Nguyen’s ‘My Guide and I’ (2023) on view at ‘A Comedy for Mortals: Inferno’ (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)
Cover Nguyen’s ‘My Guide and I’ (2023) on view at ‘A Comedy for Mortals: Inferno’ (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

Ahead of her solo exhibition at the ICA Boston, the Vietnamese American artist tells Tatler why multiple perspectives are crucial to understanding the truth, and why we should learn how to embrace moral ambiguity

Not many people would draw parallels between Dante’s Inferno, the epic poem about a descent into hell, and the Cold War-era space race, but artist Tammy Nguyen does. “Both trajectories are into hot unknown places: one into the core of the Earth and the other into the orbit of the sun,” she says.

Nguyen has a knack for finding connections between seemingly disparate, random events and phenomena, and bringing them together under the seductive guise of her intricately detailed, saturated artworks. Closer inspection of her work reveals profound existential observations and queries that tend to evoke confusion. “I like playing with contradictions and, through art, making those contradictions create even more tensions,” she says. “I create problems for myself to explore. I like the challenge.”

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Above Nguyen at work in her Connecticut studio (Photo: Shaun Pierson)

The unusual convergence of Inferno and the space race formed the central topic of her recent exhibition A Comedy for Mortals: Inferno at Lehmann Maupin Seoul, her first solo show with the gallery and her first in South Korea. The show, which comprised works of art on canvas, on paper and in book form, was born out of her interest in classical literature. In the past couple of years, while formulating her Seoul exhibition, she was reading the Allegory of the Cave in Plato’s The Republic, which is about our perception of the world and how that impacts our understanding of and search for the truth.

The complex endeavour of searching for truth and meaning re-emerges in Inferno, which the artist was also reading at the time. She became particularly interested in Virgil, the pagan guide in Dante’s Divine Comedy, of which Inferno forms the first part, who embodies “moral confusion” as a figure guiding a Christian, Dante, into the depths of hell while he contemplates what it means to be loyal to God. Because of this, Nguyen finds the story to be provocative and ambiguous, as it “took place at the cusp of a paradigm shift, where values will have to be shuffled and reassigned as right and wrong”.

A similar perspective forms in her work—history, current events, typography, mythological characters, political leaders and natural motifs mingle to tell a larger but ambiguous story. “There isn’t a good and bad [in my art]—there is a complicated ascent with ethics that are collapsing into one another,” she says. “There is no message, but rather malleable and multiple meanings, where there are so many things referencing each other.”

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Tammy Nguyen’s "Twisted Around to the Rear" (2023) (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)
Above Nguyen’s “Twisted Around to the Rear” (2023) (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

In her heavily layered paintings, she intentionally fuses war motifs with imagery from nature: a helicopter-turned-mosquito is a recurring visual. Historical figures often merge with hybrid mythical creatures or military-themed motifs; in Far into Lower Hell (2023), for instance, two military officers make a pledge with their hands on a Bible while holographic missiles zip by US President Dwight D Eisenhower’s face, and a centaur peers out of his body. Madame Nhu, the wife of Ngô Đình Nhu, who was the brother and chief advisor to Ngô Đình Diệm, president of Vietnam from 1955 to 1963, is depicted as a half-woman/half-bird creature who inflicts punishment on sinners in the seventh circle of Inferno. Here she is seen chewing the American flag in her beak. In Twisted Around to the Rear (2023), the artist’s favourite historical figure, US President Lyndon B Johnson, is depicted with his head twisted backwards, referencing Canto XX of Inferno, where sinners in the eighth circle of hell walk for eternity with their heads on backwards. “The Inferno is a lot about perspective,” she says, on the act of looking backwards.

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"Nguyen's Far into Lower Hell" (2023) (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)
Above Nguyen’s “Far into Lower Hell” (2023) (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

In her paintings, she often masks historical figures and religious iconography behind heavy tropical foliage. She did this in her painting series The Twelve Stations of the Cross (2022), which was on view at last year’s Berlin Biennale. This body of work is Nguyen’s interpretation of the famous series of images that depict Christ on the day of his crucifixion, and was inspired by her trip to Indonesia’s Riau Islands, specifically Pulau Galang, which served as a temporary stop in the 1980s and 1990s for refugees leaving Vietnam. Her parents were accommodated on an island close by when they left Vietnam and were on their way to the United States. Pulau Galang was also one of the first temporary refugee sites to have designated places for worship for all the religions practised by the refugees. The Catholic one in particular caught Nguyen’s eye during a trip to the islands in 2017.

“There were these crazy golden statues that were planted inside refugee boats,” she recalls. “They were sculptures and were all hidden in this huge forest of tropical trees and plants.” It was during a trip to this location that she began forging the connections between the tropics, heat, space and hell. “I was thinking a lot about the torrid heat of the tropics in a poetic way,” she says. “Palm fronds became a formal device to create chaos and dense, hellish space.”

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Details from "Ngô Ðình Diê.m" (2023), made for Nguyen's upcoming exhibition at ICA Boston (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)
Above Details from “Ngô Ðình Diệm” (2023), made for Nguyen’s upcoming exhibition at ICA Boston (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)

The artist has been especially busy since she signed with Lehmann Maupin last year: she has a solo exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art (ICA) in Boston this month, her first in the US; and she was in Hong Kong for Art Basel in March, which is where Tatler caught up with her in person, speaking with her again in June before her ICA exhibition.

