, hindered by the sea god Poseidon from returning home.

            "Nevertheless I long—I pine, all my days—
            to travel home and see the dawn of my return.
            And if a god will wreck me yet again on the wine-dark sea,
            I can bear that too, with a spirit tempered to endure."

Many times, during their journey, Odysseus and his men wanted to abandon their desire to return, but perhaps that was impossible—because the story is a great metaphor for humanity’s longing to return home. As humans, who can live without family, homeland, or their country?

5. When "One Hundred Years of Solitude" was adapted into a film for the first time on Netflix in 2024, despite Gabriel García Márquez asserting that it was impossible, audiences were once again amazed by this famous story of the struggle to find a true home within our brief human existence, beautifully expressed through cinematic language. A home, a village, a land, even a country—all are built upon the search for a place of refuge. That refuge may be tied to the past or to sever it entirely, but even in arriving at a completely foreign land, we carry the memories and “artifacts” of past lives. Just as "One Hundred Years of Solitude" carries within it the hopes and despair of the ghostly town of Comala that follows 

            “There you'll find the place I love most in the world. The place where I grew thin from dreaming. My village,   rising from the plain. Shaded with trees and leaves like a piggy bank filled with memories. You'll see why a person would want to live there forever. Dawn, morning, mid-day, night: all the same, except for the changes in the air. The air changes the color of things there. And life whirs by as quiet as a murmur...the pure murmuring of life.”

6. "I have gone home ... affectionately Marcel" -Marcel Duchamp in exile, 1940

On May 16, 1940, as Nazi Germany advanced on Paris, Marcel Duchamp left the city by train, heading south to the small coastal town of Arcachon, near Bordeaux. Despite being in an occupied area, Duchamp remained in Arcachon, trying to maintain a normal life. Since being forced to leave in 1940, Duchamp worked on his La Boîte-en-valise (Box in a Suitcase). 

 "The box contained a collection of sixty-nine reproductions of his own past artwork, which, begun in 1935, would be serialized an edition of more than 300, twenty of which were placed in leath valises. "My whole life's work fits into one suitcase," Duchamp would explain. By 1941, after completing the majority of reproductions, living conditions had worsened and Duchamp decided to leave France. But first he had to transport materials for his Boite from occupied Paris to the unoccupied south of France, where he could ship them off to New York. In the spring of 1941 he made three trips between Paris and Sanary-sur-Mer (near Marseille) where he had returned "home" (so he claimed) to the house of his sister, Yvonne. Disguised as a cheese merchant in order to cross through Nazi checkpoints and their travel restrictions, he shuttled a large suitcase containing material for the Boite, whose portable structure seems to have anticipated such displacement. (T.J. Demos - “Duchamp’s Box-in-a-Valise: Between Institutional Adaptation and Geopolitical Displacement”).
From this upheaval, the Box-in-a-Valise became one of the most famous tools, projects, and artworks of the 20th century. The suitcase not only contained replicas and miniatures of Duchamp’s works but also physical remnants of himself, reflecting a desire to preserve fragments of his life during exile, when a fixed refuge was unattainable. As Theodor Adorno noted, the Box-in-a-Valise “reveals the unfulfilled yearning for a home in an age of homelessness, for possessions when property is lost, and for independent existence amidst institutional domination, fascist control, and exile despair.”

7. In “The Arcades Project,” a monumental collection of writings about 19th-century Paris arcades (glass-and-iron-covered walkways), started in 1927 and unfinished due to his suicide, Walter Benjamin described collecting as a reaction to the fear of dispersion. More deeply, it revealed a nostalgic longing for home. Collections represented a “abridged universe,” a “nest,” serving a “biological function” of defense against the fragmentation of the external world. 

            "Perhaps the most deeply hidden motive of the person who collects can be described this way: he takes up the struggle against dispersion. The great collector, at origin, is affected by the confusion and the scattering of things in the world."

The collection’s space could also regress: the collector’s “box” symbolized "the originary form of all habitation" and the desire for it indicates "the human being's reflex to return to the maternal breast." Collecting, Benjamin argued, was not just about acquiring objects but compensating for the collector’s own fragmentation; its “biological function” drew the circle of the collector’s identity. Therefore, collections neutralized the “sitelessness” of decontextualization, even as collecting fueled the cycle of displacement from the start.

8. On Lunar New Year’s Day last year (2024), my parents and I went to the antique market outside Shi-Tennoji Temple in Osaka. I purchased two tea bowls with inscriptions from a reformed yakuza missing a finger. One of them, my father read to me, said “Clouds drifting, water flowing” (Mây trôi nước chảy). The year 2024 passed accordingly—like clouds and water, letting everything come and go naturally. On New Year’s Eve, now past 1 a.m. on the first day of Lunar New Year 2025, I began writing this piece to reflect on “Going Home.” Looking back, my journey across the world, my path to collecting, seems far from coincidental. Everything remains on its journey—not defining “home” by any specific place or location. Theodor Adorno remarked about Benjamin’s “Berlin Chronicle,” "For a man who no longer has a homeland, writing becomes a place to live." Benjamin himself had to split his mind into two—to distinguish the home tied to childhood memories from the home associated with national geography. "the feeling of homesickness was not about to overtake my mind. I attempted to limit it by becoming conscious of the irremediable loss of the past." as his homeland had become synonymous with fascism and Nazi persecution. "Just as the vaccine should not overtake the healthy body, the feeling of homesickness was not about to overtake my mind." It is indeed difficult to separate the personal space of one’s home from the collective space of one’s homeland or country when viewed from a distance, beyond its geographical borders. In a village’s bamboo grove, each house is a separate space measured in area. But for the displaced, “home” may be defined by skin color, language, or even the borders of an entire continent.

9. 

            “Remember when the Buddha was 80 years old and knew he would leave within a few months. He felt  mcompassion for the monks, nuns, and friends, as many of them had not yet found a homeland. When hearing of their teacher’s passing, how lost and adrift we would feel.
            …After the rains retreat, the Buddha made a final tour around the city of Vaisali, meeting monks, nuns, and lay followers practicing within his Sangha. Wherever he went, he gave short Dharma talks, only five to seven minutes long. The theme of these brief talks was often about finding a homeland. Knowing that after his passing, his disciples would feel lost, the Buddha said, "Friends, you have a refuge; you must return and rely on that refuge, and not on anything else". That refuge is the island of self, the Dharma, where there is safety,  happiness, warmth, ancestors, and roots. It is called the island of self. In Pali, it is Attadipa. Atta means self, and dipa means island.

            This is our true homeland, the island of self. There, the light of the Dharma shines, free from darkness. Return, and there is light. Return, and there is peace, security. The island is safe, untouched by the ocean waves… Returning to rely on the island of self is the practice. If any of us feel without a homeland, without a house, not yet arrived, restless, searching, still lonely… this is the method of practice. Return to rely on the island of self.”

