Translator and artist Trinh Lu: “Family is the first school to learn core values”

I once created a book to mark my sixty years of painting. I called it Everything I paint is a self-portrait. Not because each work is an image of myself, but because they all reveal something of who I am—my emotions, my ideas, my nature. Any form of creativity, whether through words, images or materials, holds its own power to express the self.

There are two famous views on art: “art for art’s sake” and “art for life’s sake”. Which school do you feel more aligned with?

I’ve always believed that art exists for people—for humanity. The idea of “art for art’s sake” feels hollow to me. If we define art as the interaction between a person’s inner world and the world outside them, then I would say anything created with a sense of beauty and guided by personal desire is art. No one creates purely for art’s sake—at its heart, art is always an act of self-expression, of serving something within the individual.

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Even though art objects aren’t essential for survival, they stir emotion, prompt reflection, and can shift how we view the world. I take issue with the notion that art must be useless. That idea emerged during a time when the art market grew too quickly, and individualism reached exaggerated heights. In the West, there has been a tendency to elevate art as something reserved for an elite few. To my mind, that kind of thinking isn’t worth engaging with.

What are your thoughts on the current wave of contemporary art—where concept often takes precedence, and the artist’s ego dominates, sometimes at the expense of aesthetic value? Does an overemphasis on ego reduce the artwork to mere self-expression?

Art over the past few centuries has increasingly become a tool—used to construct images, influence perceptions, and shape social trends. This instrumentalisation of art ties it more closely to the political and social climate of each era.

There was a time when art wasn’t burdened with such purposes. That role belonged to social activists, not artists. But gradually, artistic figures—painters, musicians, creatives of all kinds—have been swept into that current. In visual arts especially, you now see artists abandoning traditional forms entirely to forge new ones in pursuit of personal meaning. I wouldn’t say this is surprising, but it does mark a more extreme shift in direction.

You’ve remarked that “the two words artist today have become much more tainted”. What did you mean by that?

It’s a reflection of how social values have changed. Today, everything is so widely available and standardised that it can feel overwhelming. When distinctions between individuals are flattened and everyone is expected to conform to certain patterns, art inevitably follows. People grow hesitant to assert true difference, and discourse around art becomes muted. The experience of art loses its emotional resonance.

Moreover, contemporary art seems increasingly disorderly in its attempts to break from tradition. There are now works involving animals—elephants, monkeys, dogs, cats—or given to individuals with no formal artistic background. These methods distort the long-standing understanding of what art is. To me, art should remain an expression of humanity, one that conveys the artist’s inner world. But these days, those with natural talent and professional training are often treated no differently to those producing objects that require neither skill nor dedication.

I find it deeply concerning that traditional artistic values are being eroded. Once, we created statues to celebrate courage and the human spirit. Now, someone may place a rock from a mountain on display and call it art. Anyone can claim to be an artist; dissent is rarely tolerated unless you’re part of the art world. There have even been instances where cleaning staff in museums threw out installations, mistaking them for rubbish.

It makes me wonder—when anything can be considered art, what meaning does art truly hold? A crumpled scrap of paper might be called a “masterpiece”, but such ideas only highlight how arbitrary the standards have become. Art, in the public consciousness, is becoming muddled and directionless. That’s why I say that both the word “art” and the title “artist” have lost much of their clarity.

In your opinion, what can we do to limit this situation—or is it an inevitable trend of the times we must accept?

I feel the best approach is simply to let it be. After all, who am I to resist the tide of the times? What influence do I truly have to halt a trend? Complaining that the quality of art is declining changes nothing. Time moves forward; everything that unfolds is a reflection of its era. For that reason, I don’t believe in turning back, nor do I see it as my responsibility to fix it. I’m just one small person among many, quietly doing what I love and staying true to who I am.

Often, I meet others who echo the voices of authority, insisting, “This cannot go on—it must be stopped at once.” But I wonder, why stop it? Everything arises from something. When the prevailing voices in society speak in a certain way, others naturally follow. But that doesn’t mean I have to. I choose instead to live as fully and truthfully as I can, without attempting to change forces that may simply belong to this moment in time.

You were born into a family steeped in artistic tradition: your father, painter Trinh Huu Ngoc; your mother, painter Nguyen Thi Khang; and siblings who became artists and pianists. In your view, how does family education shape character, thinking and personal qualities?

Learning art within a family environment leaves a deep and lasting impression. For me, being taught to draw or play music from an early age wasn’t necessarily about becoming a professional artist—it was about pursuing a meaningful craft. From the outset, my parents instilled in me that art, especially painting, is a vocation—a way of bringing beauty into the world. In today’s terms, my father and I might both be called “painters”, but to us it was simply our work.

When my father painted, he gave himself entirely to it—observing the world with great sensitivity and appreciating the finest of details. These became the building blocks of his images, which often stayed with viewers long after, lingering in memory. That’s the essence of artistic creation: a sincere exchange between the artist and the world outside.

This process also carries a strong educational value. It teaches honesty—encouraging the artist to see clearly, without forcing a personal agenda onto the subject. Instead, they learn to observe and take in beauty as it is, to understand what makes something beautiful. Faced with both the pleasing and the unappealing, the artist captures it all, one brushstroke at a time. A finished work isn’t just a result of several hours’ labour—it’s a record of a shared moment between the artist and the world.

