Artist Trung Nghia and the journey of reviving beauty from ashes

Within his own creative realm, Trung Nghia appears as a gentle omnipotence summoning new beings into existence, breathing form into fragments, coaxing life from what once was ash. And in doing so, extending his own story a little further.

Each of Trung Nghia’s upcoming pieces may feature thousands of rattan flowers, each wrapped in ceramic, each shaped with its own quiet individuality. The rattan is harvested from the forests of Quang Nam, half reserved for works inspired by The Broken Basket Still Has the Bamboo Bank, the other half destined for this series. He chooses subjects close to his heart, drawn from childhood memories, explaining simply: “I don’t know, or am not good at, things that are more profound.” What he envisions are rattan trees that never decay; works that endure.

By collaborating with rare talents—specialist artisans trained in the restoration of ancient ceramics—he brings an extraordinary delicacy to the process. These craftsmen, with finely honed technique and gentle precision, coat rattan and bamboo forms in ceramic, recreating traditional glazes and motifs. The transformation is quiet but profound: fragments reassembled into wholeness. “This reflects what I’ve had in mind all along,” he says, offering a kind of answer to the puzzled look I wear as a newcomer to his world.

For him, it all began by chance. The same could be said of the artisans—sun-worn skin, faded clothing, unassuming in appearance. Ceramic restoration is not widely practised in Vietnam, and to survive, these artisans turn their hands to other trades. If it weren’t for Nát bầu con boong tre, perhaps their paths would never have crossed; their craft might have remained tucked away, unshared in a quiet workshop.

But somehow, people find each other.

“I didn’t go looking for them. They were already there, waiting,” Trung Nghia reflects. “Young craftsmen with skill, devotion, and integrity are rare. I think I was fortunate. I’d been searching for years, but it was difficult. Then suddenly, they appeared. I borrow their hands, their sensitivity to materials, to bring the soul of rattan, bamboo, or ceramic into my work,” he says, as if speaking more to himself than to anyone else.

What distinguishes the works in this exhibition, he believes, is the idea of revival. The rattan, bamboo, and reeds he collects are lifeless by the time he finds them—destined to decay, to dissolve into soil, to become ash. But in his hands, they begin again. Their forms are remade. They live on.

“I saw a video once about how, if the earth were destroyed, plants would still rise up, climbing over ruins, and decay with them. In my mind, when one thing falls, another comes to life. That’s what I’ve tried to express in this exhibition. I don’t believe anything truly ends. My role is to plant seeds, so something else can grow.”

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Since his debut show, Highland Dream, Trung Nghia has travelled a long road in shaping his identity as an artist. In more recent appearances, he no longer hides behind emotion, but instead invites others to share in the joy. He is never without collaborators. Though solitary in spirit, he is rarely alone in the light. Much of his work is large in scale, requiring the precise efforts of many hands. And perhaps now, more than before, he no longer wishes to walk that path in solitude.

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“I used to live quite superficially, often drifting through life without giving much thought to anything deeply. At some point, questions began to arise, questions that, in truth, have troubled humanity for thousands of years. Life and death are constants, walking hand in hand as part of a natural law. When we feel hollow inside, the fear of loss takes hold. A relative once told me not to be afraid. I only understood later: fear fades when we begin to accept this law gently. My works now carry less aggression, less sharpness; they’ve grown softer. There are quiet messages beneath the surface, subtle stories behind the beauty. I want them to suggest the possibility of renewal.”

Trung Nghia believes in revival as enduring as the Vietnamese spirit itself, or that of any people who rise again after collapse. He doesn’t seek drama in it; to him, it is simply a miraculous law of life. In choosing to embrace truth, he finds little need to invent anything new. He does not speak of himself in grand artistic terms, but rather sees himself as a diligent, ordinary Vietnamese man. That’s the life he strives to live.

“I believe in God. This faith has guided me through moments of doubt, helping me distinguish between despair and hope. Everyone has that choice. I choose to be an artist, because it’s the one thing I know how to do best.”

Trung Nghia’s path is chosen in order not to betray his love. He could have followed music, and perhaps found recognition as a composer. He might have gone into business, where financial stability would no longer be a concern. But behind this man, once wild, proud, almost untamed, we now see a life shaped by gentle experiences. There have been misfortunes, no doubt. Yet what endures is a great affection for art, and for life’s simpler joys.

“I’m in the middle of my life now, with two colours in my hair. This is a time for careful thought. There’s not as much time ahead as there once was. I’ve chosen to work closely with the artisans and my younger brothers, creating things together, with sincerity and care.”

That is how it has been for Trung Nghia. And for me, it feels like another kind of revival.

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