 (Thich Nhat Hanh)
Whenever I think of home and homeland, I recall this passage from Zen Master Thich Nhat Hanh. It has followed me throughout my years of wandering (sometimes aimlessly). Perhaps this is why I love clouds—in Buddhism, they symbolize the Dharma. Nowhere lacks clouds, just as the Dharma is everywhere—with the Dharma, any place can feel like home, anywhere can feel safe and complete!

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang

(Milan, New Year’s Eve into the morning of Lunar New Year’s Day 2025)

https://www.moussemagazine.it/shop/tran-luong-soaked-in-the-long-rain/

A different curatorial project and unforgettable conversations

Today, I received an extraordinary gift – a promise from my teacher, Ilaria Bombelli, who is also the head of Publications at Mousse, a renowned Italian publishing house and magazine on contemporary art and culture with a global reach. She invited Biljana Ciric, the curator who “conceived” the newly globally released book "Trần Lương – Soaked in the long Rain" (published last month), which was completed in less than a week.

In the book I am currently writing about curatorial practices, I reflect on the first time I came across the term “curator.” That was also the first time I learned about Trần Lương, through Thể Thao Văn Hoá (The Sports & Culture newspaper) in the early 2000s. I don’t remember the exact details because, at the time, we were still reading print newspapers, and the internet was not yet common (in 2001, I was studying in South Korea, still using browsers like Netscape or Internet Explorer, and when I returned to Vietnam, I struggled with thesis materials stored on floppy disks). However, the word “curator” intrigued me—it seemed fascinating, unique, and a little strange. It stayed in my mind. I never imagined I would become a curator later in my career, initially through management roles in business, and now through formal studies. At that time, Trần Lương was almost the only Vietnamese name I associated with the profession of “curator.” It wasn’t until I moved to Saigon around 2007–2009, working and befriending people in the art community there, that I came to know others like Như Huy and Himiko Nguyễn—friends who were both artists and curators, opening art spaces, organizing exhibitions, and curating for young artists.

When I saw the book "Trần Lương – Soaked in the long Rain", I was immediately intrigued by its cover design. It combined symbolic drawings intertwined with the book’s English title and the artist’s name, prominently displayed with great respect, while the “author” was written in small print as “Conceived by Biljana Ciric.” This positioning suggested that the book is not just a conventional publication but rather a “portable exhibition” curated by Biljana Ciric for artist Trần Lương.

Before our conversation with Biljana Ciric, Ilaria shared with us a dialogue between Trần Lương and Biljana Ciric from two occasions: in December 2012 in Hanoi and November 2023. This provided insight into the artist and some of his works. This record has been vital for my research on the history of modern Vietnamese art. It partially answers a pressing question: Why is contemporary Vietnamese art not recognized in the broader context of global art? What factors have limited its development? Are the reasons external, or are they internal to the art industry itself?

In response to Biljana Ciric’s question, “When did you start playing the role of curator and organizing exhibitions?” Trần Lương shared:

“I tried to do some things between 1995 and 1998, but I think that period was more of a transitional phase for me. I was still learning and wasn’t clear on my direction. I increasingly felt that contemporary art could effectively express political and social issues. My opportunity to travel abroad came in late 1992 to early 1993, when I went to Europe—first to the Netherlands and then France. It was during that time that I began questioning why there was a lack of freedom here in Vietnam. Was it because of government pressure or did the local art community not know how to survive? What was the main reasong? It took me a few years to understand how I could help the art infrastructure in Vietnam.

By 1996 to 1997, I came to understand that Vietnam lacked the necessary infrastructure to support artists. In the Western art system, artists are surrounded by different professions that serve their needs such as curators, art historians, writers, art dealers, technicians, engineers, lawyers, fundraisers, and many others. Here in Vietnam, we had none of these…”

The dialogue delved into the context of the 1990s (Vietnam opened up in 1986 but only joined ASEAN and WTO in 1997, marking its real entry into globalization). It was around this time that international curators and exhibition organizers began appearing in Vietnam. However, Trần Lương noted that even then, “They didn't change the scene a lot. The Vietnamese presence at those international events was minor, so connections were not strong. One reason for this is that our scene consists mostly of artists; there are no art historians or writers to contextualize these experiences. Artists take what they can get. Another thing is that when artists travel abroad, they often spend more time shopping or visiting Disneyland than going to museums. We need to have a multi-faceted approach that includes perspectives from writers and art historians. Here, artists often feel isolated.”

Although Trần Lương was speaking about the 1990s and early 2000s, I believe his observations remain true even now in 2025. Of course, today, galleries, exhibition spaces, and the number of exhibitions and artists have grown exponentially—into the hundreds. Yet, in my opinion, over 90% of these efforts still serve purely “small” and short-term commercial purposes. Personally, while I don’t entirely resonate with the works from the “embassy art” period of the late 1990s–early 2000s in Vietnam, I must admit that when I participated in exhibitions, events, and performances in Hanoi during that time, I still vividly remember and long for the deeply immersive atmosphere of pure art. Back then, even with limited knowledge of global art, both artists and audiences were deeply engaged with the works. Performances at the Goethe Institute, L’Espace, spaces like Natasha Salon (which I found “weird” at the time :))), or private galleries around West Lake, as well as restaurants and bars, were always packed with artists and art enthusiasts. The discussions would continue into the night and spill over into online forums for months afterward.

What we still lack today, in my opinion, lies mainly in three reasons, which could easily be addressed:

1. We have many individuals with multidimensional artistic thinking and experience, but they face language barriers and lack the ability to express themselves—while those who actively “speak” and participate in art events are not necessarily the ones with sufficient awareness or expertise in the field (those who know don’t speak, those who speak don’t know). As a result, journalism or news about art often quotes general, vague, and superficial comments that lack a solid foundation or are commercially driven, focusing on the business side of art events as promoted by “speakers” (a very fitting term—it literally means “talkers”). Such comments are rampant in Vietnamese media but are rarely quoted in international professional art publications (because they are essentially meaningless), leaving us “invisible” in the global art context.

2. We lack, and severely so, professional and reliable art historians, art critics, and art writers—those who are competent, knowledgeable, and well-connected enough to publish credible and authoritative information in reputable art publications. Meanwhile, we have an abundance of culture reporters (and that’s where it stops!).

3. We are too “loving” and “harmonious,” which means almost no one criticizes or challenges anyone else’s works or exhibitions. The spirit of “harmony above all,” “each minding their own business,” or “friendly on the surface but not necessarily in agreement underneath” prevails in our art atmosphere. Everyone prefers praise over criticism and fears losing relationships. This reality leaves behind an overly “rosy” critical atmosphere, while actual debates retreat into private conversations over tea or drinks.