I believe the true educational value of art lies in nurturing a sincere mind, a steady character, and a habit of quietly observing the beauty all around—even in the simplest of things. When we notice that beauty, we naturally begin to respect and cherish it, learning in turn how to value life in its most everyday forms. This effect is deeply tangible, though it is often overlooked.

Do you believe family education is the most essential foundation for shaping personality and human growth?

I find great wisdom in Mother Teresa’s words: “If you want to change the world, go home and love your family.” The more I reflect on that, the more I believe it to be true. Real change begins within. If you haven’t changed yourself—if you don’t carry love in your heart—how can you hope to affect the world around you?

Many thinkers and philosophers agree that true transformation begins with the individual. And the core of any individual is the family. A family that grows out of love is vastly different from one held together by mere obligation. Yet today, many families seem to exist more as formal arrangements than true homes, functioning like transactions—where members are simply “settling accounts” with one another. In such cases, the essence and value of family are lost.

A real family is a place where people come together in love, grow together, and nurture life as one. It provides the foundation—not only for its members but for society as a whole. So if we hope for lasting change, we must first learn how to care for and love the families we have.

You’ve shared that your father had a profound influence on you. What lessons, philosophies or stories from him have stayed with you—ones you now pass on to the next generation?

There are five teachings from my father that I carry with me always. First, to be an artist, one must begin by being free. This freedom isn’t just about lifestyle—it extends to thought, to perception, and to the approach one takes towards art itself. A truly free individual isn’t shackled by preconceptions or rigid formulas but constantly seeks out new ways to express their truth, with honesty at the core.

Second, art is more than a passion—it’s a profession. It demands dedication, a sense of duty and complete seriousness. My parents taught me that art is a craft to be pursued with the same respect as any vocation. It is not merely a means of income, but a vital link between people and the world they live in. To create art is akin to practising a trade: it takes refinement, precision and a constant hunger to improve. I’ve always believed that before one becomes an artist, one must first become an artisan—only when technical mastery combines with one’s own emotions and thoughts can genuine artistic expression take shape.

Third, the role of art goes beyond ornamentation. It helps shape and uplift the cultural life of a community. A space that has been consciously designed does more than look beautiful—it influences how people live, work and relate to one another. Creating art, then, becomes not just about producing objects, but about laying foundations for enduring, meaningful values.

Fourth, art begins with observation. Feeling is essential, but without close attention, it can be misplaced. From my earliest lessons, I was taught to truly see: to allow my eyes to absorb beauty, to let my hands follow what I saw, and to align my spirit with the rhythm of nature. This isn’t just a technical skill; it becomes a quiet form of meditation—a way to settle the mind and connect, honestly and without distraction, with both self and surroundings.

And finally, perhaps most significantly, my father taught me to recognise and value the beauty found in even the smallest, most everyday things. When we learn to notice that, we also learn to cherish life more fully. It’s a deeply human lesson, one that carries beyond art into every part of living.

In your opinion, how does parenting today differ from that of the past? Which values remain, and which seem to have faded?

From what I’ve observed, children in the past were far more anchored to their families. Their first lessons came directly from home. Grandparents, parents, and teachers alike focused on the essentials. We were taught, in the words of the elders, to “learn to eat, learn to speak, learn to wrap, learn to open.” As we grew, we learnt to navigate daily life with grace—how to get along with siblings, how to speak considerately, how to manage little things with care. These lessons gave children an instinctive understanding of how to treat those around them—with kindness, respect, and thoughtfulness.

Families also tended to share a particular trade, often passed down through generations. Parents and children worked side by side, fully aware of their shared responsibilities. The skills weren’t usually taught through lofty theories but were absorbed naturally—through repetition, routine and example. Today, it feels different. While children are taught expansive, often abstract concepts at school, they’re rarely reminded of the foundational principles that begin at home.

So how do we preserve such traditional values in modern life?

I’m not sure that it’s a question of preservation, as the context of life today is vastly different from before. I’ve noticed profound changes in how children are raised and in the moral frameworks that guide families. We now live in a time where science and technology are deeply integrated into every aspect of life, reshaping what we once thought essential. For instance, there was a time when children had to write neatly by hand at school—but now they rely on computers, digital tools and even artificial intelligence. In fact, AI education is being introduced to children from a very young age, as required by policy.

In this light, perhaps the real question is not whether to maintain traditional values, but how to equip the younger generation with what they need to thrive in a rapidly evolving world. What kind of preparation truly helps them meet the challenges of the future?

According to you, what is the most basic thing when it comes to educating a child?

In my view, parents are the clearest examples for children to follow. From the way they speak, the way a couple interacts at home, to the smallest daily habits—all of these are quietly observed and remembered. In my experience, nothing escapes a child’s attention. There’s an old saying: “Ask the elderly, then ask the children at home,” because children are often remarkably aware of what goes on within the family.

What matters most is that, while holding the family together, parents also serve as a child’s first teachers. Everyday life becomes the setting in which values are passed on—through conversation, shared tasks, and how one navigates life’s small challenges. I believe this is the most genuine form of education—one that takes place naturally, within the intimacy of the home, and forms the child’s earliest understanding of what truly matters.

Article published from the original in the April 2025 issue of Tatler Vietnam

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