Le Phi Long long path in search of stillness

Le Phi Long, back in 2017, you introduced the site installation Invasion Variants as part of Prolonged Interventions at The Factory. A towering heap of refuse dominated the space at The Factory Contemporary Arts Centre. Around the same time, Hidden Future emerged at To Vo Gate on Ly Son Island, Quang Nam Province—each piece a response to the growing spectre of waste across both city and countryside in Vietnam. But what, exactly, is waste? Is the image you present a singular symbol—or is it layered, speaking in many voices at once?

Honestly, I still can’t define the boundary between what is considered trash—deemed worthless—and what we label as assets, or things of value. Back in 2017, Vietnam’s GDP was estimated at 6.81%, marking a sustained period of economic growth. Ho Chi Minh City had become a symbol of consumer culture, a place where the act of shopping was not only encouraged, but celebrated. It made me pause and ask: what exactly is trash?

That same year, I presented the exhibition Long Interventions at The Factory Contemporary Arts Centre in Ho Chi Minh City. One of its key elements was the film Hidden Future, which documented a site-specific installation at To Vo Gate on Ly Son Island, Quang Nam Province. Nearly 80 international volunteers joined me there, dedicating over ten days to the island. The intricate structure we created was part of an environmental initiative titled Clean Up the Beach, organised by OpenM Corp.

Continuing with the same spirit—where materials carry values drawn from their original context—the focal point of the exhibition became Invasion Variants, featuring a colossal mass of “garbage” taking over the exhibition space at The Factory. The refuse, gathered from the streets, was arranged within the gallery architecture itself. The boundaries between the artwork and the venue dissolved, transforming the entire building into one cohesive installation. Waste spilled from the central structure through the main entrance, into the library, the cashier counter, even the toilets and the cushions in the screening room. When the show concluded, visitors signed up to take away parts of the work for reuse. To me, that act created new meaning—a new cycle—for the objects that had once been displayed. In this way, “trash” (less valuable) became “usable objects” (more valuable), or even “artworks”—challenging the clarity of what constitutes recycling. The exhibition also hosted talks, workshops, events, and student programmes. For many attendees, it sparked entirely new perspectives on life: minimalist living, or a deep reassessment of ownership and consumption.

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Site-specific art, by nature, is created in response to a particular place. It was born out of artists’ frustration with the rigid structures imposed by galleries and museums—on both the creators and their audiences. When you chose to work in this form, were you aiming to deliver a certain message, or was it simply what suited your creative instincts at the time?

In truth, site-specific art reflects the urge to break out of institutional boundaries—a movement that gained momentum in Europe and the United States during the 1960s and 1970s. It is characterised by its engagement with the specific conditions of a place: its context, its space, and the distinctive qualities that shape the presence of the work.

My path into site-specific art came quite naturally. I studied interior design and have always loved to travel. Fieldwork is a regular part of my process—gathering local materials, researching geography, architectural history and spatial language. From the beginning, I wrestled with questions about tropical environments and environmental determinism, exploring what shapes the differences between artistic forms across cultures. In every place I visited, I felt the landscapes, the geopolitics, and the materials were in themselves artworks—each one narrating the meaning of the other, forming woven, distinctive expressions of place. This process of moving through diverse regions, shaped by time and experience, brought me joy. Gradually, it became the foundation for the unique path I now follow in my practice.

After eight years of contemplation, how has Dong Duong Lang Du shaped your understanding of Vietnamese identity—or more specifically, your view of yourself?

Between 2016 and 2019, I explored and consolidated multiple layers of accumulated experiences to construct a new facet of Vietnamese identity. Within the project, I considered the localisation of foreign influences through lenses such as anthropology, botany, and geopolitics—rooted in the movements of immigration and migration. Central to this was the mission of the Paris Foreign Missions Society, a symbolic bridge between East and West: a relationship that remains layered, dynamic, and rich in creative tension.

But for me, this remains an open question. In Albert Einstein’s 1931 book The World as I See It, there is a passage I find particularly resonant: “A human being is a part of the whole, called by us ‘universe,’ a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest—a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness.” Identity—be it personal or national—is not a neatly defined construct. It exists within the vast, interwoven structure of the world, of the universe, shaped by a sense of totality.