I’m not sure whether other Asian countries like China, India, etc.—where economies have developed rapidly, similar to Vietnam in the past two decades—are like this. Or what happened in Africa, where their independence timeline aligns closely with Vietnam’s reunification. What about Eastern Europe after the Soviet Union dissolved in 1991? One thing is certain: these regions have produced globally renowned curators playing pivotal roles in the world’s largest art events, such as Documenta or the Venice Biennale, and directors of national art museums in major art powerhouses—figures like Okwui Enwezor, the ruangrupa group in Indonesia, Johnson Chang, and WHW,...

This makes me think of the four types of Modernities that Okwui Enwezor proposed. Beyond the notion of Modernity (in art) as a universal value originating from Europe—a concept stemming from the Enlightenment in the 17th–18th centuries in Europe, particularly the French Revolution of 1789, which marked the end of European feudalism, the liberation of individuality, and was founded on three pillars: scientific rationality, private property rights, and the separation of humans from nature, granting humans the right to exploit nature as an infinite resource—Okwui Enwezor, a Nigerian curator who was the first Black artistic director of Documenta (Documenta 11, 2002) and the first Black curator of the Venice Biennale (2015, in its 120-year history), proposed four OTHER types of Modernities.

According to Okwui, in the Western world, especially Europe, curators and art practitioners are essentially “preserving” the corpses and artifacts of the past, as Modern Art (Supermodernity—the original and complete European form) there has already run its course. On the other hand, to witness truly vibrant artistic atmospheres, one must look to Asia, with rapidly developing economies like China, India, and South Korea. He refers to this as “Andromodernity”—a hybrid modernity where these countries import Western Modernity and replicate its operational formulas while striving to preserve their identities. In the Middle East or Arab countries, Okwui proposes the concept of Specious Modernity, where imported Modernity is only superficial, masking its true essence as authoritarianism, with examples like Iran, Turkey, and Lebanon. In Africa, the importation of Modernity from Europe is incomplete; Africa remains in a “primitive” stage, and Modernity in Africa is defined as “Aftermodernity”—a type of modernity that Africa itself will construct, rather than importing templates from Europe.

Against these four categories, where do you think Vietnam fits? And if we compare the three non-European Modernities, why is Africa currently prominent (e.g., the curator for the Venice Biennale 2026 is Koyo Kouoh, the first Black female curator of Swiss - Cameroonian)? Why are other Asian countries like India, South Korea, and China standing out, while the Middle East lags behind?

When asked how she came to the curatorial profession and connected with Asian artists like Trần Lương during a conversation in the MA program on Visual Arts and Curatorial Studies at NABA, hosted by Ilaria Bombelli, Biljana Ciric shared an inspiring and fascinating story. She stated that she didn’t study curation: “Even though I currently run an educational program for artists and curators, I moved to Shanghai in 2000 as a student in a field unrelated to contemporary art. However, upon arriving in 2000, I stumbled upon the contemporary art landscape at the time, which was still quite underground—a unique situation where exhibitions happened overnight in warehouses or private spaces. Experiencing these exhibitions was deeply captivating because I had never encountered contemporary art before. I began following the artists of that time, who were very bold in their curatorial practices. That’s why I always say that perhaps the most interesting and experimental exhibitions are often not organized by us curators but by artists. I learned a great deal from these practices, and I believe my understanding and approach to curation were largely shaped by those artists who were highly proactive in curating and publicizing their works because they had no other opportunities to present them to the public. And they were extremely creative in how they did it.
That’s how I started—very humbly, writing, knowing no one. I wasn’t the daughter of someone famous, nor the girlfriend of anyone in the group. So I reached out to a few art magazines at the time, most of which no longer exist. This was in the early 2000s. I began without a clear direction, not knowing where it would take me.
I must say, and I always emphasize this when talking about my curatorial work, that thanks to a special moment in China, my work took on an international dimension. That’s why I have the chance to speak with you today. It’s all thanks to China because, at that time, China was receiving significant global attention—everyone wanted to be part of China. Its booming economy and related fields drew the world’s interest.”

When Biljana Ciric described the “underground” contemporary art atmosphere in Shanghai in the early 2000s, it reminded me (Giang) of the period from 2007–2009 (interrupted by my two years of study in the Netherlands) and then from 2011 when I returned to Saigon. I participated in many similar “underground” art events in Saigon—where we had “marked” vehicles taking us to unannounced venues on the city’s outskirts. There, we would view works and performances by Vietnamese and international artists, including poetry readings, music, dance, drawing, and even nudity—experiencing the wildest creativity imaginable. The atmosphere in Saigon was clearly “underground,” lacking the kind of support from Western cultural and diplomatic institutions present in the North.

“You know,” Biljana continued, “I’m from South Asia, but China has always had a strong economic presence in the region. So from 2008 to 2011, I began conducting entirely self-funded research trips—no sponsors, no institutional support. I truly went there on my own, meeting people and making real connections. And yes, that was crucial because I often traveled with my boyfriend, and we had no money for hotels, so we stayed in the homes of artists.
The people in the region were incredibly hospitable. Artists often drove me to meet other artists and helped build connections.
In 2008, I made a trip to Vietnam, which was when I first met Lương. He was the one who connected me with artists in Hanoi. At that time, he was running Nhà Sàn. I remember he took me for lunch near a church and arranged for me to visit several studios. I had about a day to meet young artists working at Nhà Sàn and see their works. But what stood out was that he never really showed me his own works, which was very interesting. He simply helped other artists connect with me. Inever sat down with him to see his works on a computer or website, nor did we discuss what he typically painted. However, I maintained my relationship with him, and he participated in several of my group exhibitions. I also conducted a long-term research project on the history of exhibitions in China and Southeast Asia. One section of the book talks about the launch of Sàn Art, and I invited him to speak about his curatorial work in New Zealand—many of his workshops were held there.
During the COVID pandemic, a museum in Guangzhou invited me to curate a triennial exhibition because they recognized my long-standing relationship with the region. But you know, I was in Australia, and we were in lockdown. China was also in lockdown. How can you curate when you can’t connect, right? So, I decided to recreate several exhibitions from the region (Southeast Asia) for colleagues to experience as part of the triennial. From there, we continued planning this exhibition (at Jameel Arts Centre in Dubai). This is a long-term relationship. For instance, I conducted conversations with artists, which I always enjoy doing. I don’t think I should publish them immediately, so they remain stored in files. Regarding this region, I have many unpublished conversations. For instance, with Lương, I had a discussion around 2013, and we continued preparing for this exhibition afterward.
The title draws inspiration from the educational program Lương is running in Hanoi. Vietnam doesn’t have an educational structure for contemporary artists, like NABA or similar institutions. But he’s running a program called Tầm tã. I participated in it last year during a one-month stay to work on the exhibition and discuss the book for the first time. The program is open to artists, curators, and anyone wanting to experience art in a different way. It operates independently and continuously.”
I (Giang) was asked to explain the term Tầm tã, which I described as a vivid and evocative Vietnamese word. It can depict a person, landscape, or state of being, like persistent rain drenching everything in sadness and dampness. It also conveys a sense of overwhelming pressure and the difficulty of undertaking something challenging.