Historical and religious themes pertaining to Vietnam and its history are ubiquitous in Nguyen’s works, informed by her and her family’s experience and heritage. The Vietnamese American artist was born in San Francisco and raised Buddhist but attended a Catholic school. She went to Vietnam as a Fulbright Student fellow to study lacquer painting, which led her to experience her Vietnamese identity in a more rounded and “transformative” way. This meant “being able to have friends who are Vietnamese, being able to speak Vietnamese in a way that is not with your grandparents or parents, being able to have your personality translated in another culture, being able to truly oscillate between different cultures. That became important in my worldview, and maybe it’s why ambiguity is so important to me.”

She embraces fresh conceptual spaces derived from layering seemingly unrelated sources of inspiration. She does this in the artworks created for her ICA show, drawing from American author and poet Ralph Waldo Emerson’s text Nature (1836), as well as US projects on land reformation in Vietnam from the 1950s to 1970s—again, an unexpected connection.

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Nguyen's "Demeter, the Goddess of Harvest" (2023), to be featured her upcoming ICA Boston show (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)
Above Nguyen’s “Demeter, the Goddess of Harvest” (2023), to be featured her ICA Boston show (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

In it, she bridges the idea of American soft power and foreign policy in Vietnam with American ideals of manifest destiny and humanity’s relationship with nature, particularly in terms of transforming land from “wilderness” to “landscape” in order to create a new identity—and as a way to find God. Nature came a while after American independence, as the result of the establishment of a new religious order; the new Americans were able to create their own church and idea of God, separate from British influence.

Again, Nguyen chooses events which reflect a time of re-evaluation and reinvention—a murky, in-between space primed for experimentation. She was inspired by the romantic idea of “imagining your own future and making it out of whatever you see and labour over. I loved that. As I got older, I saw how manifest destiny is a complicated pursuit that is extremely morally ambiguous.”

She views the space race through a similar lens, interpreting space as unconquered land for the American—and increasingly global— dream. She recalls listening to Elon Musk’s comments while making works for her Seoul exhibition. “Whatever you might think of him, the questions he’s asking are, at a basic level, about the meaning of life. I think that relates to notions of immortality, because if you can make [life] happen in outer space, what is the meaning of life here?”

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Nguyen's "Chúa Kitô Vua" (2023)to be featured her upcoming ICA Boston show (Photo: courtesy Lehmann Maupin)
Above Nguyen’s “Chúa Kitô Vua” (2023) to be featured her ICA Boston show (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

In the Seoul exhibition, she traces this existential query, again through historical means. Spread across her works on paper are archival photographs from Nasa that all involve the sun or the idea of heat in some way—a solar eclipse, a volcano seen from outer space, the background of rocket launches and other space race images. Another source of inspiration was the archives of Stars and Stripes, an American newspaper distributed out of Japan, known for its controversial propaganda tendencies, and read by many military personnel during the Vietnam War.

She explains that she appreciates how coverage of the space race was largely graphical and typographical. These media reports were disseminated for public consumption, and were entangled with other major developments over the decades, including the Cuban Missile Crisis, the televised nature of the Vietnam War, and conflicts between China and India along their shared border.

Nguyen creates narratives in a similar way, braiding multiple references and strands of thought that result in multilayered artworks, which she sees as visual hooks to engage audiences. “[A work] begs for a certain risk from the audience: the risk of time, of patience,” she says, acknowledging her work’s challenging nature. “But the playfulness is such a great opportunity to leap into content that is so distant from you.”

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Tammy Nguyen and her daughter in the artist's studio (Photo: Shaun Pierson)
Above Nguyen and her daughter in the artist’s studio (Photo: Shaun Pierson)

Ultimately, she seeks to acknowledge and open up a multiplicity of perspectives, both in her artwork and also in her role as an arts professor at Wesleyan University, where she teaches a course on printmaking and book arts. Her interests in classical literature, printmaking and of course art all come together in the practice of making artist’s books, in which the creative process, layout and design take precedence over text, and make the book an art object. She wants her viewers to experience what she felt when she first encountered an artwork in book form.

“When I look at an artist’s book, I’m looking at topics that I had no idea about or no particular interest in, but the setting of the stage is so porous and welcoming,” she says of the myriad ways for a viewer to discover a story in this medium: through flipping, unfolding, opening pockets. “That’s super exciting and a great opportunity.”

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Example of Nguyen’s artist’s books on view at Lehmann Maupin Seoul (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)
Above Example of Nguyen’s artist’s books on view at Lehmann Maupin Seoul (Photo: courtesy of Lehmann Maupin)

Her artworks also offer viewers multiple paths—a series of possibilities for them to explore the ideas behind her creations. They can experience her work and chart their own journeys, with no right or wrong way to reach their destinations. Nguyen embraces this ambiguity and applies it to her own worldview. “Moral ambiguity has to do with how one forms a code of ethics to lead their life. When you’re living in a diverse world with so many different ideologies and so many friends from different places, how do you balance all of that out?”

The creative process behind Nguyen’s art reflects the current cultural climate. Our lives are increasingly intersections of perspectives and outlooks, and when those worldviews collide, the only way to coexist is to accept the ambiguity and move forward.

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