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BÙI CÔNG KHÁNH, Prayer on the Wind, 2015, participative installation comprising monk’s robes, camouflage textile, handwritten notes, mat and pillow, 260 × 218 × 223 cm. Installation view from “Fortress Temple” at 10 Chancery Lane Gallery, Hong Kong. Courtesy the artist and 10 Chancery Lane Gallery.
BÙI CÔNG KHÁNH, Prayer on the Wind (interior detail), 2015, participative installation comprising monk’s robes, camouflage textile, handwritten notes, mat and pillow, 260 × 218 × 223 cm. Installation view from “Fortress Temple” at 10 Chancery Lane Gallery, Hong Kong. Courtesy the artist and 10 Chancery Lane Gallery.
Vietnamese artist Bùi Công Khánh scrutinizes his country’s convoluted history, finding threads of past narratives and investigating its impact on contemporary life. Bùi rose to international prominence in the 1990s for his performance art and conceptual practice, which is rooted in Buddhist philosophy and is sensitive to his surroundings. Of Chinese and Vietnamese heritage, Bùi’s artistic endeavors also extend to video, photography, sculpture and multimedia installations. ArtAsiaPacific caught up with Bùi over a cup of tea—during his recent visit to Hong Kong for the occasion of his solo exhibition “Fortress Temple” at 10 Chancery Lane Gallery—to discuss his new projects and interests, including his affection for jackfruit.
You were born in Da Nang, which was once a United States military base during the Vietnam War. What was it like growing up there?
I was born in 1972. Three years later the war ended and the US was out of Da Nang. So my memories of the war are from my father, from the television and from the newspaper. They showed a lot about the war on television, but it wasn’t the same, because while I was growing up I could travel around, so I was able to experience the world and have a different point of view about this period of time.
When did you know you wanted to be an artist?
When I was a little child. It’s true! I always dreamed I would be an artist. In my family, there is no one who is working in the artistic field. But my father, he can paint. He inspires me.
What led you to performance art?
I studied in Saigon, [but] my professors were educated in Russia so they taught a very classic style of art. It wasn’t until after graduating that I decided to do performance art, which was quite new and crazy in Vietnam. The Japanese performance artist Seiji Shimoda […] gave a workshop in Vietnam. From that experience I discovered performance art and […] felt I had to do something revolutionary in art.
Leading up to one of my first performances, which was in Bangkok, I could not sleep for three nights, because I was so nervous about being naked [in a public space]. But I knew I had to break past this limit and do it, because if I remain shy I cannot do anything, and I’ll look back and regret it. So I did it, and I really liked it. You cannot make money from performance art. That’s why I really respect performance artists.
Why did you then start working with porcelain?
It’s a long story! Since I had previously studied oil painting for eight years, I felt like I had to go back to my roots in some way. In 2007, when I went to the North [of Vietnam], I arrived at the famous ceramic village, Bat Trang. My friend’s family has a big factory there, so I was able to play with the material and found that I really loved porcelain. After that I returned every year to the village. In my first year working with big vases, I had to ask people to paint the traditional patterns, but [soon] I felt I had to do it myself, so when I returned the following year, I learned [how to do it].
There are eight families who continue the traditional techniques [of painting on vases] and all of them have different specialties, such as glazes. They rarely allow outsiders to enter their studios to work with them, myself included. It was only after two years of working with my friend’s family that I was welcomed by the other families . . They [had] watched me and thought I was crazy, but soon realized I was not trying to compete and take their jobs, so they started to teach me. I learned the techniques from each family and have combined them in my art.
The central work in your show at 10 Chancery Lane, entitled Prayer on the Wind (2015), uses yet another material: fabric. How did this work come about?
Earlier this year, the Goethe Institut in Myanmar organized an exhibition that invited artists from [different parts of] Southeast Asia to exhibit with local artists. We were able to visit Myanmar a few months before the show was set to open and research for our works. It was my first trip to Myanmar, even though I’ve seen a lot of documentaries [about the place]. I knew about the political situation there. I was inspired by the temples in Myanmar, so I collected their military camouflage and monk’s robes—because I loved the colors—and brought them back to Vietnam, cut them up and built a temple.
Did you make it yourself by hand?
When I chose the material [it was based on the fact that] I really wanted to make [the installation by] myself. This was my first time working with a sewing machine. It was really hard! I had to draw many sketches and figure out how to sew [the temple], because it had to be strong at the top. Creating pockets was difficult. I finally had to go to the local market, find an old American military jacket, open it and copy the design. In Yangon I asked people to lie down [inside the temple] and experience the beauty of [the installation], because [Burmese people] need time to contemplate a way to live through [their country’s current, politically ambiguous] situation. So as you see on the outside it’s quite cold and military, but inside you see the difference: it’s relaxing and meditative, and you get some quiet space. The pillow cover and bedsheet is also made from monks’ robes, but it was interesting, because in Yangon I had to change the covers and pillow. My Burmese artist friends warned me that if I had used the monk robes [for the installation], the women would have refused to lie down on it, because Buddhism is so highly respected in Myanmar that women won’t touch the garments—only the men will.