Biljana Ciric added that Tầm tã is also a kind of slang: “Lương said that if you stay out until 3 a.m. and friends ask how you feel, you can reply tầm tã to describe exhaustion, hardship, but also passion.”

To Biljana, "Trần Lương – Tầm tã – Soaked in the long Rain" isn’t merely a book. Creating it involved great effort, condensing images, information, and ideas into a book form. For her, it is a “mobile exhibition” where works by Trần Lương in various forms and periods are packaged and presented.

“For me, these are independent curatorial projects. They aren’t replicas of exhibitions. It’s crucial to think about the medium of the book when creating one. How do you translate the essence of an exhibition into a book as a medium? For me, making a book is always like curating an exhibition. I think this is something we, as curators, don’t do often enough. Whenever I undertake a research project, I never start with the idea: ‘OK, now I’m going to curate an exhibition about Sherlock.’ I don’t work that way. I try to research, understand, and learn before deciding which medium is most suitable for conveying the idea. Throughout this process, it’s important to have someone alongside you who understands your ideas and experiments. Toby (the book’s designer) somehow became that person—he was incredibly patient. Sometimes, I was uncertain, and he had to try ten different approaches, but he was never upset or scolded me. He wasn’t afraid of deadlines either. He always remained optimistic: ‘OK, let’s try this. Maybe it will work, maybe it won’t.’ For me, having someone who understands the significance of creating something undefined at the outset is invaluable.”

Ilaria also shared her thoughts on this book-exhibition from her experience: “I think the same applies to the architect of this project. For me, it was crucial that they created space for conversations. It wasn’t just work. We had several cover solutions—at least three or four—because we also had versions with images. In the end, we chose a typographic cover. Yes, there are a few drawings, but it’s primarily text rather than colored images. I think we ultimately made the right choice, as it provides a strong identity in terms of color and aligns with the title.”

Biljana also explained why the book includes writings from younger participants in Tầm tã, encouraging them to express their thoughts about the project even if they felt uncertain.

For me, the conversations between Ilaria Bombelli, Biljana Ciric, and us, along with Biljana’s dialogue with Trần Lương, were profoundly meaningful. Beyond relating to Vietnam’s context and resonating with Trần Lương’s reflections on Vietnam’s art infrastructure, they teach us, as artists and curators, that a book carries its own magic. Now, a book itself can serve as an exhibition—its cover alone says so much.

For a curator, the methods of organizing an exhibition are incredibly diverse. Beyond large physical spaces, even compact and constrained spaces like a book require thoughtful decisions—about the text, imagery, typography, size, material, printing techniques, packaging, and even how it appears on an e-commerce platform. None of these are arbitrary or formulaic choices in the lives of publishers. Instead, they are part of the curatorial process, often carried out behind the scenes, much like lighting technicians or art handlers in museums and galleries.

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang
Milan, January 15, 2025

Are you sure you’ve ever heard this term: Decolonization in curating? (Part 4 and conclusion)

This is the core of my second point regarding decolonization in art before introducing the third issue: cultural appropriation. We are subjected to cultural appropriation without even realizing it. Our heritage and cultural treasures are being appropriated by Western artists, foreign artists, collectors, or curators, who transform our heritage and identity into elements of their works or narratives—often without our knowledge or understanding. Worse, we sometimes feel pride and honor, failing to distinguish between appropriation and recognition.

Cultural appropriation occurs subtly and silently. For instance, a foreign artist might use Vietnamese materials or techniques to create cultural products, then compare and highlight the weaknesses of those materials or techniques to promote themselves as “innovators” or “enlighteners.” Vietnamese cultural artistry is appropriated to add exoticism or novelty to their works and narratives, which they then promote, sell, and trade at high value in the global market. And yet, we sometimes mistake this as a celebration of our culture. Absolutely not!

This cultural appropriation and overdependence on Western standards not only harm Vietnamese art but also perpetuate global cultural inequalities. The true value of a culture does not lie in Western recognition but in how we understand, respect, and elevate it ourselves.

Here, I want to emphasize the importance of preserving and elevating many aspects of our cultural heritage, particularly the aesthetic traditions of our ancestors. Vietnamese people should respect, promote, and advance their cultural treasures to new heights. For instance, lacquer art, dó paper, indigenous paper-making techniques, wood carving, silk weaving and painting, ceramics—these are unique strengths that set our culture apart. However, we often neglect these traditions in favor of fleeting trends dictated by certain segments of the audience or mid-level art investors.

When audiences fail to appreciate local cultural values, how can we expect domestic art to be valued highly? This is something we must consider deeply.

The final point in decolonization in art is respecting diversity and difference. Respecting diversity encompasses multiple meanings. It extends beyond avoiding discrimination based on cultural background, religion, beliefs, ethnicity, or nationality. It also involves equality in gender, age, and academic standing. For instance, a craftsman should be respected as much as an artist.

Many curators embracing this philosophy have expanded their practice by inviting curators from diverse cultural backgrounds (and more and more major museums worldwide are adopting this approach). This fosters an open and diverse curatorial environment.

Sometimes, they even invite individuals directly connected to the artifacts or cultural stories to collaborate throughout the exhibition process. This approach recognizes that how we design or display an exhibition often differs significantly from the lived experiences and cultural interpretations of those who breathe the air of that heritage.

This is vital for all of us. Respecting diversity and difference in artistic practice can open new chapters in thinking and post-exhibition processes. It can yield unexpected outcomes beyond our imagination.

Decolonization in art is a long and arduous process, particularly when awareness of the issue remains unclear on both sides: from the colonizers and the colonized, the appropriators and those being appropriated without knowing it.

The process becomes even more challenging in a world where boundaries are increasingly blurred. With technology, anyone can easily access software, take design or presentation samples, and use them without understanding their origins—whether cultural, national, ideological, or philosophical.

The ease of access and high levels of consumption in this globalized and digitized world make decolonization in artistic practice more difficult. This is particularly evident in countries with dynamic economies compared to “old Europe,” where art professionals flock, bringing with them established global standards, cultural frameworks, and powerful PR systems shaped by Western theories. Meanwhile, local audiences remain passive, lacking the critical thinking and awareness to understand what is happening.

To conclude, I return to a fundamental question: Do we truly understand and respect the value of our own culture?

If you can perceive the value of your roots and heritage—your Vietnamese culture—then you must develop a mindset that engages deeply with the artistic and cultural values of your ancestors and homeland. Only when awareness and thinking change can the artistic value of works and creations transform.