In today’s “VUCA” world—a term coined in business circles, meaning Volatile, Uncertain, Complex, and Ambiguous—knowledge is easily accessed, academic freedom is more widespread, and technology is democratised. Tracing a singular Vietnamese identity may no longer be possible. Instead, I choose to focus on each individual as a distinct point of connection: adaptable, conscious, and responsible in their own way, contributing meaningfully to the wider whole.

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The exhibition Land of Leisure, part of the Indochina Wandering project launched in 2019 at Manzi, Hanoi, revealed something unexpected. Rather than leisure, one encountered brutality towards nature, the silence of space, the fragility of life, and the permanence of death. What does “leisure” truly mean in your series Hunting as a Metaphor for Political Power?

“Leisure” here is a broad fusion of comedy and sorrow—of joy tempered by pity.

Hunting as a Metaphor for Political Power comprises 38 paintings capturing the dynamics of domination, traversing time and anchored in the specific context of Dalat. Since the 19th century, leisure has been emblematic of the European elite—a marker of status expressed through the act of hunting. It was never merely sport, but a display of political power, social hierarchy, colonial conquest, and ideological control. In Dalat, that legacy echoes in the imagery of pine forests and deer grazing undisturbed—a vision of romantic wilderness.

When Yersin arrived in Dalat in 1893, followed by Paul Champoudry’s introduction of the first urban planning scheme in 1906, the intention was to model the town as a European-style retreat.

Around 1917, Catholic missionaries established a diocese in the area. Within Catholicism, otium—or leisure—is seen as a state of contemplation, a pause for rest and reflection, a time to turn toward God. Yet within this setting, I also sense another kind of leisure: one bound up in grandeur and giving, tinged with superiority, and shadowed by fear—sometimes even ridicule. This benevolent posture, like a cake with a glossy surface, hides something more conflicted underneath. As Eric T. Jennings notes in Imperial Heights: Dalat and the Making and Undoing of French Indochina, pastors once walked alongside French soldiers through the town. Or take the colonial postcard featuring topless indigenous girls posed on wooden benches, inscribed with the phrase “Concours de la beauté moie Dalat” (“The Beauty Contest of Upper Dalat”)—a scene that says far more than it intends.

Dalat today remains a “resort city”—its cool climate, natural scenery and ever-present mist continuing to offer a kind of “leisure”. In 2017, we formed an art community through MOIland—a space that served both as shared accommodation and as a forum for artistic exchange. Yet alongside the comforts Dalat is known for, there is a quiet sorrow. Landslides, caused by human encroachment, have led to real loss. Through this, the notion of “leisure” began to feel more layered. It no longer seemed simply a pleasant state, but something that pointed toward deeper, more entangled concerns—religion, politics, and the long, complex history of this land.

It is understood that Hunting as a Metaphor for Political Power takes inspiration from The Pinnacle of Empire by Eric T. Jennings. In it, Nguyen Phan Long, writing for L’Echo Annamite, remarks: “If hunting is a metaphor for colonial domination or the re-enactment of a conquest, then mocking or doubting this game will also erode that domination.” Could it be that, through this body of work, you are attempting to once more expose the violent legacy of French colonial rule in Vietnam—and in Dalat in particular—while also honouring the innate qualities of the Vietnamese spirit?

To my mind, one might list certain defining features of Vietnamese identity, but to assert its purity would be impossible. The question is: what framework are we applying? And what exactly is being proposed or resolved through such a label?

When I began this series in 2016—one that still continues—I was grateful for Mr Nguyen Phan Long’s insight. But I do not create work to condemn or to praise. Our understanding of historical events has never been entirely settled or clear—especially in this age of global exchange and cultural convergence. Books such as Everyday Art by the painter Phan Cam Thuong, and The Foundations of Vietnamese Culture by Professor Tran Ngoc Them, offer thoughtful classifications and interpretations that have informed my own thinking around what might be considered “pure” Vietnamese identity.

