Do paper painter Dao Thanh Dzuy: loyal to the path of painting with memories, emotions and without restraint

Though formally trained abroad in oil painting, specifically at the Academy of Fine Arts and Design in Slovakia, you chose do paper, a traditional Vietnamese medium. Was this a return to roots, or a technical step forward in search of emotional resonance?

During my six years of studying overseas I was trained thoroughly in the techniques of oil painting, colour theory, drawing, and how to foster creativity through expressive associations. When I returned to Vietnam, the country was entering a new phase of reform. The art world, too, was shifting. That was when I began to carve out my own path fusing the foundation of European painting with Vietnamese materials.

Curiously, do paper proves surprisingly adaptable to Western techniques—watercolour, ink, gouache, even certain oil methods, when properly prepared. Its ability to absorb pigment allows for effects of depth and layering not easily replicated with industrial paper. The subtle textures and varying thicknesses of do paper, too, lend themselves well to the expressive language of European styles. Once treated, it is also impressively durable, fulfilling the requirements of longevity expected in Western fine arts.

There was a time when I used Chinese ink on do paper to sketch portraits and nudes, as if writing calligraphy through image. Hundreds of works emerged from that period and were acquired by collectors both in Vietnam and abroad. At other times, I was captivated by floral studies: lilies, chrysanthemums, roses, lotuses and daisies. Sitting for hours, shaping each delicate petal, sometimes hundreds of chrysanthemums within a single large do paper frame—it became a quiet test of my patience. Since 1997, I have shifted towards exploring synthetic materials and abstract compositions on do paper.

From the outset, I experimented with gold and silver leaf on do paper, something rarely attempted at the time. I had to find my own method to ensure the metallics remained untarnished on such a delicate surface. I also studied techniques of mounting, layering and splicing, carefully choosing the most suitable painting base. In particular, I explored the combination of do paper with oil canvas to enhance durability. This allowed me to remove the need for a glass frame, offering viewers an unobstructed view, free from glare.

Overcoming the limitations of do paper to create large-scale works—can you speak to the creative process behind this, and the challenges of layering and splicing? Is this a technique designed to bring each work to life with added vibrancy?

Working with do paper demands a solid foundation in drawing, because once the pen touches the surface, there is no possibility for correction. If the drawing is firmly grasped, be it flowers or figures, every stroke becomes intentional, allowing the composition to take form with clarity. The process calls for absolute patience and precision. Rather than sketching directly onto a single layer, I peel each sheet—one, two, even three layers deep—before beginning. This method creates a sense of spatial depth, lending the painting a heightened dimension and vividness.

It took me over a decade to master the techniques needed for larger-scale works. Previously, I worked only within the original paper size. Now, when laminating do paper, I don’t simply join pieces together. I extend the composition by letting a petal or a human figure reach beyond the frame, evoking a three-dimensional openness. To me, do paper is not just a background, it is an integral part of the narrative, carrying what I call “the colour of time.” Its fragility, in fact, becomes a visual asset. In a lotus painting, for instance, a single leaf might mark a falling point, while its edge becomes a horizon line. Every detail is considered to bring greater depth to the work. Throughout, I continue to experiment, transforming the limitations of do paper into a distinctive signature in every piece.

Although do paper may not offer the versatility of oil paint or other mediums, it still evokes a powerful aesthetic, symbolic and suggestive in its own way. Here, artist and artisan are inseparable. One must be both creative and exacting. The mindset is just as vital as the technique; there can be no rushing, no careless haste. At times, one might hold the brush for hours without making a single mark. Even the signature, when added, must be considered and carefully balanced to preserve harmony with the overall composition.

So what is the difference between the original do paper and the paper you have processed in your own way?

Original do paper is often suited to traditional painting, where colours are allowed to flow naturally, brushstrokes are loose and expressive. But once I’ve peeled back each layer and re-coated it, the paper offers far more control, especially when I want to create a particular sense of space or a mist-like veil of colour.

What makes it distinctive is that this processed do paper becomes almost like a “special canvas”. Though delicate, it is rich in expression. I can combine ink, gouache, even diluted oil paint, while preserving the softness and pliability of the material. Each type of paper brings a different quality: the untreated paper is more traditional, while the peeled-back version becomes a challenging creative surface demanding both technical skill and emotional depth. Do paper continues to draw me in with its singular ability to express, and its vast, untapped creative potential. It is a marriage of rough rusticity and its own fragile character. There was a time when do paper drew much interest, but without continued experimentation, it could easily fade into obscurity. My own passion for it has remained constant and resolute. Unlike oil paint, which can be reworked, do paper calls for precision, finesse and a calm, steady hand.

When speaking of Dao Thanh Dzuy, one cannot help but think of lotus flowers, still life, and the image of a woman rendered in dreamlike strokes. Do these motifs carry a particular emotional or symbolic significance in your life and art?

I tend to choose gentle themes—lotus flowers, still life, women—which might seem tranquil on the surface, but beneath them lies the quiet movement of the inner self. It’s not sadness exactly, but a sense of stillness that encourages optimism, a pause, and a return to something quieter and more positive in life. I don’t seek out provocative or confrontational subjects. I lean towards simplicity and tradition, values that endure.

Women and lotuses appear frequently in my work not due to a lack of ideas, but because they suit the material of do paper so naturally. Thin, light, translucent and light-catching, it perfectly complements the softness of the female form and the fragile purity of the lotus.

Writer Nguyen Trong Tao once remarked that Dao Thanh Dzuy had discovered the “never-ageing” beauty of Asian women through the subtle lines of the neck, waist and back. When viewing Dzuy’s works, one enters a space that feels at once real and fantastical, dreamlike yet radiant, both ancient and quietly contemporary. Is this your way of approaching beauty from an indirect angle, rather than through straightforward depiction?