When you recognize the imposed frameworks and inherent biases of Western models and strive for independence in artistic labor and creation, demanding and supporting independent curatorial thinking rather than aspiring to participate in conventional Western-dominated art fairs, you may hope for genuine recognition of your value.

Only then can Vietnamese art gain equitable recognition—not by Western standards, nor by those bringing Western ideologies to dictate what is selected, presented, or celebrated as representative voices for you.

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang

(Milan, January 10, 2025)

Painting: Cats Are Not Food - 80x60 (cm) - Oil, oil stick, oil powder on canvas - 2022 - Lê Kinh Tài - ZAS Collection

Are you sure you’ve ever heard this term: Decolonization in curating? (Part 3)

The second point I want to address in the context of decolonization in artistic practice is the need for openness and the mindset that no single system or standard should dictate how we practice art. For instance, in exhibition design in Vietnam, there is an influence—perhaps even an identity—that has been shaped by historical processes. Among us, there are those who feel more aligned or familiar with Chinese, French, or European cultures. Others may find comfort and satisfaction in the legacy of Soviet communism or American culture. Recently, we’ve grown accustomed to the hallyu (Korean Wave) or the minimalism and manga influences of Japan.

We are witnessing, chasing after, and being influenced by a multitude of cultural waves, as diverse as the styles, materials, and forms of artistic expression. However, at times, this influence becomes excessive and even extreme, stemming from an incomplete and non-independent understanding. Consequently, this can create noise and negatively impact the audience’s experience in Vietnam.

A simple example lies in exhibition design, where two prominent approaches dominate in Vietnam. The first is the White Cube model—a trend, framework, or exhibition template associated with New York’s Museum of Modern Art (MoMA) since the 1930s. It has become a standard for modern and contemporary art spaces, characterized by white walls where the artworks speak for themselves, detached from their surrounding contexts. The second approach is the salon style, popular in 18th-19th century Western Europe, notably in France, England, and even Eastern Europe. This method features densely packed walls adorned with gold or bronze-framed paintings and marble pedestals for sculptures.

These two exhibition models are frequently observed in Vietnam and are often adopted without questioning their relevance to the physical spaces (such as the buildings or public venues used for exhibitions) or considering the role of the audience. Many major exhibitions worldwide have been criticized for detaching the physical space of the artwork from its original cultural context. For example, the critique of performing quan họ folk songs or ca trù in restaurants or cultural tours illustrates how stripping cultural products from their context diminishes their integral value.

Similarly, large-scale exhibitions showcasing cultural heritage from other nations in Western contexts often sever ties necessary for fully understanding those cultural artifacts. This detachment risks rendering them meaningless, reverting to the purpose of early exhibitions in the 17th-18th centuries, where European colonialists displayed objects, artifacts, and people from colonized lands in fairs for Western audiences—akin to viewing circus acts or exotic creatures like giraffes or Indian elephants.

Over-adherence to foreign or Western standards distracts us from addressing our own cultural context, roots, and values. This excessive veneration of external norms gradually erodes our cultural foundations, leaving us dependent on foreign cultural standards in creativity, design, and artistic practice. This creates a tacit acceptance of Western power in dictating cultural and artistic trends, including curatorial standards.

We often feel the injustice of not achieving the freedom to present, create, and market our work with equivalent recognition to that of Western artists, but we rarely confront the root cause of this inequity. Perhaps now, you may better understand the real reason—because we, as individuals and as a community, are complicit in accepting the injustices imposed on us as non-Western artists and art practitioners.

The irony is that many who claim to support contemporary Vietnamese art or Vietnamese artists take pride in becoming part of the Western narrative, endorsing the imposition of Western values and standards in artistic practice and curation in Vietnam—while lacking a deep understanding of Vietnamese cultural heritage. A few personal accolades or token recognition valued at a few tens of thousands of dollars cannot compensate for an undervalued art scene, perpetually stuck in a cycle of stagnation and underdevelopment with no clear end in sight. (To be continued)

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang

(Milan, January 10, 2025)

Painting: Mậu Tuất (The year of Dog of 2018) - 80x60 (cm) - Oil, oil stick, oil powder on canvas - 2018 - Lê Kinh Tài - ZAS Collection

Are you sure you’ve ever heard this term: Decolonization in curating? (Part 2)

Firstly, it is essential for Western art practitioners to acknowledge that they have grown up, developed, and practiced within a colonial ideology and power structure. If they themselves fail to recognize this reality, it becomes nearly impossible to integrate decolonized thinking into their artistic practices. When we do not recognize the reality we inhabit and take it for granted, it shapes our entire mindset and actions.

Returning to the exhibition and seminar held by Aguttes in Hanoi on January 7, 2025, it is possible that their behavior stemmed from an ingrained colonial mindset. They had grown up and developed within this system, becoming so accustomed to it that they may not have realized their actions could be hurtful or evoke discomfort for those with knowledge and experience of colonialism in Vietnam.

In the 2019 article “What does it mean to decolonize design?” by Anushka Kandwala, as well as in the interviews and talks of Ariella Aïsha Azoulay—particularly her discussion on Potential History—this issue is also raised. I believe this first point is of utmost importance. Azoulay, in her lectures and books, emphasizes that history is not a fixed reality but a collection of possibilities suppressed or dominated by colonial power structures. She argues that to decolonize, we need to reconsider what has been excluded or concealed in history and redefine it from an alternative perspective.

Azoulay contends that artifacts, documents, and images created and preserved during the colonial period often reflect the power of empires rather than the voices of the subjugated. The issues raised by Kandwala and Azoulay serve as a powerful reminder of the importance of awareness and transformation in creative fields. Decolonization is not a single act but a process requiring profound reflection and concrete actions to dismantle power structures and build a fairer, more diverse, and respectful system.

This begins with acknowledging history, questioning power, and creating space for marginalized voices. Decolonization is not just a concern for formerly colonized or developing nations often treated as inferior in cultural and artistic standards. It is a global issue. For example, even artists from Japan, China, and South Korea face similar challenges when practicing art in the West, particularly in the U.S. This issue extends to Vietnamese and African artists because it is a consequence of history.

If we fail to recognize the value of history and the stories excluded from it—history that has been curated and selected by those in Western power structures with different ideologies and values—this discrimination will continue to occur and repeat indefinitely.

In this same context, I deeply resonate with an idea shared by Chiara Figore, an artist, curator, and my teacher at NABA, in her course on Editorial Studies. She pointed out that while many Western artists and curators are highly aware of decolonization and eager to practice it, creating research and artworks with decolonial consciousness, they often inadvertently bring colonial mindsets to countries that were once colonies.

This happens naturally because they have been nurtured in a colonial environment. Unless they remain continually vigilant, they repeat research methods, frameworks, and practices rooted in Western norms. They then use the outcomes of their engagement with these cultures—their access to valuable heritage and cultural materials—as personal achievements, establishing standards and institutions rather than adhering to the ideals of decolonization that initially guided them.