BÙI CÔNG KHÁNH, Fortress Temple. Pair of hand-painted archaeological shards, before and after ocean-submersion (1) and Wartime Dinner. Pair of hand-painted porcelain plate, before and after ocean-submersion (both 2013–14), porcelain, encrusted porcelain, dimensions variable. Installation view from “Fortress Temple” at 10 Chancery Lane Gallery, Hong Kong. Courtesy the artist and 10 Chancery Lane Gallery.
What projects are you currently working on?
I’m working on two big projects. For one project I am working with jackfruit. In Vietnam and other parts of South and Southeast Asia, this fruit is very special. We eat the flesh of the fruit, but the wood of its tree is also used to make houses, because not only is it easy and soft to manipulate, but also insects don’t like it, [which is why] it’s one of the most favored woods.
This project is also a little bit about my family background. My idea is to repeat our [personal history]. My great grandfather, who was from Fujian, China, had [emigrated] to Hoi An. [He and his family] left China, because they did not like the rule of the Qing dynasty, so, instead, they brought the Ming culture to Vietnam. My father was inspired by his grandfather to carve and make furniture. When [my great grandfather] came to Vietnam, he chose jackwood to make his house. When I researched deeper about our old house in Vietnam, I found similarities to the Chinese building system, which doesn’t use any metal nails [in the construction]. In feng shui, metal and wood oppose each other, so the Chinese developed a really great system that just joins the pieces of wood together while still keeping the construction really strong.
Also, [in the period following 1975], we didn’t have enough food to eat. My mum needed to take care of us children and, like all the Vietnamese women, had to find cheap food for cooking—so she bought jackfruit. Using the young jackfruit she would make a really good salad. Then the seeds would be boiled and mixed with spices and herbs and steamed in the bottom of the jackfruit. We ate that with coconut milk. When I think back, I wonder whether we thought it was really good food, because we were hungry.
The project has brought me back to my hometown, [giving me] the opportunity to spend more time with my parents who are getting old. I ask them about everything and my mum is teaching me how to cook, because for my project I will make a cookbook [of recipes] with jackfruit. My curator would like to show the work in Beijing, Hong Kong or Europe, but I want to show it in Vietnam first. I haven’t had a show in Vietnam in a while, and once you ship the work out of Vietnam it will be hard to bring it back. I think [this project] has a special meaning and should be seen first by Vietnamese people.
Bùi Công Khánh during his recent visit to Hong Kong, 2015. Photo by Denise Tsui for ArtAsiaPacific.
The second project is called “Seeds Immigration.” When I visited America, I stayed in Cleveland, Ohio, and met this [Vietnamese] family who invited me over for dinner. They had a big herb garden grown with seeds from Vietnam. I asked them why they grew such a big garden when they can’t eat it all. They said they just like to pick up [the herbs], smell them and think about Vietnam, even though they don’t want to return there. The family told me of their migration story: when they left Vietnam by boat and passed Thailand, pirates took all the gold and jewelry hidden in their clothes. But when they opened the clothing of their grandmother, there was nothing except seeds of herbs from Vietnam. The family was surprised and asked why the grandmother chose to bring only seeds. As it turns out, this family had first moved from China to Vietnam a long time ago, and this was the second time the grandmother was uprooting her life; so she knew what to prepare and that gold meant nothing.
During their journey to the US, as Vietnamese refugees in Malaysia, the herbs from home became very special for this family, because there were no Vietnamese food to eat. After three years they were finally able to immigrate to the US, so they brought all the herbs with them. It’s a very touching story because immigration is a big problem in our world today. For the project I decided to bring those herbs from the garden back to Vietnam, and I worked with some very special herb villagers in Hoi An to blend them. Miraculously, they grew! So I started to also bring other seeds from the US, France and also Myanmar—from friends’ gardens—and then blended them in Vietnam and documented the process.
The other inspiration behind this project comes from another amazing experience I had. Near my hometown there is a mountain where my friend once owned a villa. It used to be a popular area to build holiday homes when the French colonized Vietnam. After some time, the villa was neglected and torn down. I went back to see it and found that the house was in pieces, but there was one single flower that was still growing. I stayed and talked to the flower. I questioned why a neglected flower could still be alive. It’s incredible! So I took some seeds from the bulb of the flower and I brought it back to the south of France where I had friends who could grow it in their garden. After one year, the flower blossomed. My friends, who are half Vietnamese and half French, gathered the whole family when the flower blossomed, to have dinner in its presence. It’s quite touching. I’ve been working on this project for three years already. Now I have to find a way to exhibit it.
Denise Tsui is assistant editor at ArtAsiaPacific.