It’s clear that the years following 2020 marked a deep shift in your personal awareness—your perception of life’s energy and of the world around you seems to have transformed. Every artist, at some point, reaches a moment of quiet revelation. When—and how—did that moment arrive for you?

One such moment came during the Covid-19 lockdown. I had arrived in Paris at the beginning of January 2020. Each day, I would go out for around an hour—walking the city in a state of quiet acceptance, spiritual reflection, and uncertainty. Often I followed the Seine, passing Notre-Dame Cathedral on Île de la Cité. Two or three times a week, I prayed at the Église Saint-Paul-Saint-Louis, on Rue Saint-Antoine in the Marais. “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing”—the words spoken by Jesus at His crucifixion in Judea during the first century (Luke 23:34). I found myself returning often to this passage. It stayed with me.

During that period, I felt invigorated by life’s energy, with a love deeply connected to the Parisian landscape. I found myself in a state of “seeing the truth”, which I channelled into both my writing and my drawings on paper.

This transition is clearly evident in my series Thu Nhan (Leisurely Letters), unveiled in 2024. It extends the themes of the project Dong Duong Lang Du (Indochina Wandering Travel), which draws inspiration from the historical and contemporary mission of the Paris Foreign Missions Society in the East. The series is distinguished by the use of lapis lazuli (blue lapis) combined with metal leaf. While metal leaf (gold and silver) is a familiar feature in my earlier works, lapis lazuli marks a significant departure.

Why Thu Nhan? And why lapis lazuli? What is the connection between these two elements?

Lapis lazuli is a semi-precious stone that, when crushed, produces a blue pigment with a golden and silvery sheen, also known as ultramarine. This pigment was first used in the 6th-7th centuries BC for murals in Bamiyan, Afghanistan—the region that provided nearly all of the lapis lazuli used in European Renaissance art. In classical Catholic tradition, lapis lazuli holds sacred meaning, symbolising the presence of God and noble virtues. The colour not only represents purity, faith, and fidelity—qualities traditionally associated with the Virgin Mary—but also acts as a bridge between humankind and the divine. The deep blue evokes a sense of eternity and a sacred connection between place and the cosmos.

For me, this blue transcends the usual colour spectrum, becoming a natural symbol imbued with extraordinary depth. I explore the multi-layered surface of the painting, simulating rough textures and gaseous states. It represents flowing water gathering, with the dots evoking reflections on the depths of the body and the vastness of the space beyond.

It also brings with it a futuristic quality. Since 2020, I have felt a stronger urge to stay current. I’ve observed the world’s shift toward digital and technological transformation, particularly the profound impact felt during the Covid-19 pandemic. I have immersed myself in this transformation, with my first reflections presented in my Thu Nhan show at Vingallery in early 2024. My current compositions continue to explore this line of thought.

The show Thu Nhan (2024) evokes a sense of vastness in both space and time, where objects seem suspended in the universe. I have the distinct feeling that here, nothing concrete exists. The only tangible thing is the image of the Crown of Thorns. How should I understand the connection between this image and the concept of thu nhan?

Looking back 2,000 years, the Crown of Thorns relic, kept at Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris, remains one of the rare surviving examples. The Crown of Thorns—the thorns twisted around the bleeding head of Christ—serves as a reminder of the humiliation and doubt endured by the “King of Kings” to redeem humanity. This image stirs reflections on love, compassion, and patience, and on recognising the world as a whole.

The Crown of Thorns series was inspired by this image, alongside the words of Jesus: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” My paintings are meticulous, flowing with continuous streams of thought and an ongoing reflection on survival that has been a constant presence in me in recent years. In private moments, I have come to truly understand and feel that which I had rarely grasped before. Here, “leisure” signifies the love of God—a love born of infinite compassion that can accommodate and mature amidst the busyness and forgetfulness of contemporary life. When anchored in multiple layers, the limits of “consciousness” about suffering are expanded within the vastness of “leisure”.

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Thank you Le Phi Long, and I look forward to seeing more of your work in the future.

Article originally published in Tatler Vietnam, January 2025 issue

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