In this context, consider the Vietnamese art scene, especially during the open-door period from the 1990s to now. The wave of foreign art collectors, curators, and institutions—Americans, Europeans, Japanese, Koreans, Singaporeans—marked a significant moment. They became the first post-reform generation to invigorate the modern art scene in Vietnam.

In the North, this was jokingly referred to as “diplomatic art” (embassy art) in the late 1990s and early 2000s, where artworks and artists were sponsored by cultural funds from embassies like the Goethe Institute, British Council, Swedish Development Fund, and French Cultural Center L’Espace. In the South, this period saw the return of many Việt Kiều (overseas Vietnamese) artists from the U.S., Japan, Europe, and other Western nations.

Now, take a closer look at their collections and how they fostered new generations of young artists (I use the word “fostered” because it wasn’t just influence—they also provided funding, scholarships, awards, and artist residencies). Examine their support, the conditions they set, and the directions they encouraged in the creative and curatorial practices of 8X and 9X generations of Vietnamese artists and curators. Ask yourself: how many of these practices truly break away from colonial thinking?

Specifically, consider the topics and materials they encouraged, the types of artists they supported, and the forms of art that were created during the time Western curators, critics, and researchers were engaged with the Vietnamese art scene. What standards and definitions did they leave as a “legacy” for those of you currently practicing art in Vietnam?

If you are genuinely interested in this matter and possess independent thinking about Vietnamese art, try revisiting and evaluating this history. For me, this is a major question requiring significant time and effort to delve into archival records.

When you understand this, revisit the context of the seminar on January 7, 2025, in Hanoi, held by Aguttes, and the involvement of Western commercial art institutions like auction houses returning to Vietnam’s art market. Consider how they influence Vietnamese art, the public’s taste, and aesthetic standards. You will then understand why I insist that we must take the decolonization of art seriously. (To be continued)

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang
(Milan, January 10, 2025)

Painting: “Under the feet is our own shadow” - 50x40 (cm) - Oil stick on canvas - 2020 - Lê Kinh Tài - ZAS Collection

Are you sure you’ve ever heard this term: Decolonization in curating? (Part 1)

Are you sure you’ve ever heard the concept of “decolonization” in the practice of art curation or even in daily life? When we hear the term “decolonization,” we often immediately associate it with politics. Many people claim to be independent, neutral, and wanting to live a “normal” life, so they don’t want any thoughts or actions to be labeled as reflecting their political stance. However, this idea sounds somewhat ironic because, in reality, our entire lives—everything we do and experience in a single day—are intertwined with politics, social issues, history, and the modern era, the present moment, and also becoming a part of the future’s history.

I want to begin the story of decolonization in art curating with a recent event held to celebrate the 100th anniversary of the L’ecole superieuse des beaux arts de l’Indochine (EBAI) or Indochina College of Fine Arts, which took place on January 7, 2025, in Hanoi, under the title “The Renewal of Modern Art in Indochina.” The title of the exhibition and seminar is commendable, but in reality, attendees could only view 25 high-quality reproductions of masterpieces by renowned artists from the Indochina period, such as Lê Phổ, Mai Trung Thứ, Vũ Cao Đàm, Nguyễn Phan Chánh, Lê Văn Đệ, and others. It was stated that these works were “selected from over 1,000 pieces by 70 artists appraised by the Aguttes auction house in Paris.” The exhibition’s venue was also significant, located in the Ngụy Như Kon Tum hall, the very site where the EBAI was established.

However, among attendees and following the event, debates arose about its purpose. Did the event truly provide historical and meaningful value to the history of modern Vietnamese art as its title suggested? Or was it merely a commercially motivated event focused on the interests of the auction house and related stakeholders? (For example, to pave the way for the sale of the works reproduced and displayed at the event, including the controversial piece by Lương Xuân Nhị.) Additionally, with this auction house set to announce several awards and scholarships for art in Vietnam in the near future, doubts have been raised about their intentions.

The discussion extends further, touching on the historical and political context of Vietnam, as 100 years ago, the EBAI was founded by the colonial French government in Indochina. The way this Paris-based auction house conducted itself at the event reflected traces of colonial attitudes, which independent-minded individuals interested in Vietnam’s history would find unsettling. For instance, attendees were not allowed to film or take photos, and those who attempted to do so were publicly called out and treated in ways that could be deemed discourteous.

This event, combined with my personal experience during a recent Christmas vacation in Malaga, Spain, sheds further light on the issue. While waiting for ramen at a popular local Japanese restaurant, I noticed that the table mat featured an image of a group of Vietnamese women in conical hats cycling through a rice field. This black-and-white photograph likely dated back to the 1970s-80s. However, it had no connection to the menu or the restaurant’s overall ambiance. It made me think about how the graphic designers involved in this restaurant’s design might have mistakenly conflated Vietnam with Japan, assuming that all Asians, in the Western perspective, look the same or belong to one indistinguishable category.

This happens repeatedly and almost routinely, but as ordinary people, we rarely notice or question it. Yet, for those in the arts—artists, critics, curators, and others engaged with cultural and social life—these seemingly minor incidents raise deeply impactful questions over time.

This example highlights the importance of decolonization in the mindset of those working in the arts, particularly art curators, as well as those in the fields of design and creative arts. Returning to the event we experienced in Hanoi, along with my personal experiences—of which Malaga is just one among thousands during my travels to over 70 countries worldwide and my years of living, studying, and working in Switzerland, the Netherlands, the United States, and elsewhere—there are a few points I believe are worth sharing regarding the significance of decolonization.

Why is it important for all of us, especially those of us in countries like Vietnam, where the political history has been shaped by the influence of numerous cultures, systems, ideologies, and worldviews? From over a thousand years of subjugation under Chinese dynasties during the Northern domination (Bắc thuộc), to a century of French colonial rule, then the period of war dividing the country and the subsequent liberation and reunification, along with short periods of occupation by alliances such as Japan, followed by the influence of the Soviet Union, and now the ongoing process of globalization. Generations like Gen Z and Gen Alpha are living entirely different lives with experiences vastly distinct from previous generations.

To begin, let’s briefly touch on the history of the concept of decolonization as recorded in the history of modern world art. After World War II, the process of reclaiming independence by many former colonies gained significant momentum. By the 1960s-70s, the concept of decolonization also became increasingly prevalent and significant in the arts, aligning with the postcolonial art movements.

A pivotal milestone in this process can be traced to the exhibition titled Magiciens de la Terre(Magicians of the Earth) held at the Centre Pompidou in 1989 by curator Jean-Hubert Martin. This exhibition was considered a landmark effort in decolonization, presenting a balanced view of Western and non-Western art by displaying works from 100 artists, with a 50-50 split between the two groups. However, artists like Rasheed Araeen criticized the exhibition for its shortcomings. Despite the inclusion of 50 Western and 50 non-Western artists, the non-Western works were curated and displayed in ways that still framed them as primitive, exotic, or otherworldly, perpetuating the West’s longstanding gaze.