When painting women, I’m often drawn to the contours of the shoulder, neck, waist and back. These lines speak volumes about the graceful, gentle femininity of Asian women, a beauty that endures through time. It’s a beauty that suggests rather than states. A sidelong glance, a curve of the neck can sometimes speak more than a full face. Just a flicker of a shoulder, the tilt of a head, or a faint silhouette is enough to awaken the imagination. It’s not just physical beauty that I aim to capture, but a kind of nostalgic emotion: something that realism, however precise, may never quite reach.

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At the same time as renowned figures such as Le Thiet Cuong, Nguyen Xuan Tiep, Phan Cam Thuong and Ly Truc Son, you also began to garner public attention during the post-subsidy years. What helped you establish a distinct identity in the Vietnamese fine arts scene at that time?

At the time, I chose a rather quiet path, a way of life that suited me: not noisy, not ostentatious. Though I held many solo exhibitions, the lack of developed media meant that most of the works were never properly documented. Many pieces were sold without being archived or photographed. Connections with collectors were made simply by exchanging business cards. Yet that very silence mirrored the way I created art as being honest, calm and enduring.

My long-standing commitment to do paper has also shaped my identity within the Vietnamese art community. In my works, I often favour light tones; what I call the colour of time. The do paper is mounted and arranged side by side to create a spatial dimension. It serves not only as a backdrop, but as a central element, contributing to the overall composition and depth of each piece.

Through signature exhibitions such as April Dzo (2022), Fragments of Memory (2018), and Autumn Wind (2016), each show presents a unique narrative and aesthetic, grounded in purely Vietnamese materials. Could you share more about how your art has evolved across these periods?

I would divide my creative journey into three distinct stages. In the early period (1980–1990), I focused primarily on still lifes and portraits of women on do paper, often in sketch form. In the transitional phase (1990–2000), I began experimenting with abstraction and mixed media—still using do paper, but incorporating the rich imagery of West Lake’s lotus leaves. From 2000 onwards, my work has embraced a minimalist abstract style, aiming to express inner emotion through layered do paper, empty space, gilded accents and shifting patterns of light where the painting no longer narrates but instead evokes reflection.

Each exhibition marks a new chapter in my creative process from the choice of subject to the evolution of visual language and the emotional depth conveyed through do paper. While my work has evolved, it remains rooted in a consistent aesthetic foundation: minimalist expression, geometric construction and a sense of timelessness. Minimalism here means the distillation of form, colour and space, creating depth and inviting intuitive engagement. The geometric structure draws on squares, circles and clean, precise lines. These are not placed at random, but reflect careful thought suggesting imagery while opening a contemplative space for the viewer. The timeless quality lies in the absence of specific temporal markers, allowing the works to exist outside of time, evoking a quiet sense of eternity.

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Pursuing minimalist abstraction to express your inner self, you are considered an “aesthetic dreamer”. So, is the light in your abstract paintings a unique technique, and also a way for you to reflect inwardly through the language of painting?

Yes. Painting is not only a visual form, but also a way to preserve fleeting moments: those vague yet vivid emotions that would otherwise vanish if not expressed. I choose do paper because of its fragility and its ability to capture light, creating layers of space and luminosity that feel like air where time appears to pause. It also becomes a space for introspection. I only paint what genuinely moves me, because ultimately, whatever the subject may be, I’m painting a reflection of my inner world.

To me, light in painting is not just a visual tool; it is a way of illuminating the inner self. It isn’t the light of nature, like dawn or twilight, but one born from memory, emotion and reflection. I am especially drawn to that kind of light—the quiet light of contemplation, not dazzling, but expansive. Sometimes I work only with white, shifting tones to evoke depth and motion. Light, in that sense, becomes the mood itself.

My deep affection for do paper means that even with the integration of modern techniques, my paintings still retain an unmistakably Asian spirit that is subtle, serene, and full of silence. Creating with do paper also requires emotional patience. It’s a medium that allows me to access my inner landscape, where empty spaces are more than background; they become symbols of things unspoken, of thoughts unfinished.

Like anyone, I experience joy, sorrow, and at times, frustration. But when I feel frustrated, I don’t paint. I prefer to create from a place of calm. If I’m going to paint, I want the work to feel pure, tranquil, and to resonate with others like the freshness of a clear morning.

Has silence become an essential element in the way you work with materials and develop emotional depth in your art?

I believe that only when the mind is still can the artist see the world clearly and express its subtleties with sincerity. In creation, silence isn’t emptiness, it is an inner force that allows the artist to feel deeply and paint with emotional truth.

That’s why I gravitate towards soft tones—misty hues that feel like time and memory. I rarely use stark contrasts. From the colours I choose to the way I lay each stroke, I try to create a space that feels calm, but never static. In art, alongside those spontaneous emotions or “floating” feelings that artists often have, there must be precision. It’s this balance that helps me maintain honesty in each work.

In the context of contemporary Vietnamese painting, how do you view the future of traditional materials like do paper, and the rise of new materials?

Every medium has its own value whether traditional or modern. Art is not confined by the materials used, but shaped by the way the artist thinks and engages with the world. New materials can offer fresh perspectives, but the essence lies in the sincerity of creation. In my view, do paper is far from obsolete; it still holds great potential when approached with a contemporary mindset. Tradition isn’t something fixed in the past, it’s a foundation on which art continues to evolve.

As the art market grows more dynamic and increasingly swayed by trends, I remain committed to my own path: painting from memory, with emotion and without restraint. What matters most is authenticity. When a work brings peace to the viewer, I feel I have achieved something meaningful.

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