This unintentional narrative reinforced the power dynamics of a Western curator setting cultural or aesthetic standards for evaluating other cultures, even when they lacked a deep or accurate understanding. Additionally, non-Western artists in this exhibition were often associated with indigenous, traditional, or craft-based creativity rather than being regarded as equals to their Western counterparts.

There are many stories and examples, including practical experiences that can be quite frustrating for artists or art curators involved in the process of decolonization. The world’s understanding of this issue remains incomplete, and no unified solution has yet been established for how to effectively decolonize in the practice of art and curating. What we do have, however, are certain principles and benchmarks that serve as a mirror for reflection in our work. (To be continued)

 

Phạm Thị Điệp Giang

(Milan, January 10, 2025)

Painting: What you mean? - 50x40cm - Oil stick - 2020 - Lê Kinh Tài - ZAS Collection

Learning How to See from the Beginning Once Again

 

We see things every day, but how often do we truly look at them in the way they deserve? Most of the time, we don’t really look. The habit of genuine observation—deep and conscious seeing—has been forgotten in the busyness of life. Science shows that our attention to something often doesn’t last beyond half an hour after seeing it. It fades, much like how we forget that we’re breathing. Breathing is so natural, so automatic, that we forget how to do it properly. And looking is much the same.

In Vietnamese, there are many words to describe “looking”—depending on the way we use them and the context, their layers of meaning become deeper and more distinct. Words like thấy (to see), nhìn (to look), and xem (to watch) can even be prefixed with thoáng (fleetingly) to suggest a quick glance or cursory observation. Then there are adjectives like sâu (deep), thực sự (truly), or kỹ (carefully) that add nuance to the act of looking. There’s even thấu (to see through), which often implies spiritual or emotional insight but still relates to looking. Over the course of a lifetime, we often merely “look” in a fleeting sense. In the era of TikTok, “glancing” has even become the dominant and most common form of observation.

Looking Like a Child

When I say “learning how to see from the beginning,” I mean relearning how to observe with curiosity, awareness, and without preconceptions. As Ulbrich wrote in The Way of Seeing: “Looking is not just observing—it’s the art of thinking while looking.” Try to view the world like a child—with wonder and endless questions. Children don’t overthink or rush to conclusions. They are unbound by prejudices. They simply ask: Why is it like this? What does it mean? Why is it beautiful—or why not? As Ulbrich noted, “Children look without history; adults look with memory.” To truly see, we must set aside those memories, those “prejudices” (which we take pride in as accumulated knowledge), to free our minds for curiosity and exploration, allowing questions to flow uninhibitedly.
I remember standing before The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch at the Prado Museum in Madrid. The painting can overwhelm anyone at first glance—a triptych with serene paradise on one side, chaotic hell on the other, and a frenzied, pleasure-filled middle. My first instinct was to analyze: What is it about? Where should I begin? But then I did something else. I stopped. I emptied my mind.

Silence gradually crept in—not just around me, but within me. The world faded away. It was just me and the painting. I let myself be immersed in Bosch’s fantastical world, letting the bizarre details draw me in. Questions began to arise naturally: What was Bosch thinking when he painted this? Was he warning us, mocking us, or simply exploring his imagination? What do these strange figures mean?

Then my mind wandered further. What makes this painting universal? How does it connect to me, to others, and to life? Do we need works like this—beautiful, grotesque, or even bizarre? How did it end up in this museum for us to admire? Or are we just fools pretending to understand it?

I realized that questioning is the essence of looking. It’s not about finding answers, and certainly not about being right or wrong. These questions flow naturally, like a river through a landscape. Some lead to profound insights; some don’t. But all are important.

When I focus on looking, I rarely speak. My mind becomes a quiet space where impressions from the artwork can take root. I imagine the artist’s world—their struggles, joys, illnesses, ambitions, and fears. I sense the atmosphere and rhythm within the work. And I ask myself: What does this piece want from me? What do I want from it?

I don’t rush to judge. I let everything unfold. It doesn’t matter if it’s “beautiful,” “ugly,” or even “disgusting.” What matters is presence—allowing the work to reveal itself in its own way. Meaning may come later—or not at all. But the most important thing is the process of looking. The act of seeing is not about proving anything; it’s about experiencing everything. It’s in these quiet, immersive moments that I discover unexpected transformations—not only in how I view the world but also in how I understand myself. And that transformation, I believe, is what makes looking meaningful.

Quick Looking and Deep Seeing

When visiting museums or exhibitions, we’re often overwhelmed by both the crowds and the sheer amount of information we need to process. There are exhibitions I’ve revisited 3–4 times, and works I revisit every 5 or 10 years. It’s like how I read The Laws of Eternity by Nodar Dumbatze every five years since I was 20 to see how my thinking has evolved. Not everyone has the chance to revisit so often, and neither do I. So my strategy in crowded exhibitions or museums is to combine “quick looking” and “deep seeing.”

I do a quick walkthrough, avoiding loud tour groups and often going against the suggested flow. This is when I get an overview of what’s happening and identify the works or messages I find worth deeper exploration. It’s also when I take photos for reference. Later, I return to slowly, carefully experience the works I want to see deeply. When standing before a piece, I return to a childlike state—full of questions and wonder.

I often visit early in the morning, during lunch hours, or just before closing time—times when museums are less crowded and filled only with people genuinely interested in the works. In those moments, I feel I’ve “expanded” the space for my vision and experience of the art.

Refusing to See Through Others’ Eyes

Many people cannot see; they must imagine through others’ descriptions. My uncle, blinded after the war, often listened to radio programs and family descriptions to imagine how the world had changed since the 1970s. I find that immensely challenging because the world has changed so much that “comparing” and “imagining” using his existing mental images might even be impossible. Human eyes are incredible—and perhaps because of this, most of us are deeply affected and obsessed by gazes and ways of seeing.

But while our eyes are ours, the way we see is often “manipulated” by the outside world. Are we busy? Lazy? Gullible? Naive? For many reasons, we let others dictate our gaze. We describe movies we watch, paintings we see, or breathtaking natural scenes using others’ words and perspectives. It’s absurd that we watch a TV show and then a “reaction” video to the same show. We chase superficiality and think it makes life easier, but it only leads to “brain rot.” The truth is, quick and easy things are rarely good or lasting. Yet persistent practice in something simple can lead to remarkable results.

Looking deeply, at first, is just looking longer, looking more carefully, then looking thoughtfully with questions. Over time, it becomes natural—without you even realizing it. This entire process of thinking with your own thoughts may take only a few minutes, but it’s far more profound than countless hours scrolling mindlessly online.

Seeing with your own eyes and perspective is crucial—not only because it encourages thinking but, more importantly, because it fosters independence. What begins as a mechanical act of looking triggers neural processes, resulting in intellectual and spiritual actions. With intellectual independence, you can become strong and fearless. At that point, “seeing” transcends its initial physical limitations.

It sounds simple, even laughable, but at this age, after traveling the world, I am still learning to see every day. And every day, I am surprised by this dull, terrifying, yet wondrously miraculous world. Just as every day, I still practice breathing—seeing deeply, breathing deeply, steadily.

Started in Milan, September; completed in Seville, December; revised and finalized on New Year’s Eve, December 31, 2024, in Málaga, Spain.

(Excerpt from On Curation and Curatorship by Pham Thi Diep Giang, 2025)

"My" Seven Heavenly Palaces

Last summer, I visited Anselm Kiefer’s The Seven Heavenly Palaces at Hangar Bicocca in Milan. Although I had seen Kiefer’s artworks several times before, each time feels like the first—unexpected and surprising. His works, whether sculptures, paintings, installations, or photographs, carry layers of meaning so multifaceted and diverse that they overwhelm me. They are obsessive, weaving intricate connections between memory, ethics, religion, spirituality, and deep philosophical questions about our existence.
Standing before the palaces, I found myself confronted with questions: Can we, as humans, truly choose between right and wrong, good and bad? What can we learn from our traumas, and how can we evolve into something new? The space felt sacred, almost like entering an immense cathedral or mosque. It reminded me of the Strasbourg Cathedral in France. Both places share an overwhelming height and scale that makes you feel as tiny as an ant. In that smallness, I felt both horror and awe, as if I were drawn into the presence of some divine energy far beyond my understanding.

The seven towers themselves are elusive. No matter where I stood, I couldn’t see all seven at once. From any angle, I could count six, maybe five, but not all of them together. This reminded me of the Ryoanji Zen Garden in Kyoto, where the 15 rocks are never fully visible unless you reach a state of enlightenment, or satori. That incompleteness—the sense that something is just out of reach—lingers in the mind, pulling you deeper into thought.

As I approached one of the towers, the experience shifted. Up close, the palaces became interactive, more intimate. I wasn’t just viewing the work; I was witnessing it. I saw the broken glass, the lamps, and the inscriptions, all meticulously detailed, as if to say: Nothing should be forgotten. Every fragment matters. Even the smallest, most overlooked things—what might seem like rubbish—carried a history, a meaning, a lesson. It reminded me that we can learn so much from what seems insignificant.

At the same time, these palaces felt hauntingly contemporary. Though they were created decades ago, they felt alive in the present. The towers, precarious and skeletal, reminded me of slums—those makeshift structures on the outskirts of cities like Cairo or Mumbai, or even in developed countries. They were both ancient and modern, sacred and profane, fragile yet enduring.

The materials—steel, lead, cement, metal roofing and the bare walls —were not just physical. They carried the weight of destruction. The towers looked like ruins, remnants of warzones, like the aftermath of bombings or gunfire in places such as Gaza. Standing among them, I felt the pain, the fragility of human life, the delicate threads of faith and existence that can be severed so easily. The works provoked a storm of feelings: pain, hurt, admiration, and awe. I felt speechless, unable to put into words the enormity of what I was experiencing. For months afterward, I thought about the palaces every day, reflecting on them and how they related to everything around me.

Then there were the paintings—huge, monumental works hung around the walls of the space. They added another layer to the experience. The palaces closed the world in around me, creating a feeling of confinement, but the paintings opened doors. They offered a way out of those overwhelming emotions, as if inviting me to step into their landscapes and become part of them. With the paintings, I felt I could cross a threshold, move beyond the heaviness of the palaces, and find something lighter, something transcendent.

The entire experience—both the palaces and the paintings—felt like a conversation between destruction and creation, between confinement and freedom, between despair and hope. And through it all, I was reminded of how fragile we are as humans. Kiefer’s work doesn’t just speak to history or religion; it speaks to now. It’s about all of us, our lives, our struggles, our resilience.

I spent almost three hours at Hangar Bicocca, mostly alone. It was a quiet space, almost deserted in dim light. The building itself, an old abandoned factory on the outskirts of Milan, felt fitting for Kiefer’s installation—its history, like the artwork, tied to the remnants of industry and labor. Getting there wasn’t easy. From my house, I had to take the metro and change lines twice. The journey took nearly an hour, moving farther and farther away from the city’s center.

In 2007, I came to Saigon. By 2009, I was trying to settle down there before getting a scholarship to come to Netherlands for studying in two years. When I stood in front of The Seven Heavenly Palaces at Hangar Bicocca, it brought back vivid memories of those early days—when I was young, inexperienced, and full of dreams, passion, and excitement for the future. Saigon at that time was vibrant, dynamic, and full of possibilities. It still is nowadays, somehouw. I spent so much time with my friends exploring every corner of the city.

But as lively as Saigon was, it also had its shadows. The structures of The Seven Heavenly Palaces—the steel, the cement, the precarious stacks—reminded me of the slums I had seen in District 2 and District 4. They are Kiefer’s The Seven Heavenly Palaces in “horizontal version” if you can relate these structures. Back then, these areas were far from what they are today, with their luxury high-rises and high-end developments. They were slums filled with moats of garbage, ruins, and discarded remnants of life. Seeing Kiefer’s installation, I felt a deep connection between those memories of Saigon and the fragmented towers before me, as if they carried the weight of transformation and the layered lives of cities like Saigon.

Outside, the café was full of life—children playing, families chatting—but inside, it was another world. The dim lighting and shadows enveloped the space in silence. I counted fewer than ten people wandering quietly among the towers. I don’t know how they felt, but for me, the atmosphere demanded stillness. At times, I felt like I needed to creep forward, as if not to disturb the space. Even standing there, I felt as though I were meditating. The silence became part of the experience.

I wondered how different it would feel if the installation were placed outdoors, under the natural light of the sun. Would it lose its solemnity? Or would the sunlight reveal another layer of meaning? Even so, the feeling remained.

I thought about the slums of Saigon, the ruins after war, the fragility of human life. I thought about my younger self, dreaming and full of hope, wandering those chaotic streets. And now, standing in that quiet space in Milan, I could feel all those memories and emotions intertwined.

And as I stood there, reflecting, I knew I would want to return—again and again. To see, to think, to feel. To remember not only Kiefer’s art but also the threads of my own life that it pulls together.

Pham Thi Diep Giang

(Milan, 9/2024 -1/2025)

Behind Cattelan’s Banana

Cattelan's artwork - Photo taken by Pham Thi Diep Giang at the Boijmans Van Beuningen Museum, Rotterdam (November 2024).