Interview #176—Truc Truong
by Jinghua Qian
Truc Truong is an emerging artist living and working on Kaurna land (Adelaide). Using sculpture and installation, her work explores colonialism, racism, hybridity and displacement, often through stories retold by her family.
In early 2020, Truc was artist in residence at Hyphenated Projects in Melbourne’s West. This interview is the first in a series by Jinghua Qian, the Liminal x Hyphenated Projects Writing Fellow.
Truc speaks to Jinghua about intestines, assimilation, and the unique malaise of the second-generation migrant.
You use a startling range of materials in your work: bleach, intestines, ceramics, plants, chicken feet, fabric, wire, paper and text. But it seems like you keep coming back to intestines and bleach—why?
I originally chose to experiment with intestines because I was going through a really dark stage in my life. I started to learn about the interaction between gut and brain, mind and body. Not long after this, I was asked to make a self-portrait work using only one main material. I remembered, as a kid, pretending my mum had forgotten to pack me lunch because I was so embarrassed by it. I’d learnt to check what was in my lunch box before taking it out after making the mistake of telling classmates that my family had intestines for dinner. So I wanted to use a material that was attached to one of the many memories I had growing up, of how I began to learn that I wasn’t white.
At first the cleaning process of the intestines was revolting. I would gag and try to avoid being too close to it. I was taught by my mum to use salt, vinegar and wine to clean it. The more you wash intestines, the weaker it becomes. To avoid holes and keep a solid structure, I’m very mindful of the cleaning process. I started to take photos with it, play with it raw, dry it, mould it, blow it up, and so much more. By the end of the semester I had become what I considered an ‘expert intestine cleaner’, faster than my mum. The cleaning process became very therapeutic for me as I began to make a connection to my family and friends who have had to ‘clean’ themselves to be familiar, to make friends, get a job, to live. Using intestines has helped me process the guilt I feel about being ashamed of my parents. The end result was not actually about what it looked like, it was about the way I valued this material.
Some people think I’m using it for the shock factor and that it’s disgusting. I get asked if I’m into abject art, which is funny because I don’t see it as disgusting at all, I actually think they’re really beautiful and peaceful works.
Bleach is quite often used by artists of colour. What was really interesting for me was again, it wasn’t about the final product, but the process of what happens when things are bleached. There is a huge difference between what happens to natural versus synthetic materials. Some of my clothes turned completely white, some turned shades of red, orange, and yellow. Those that were purely synthetic didn’t look different at all. What I found really interesting was the clothing that completely disintegrated. It just disappeared. Picking up the fragments of my clothing, barely recognisable, made me think of my family’s journey of assimilation and the unspoken differences between each person’s experiences.
So the materials are a metaphor for how differently individuals experience migration and assimilation?
Yes, so for example, my mum would probably be considered very successful for a Vietnamese refugee. She speaks English quite well, works at a diverse school teaching ESL, has friends of all different backgrounds, and is quite physically and mentally healthy. My dad on the other hand struggles with his English, has found it hard to hold down a job, feels very out of place amongst white Australians, and has many mental health battles.
I feel like mainstream media outlets love to cover stories of happy Vietnamese families praising Australia for its kindness of providing a new home and safe environment. It’s only when I went out and did my own research that I realised my dad wasn’t alone and that many Vietnamese males found it hard to adapt. The range of outcomes from bleaching my clothing reflected what I had witnessed through Vietnamese family and friends and their journey of assimilation. So I keep coming back to intestines and bleach because through the making process, these materials have somehow taught me about myself, better than any conversation has.
I’m interested in your use of text, especially in Bench the French (2019) which uses Chữ Nôm, Chữ Quốc Ngữ, and English to interrogate the legacies of Chinese and French imperialism in Vietnam. What’s your relationship to these scripts and languages—does the texture of the script do something itself?
I started looking into the history of the Vietnamese language a while ago when I was thinking about how stiff my Vietnamese had become because I hadn’t been to my grandma’s house in a while. I only found that Chữ Nôm existed through research because my parents never spoke to me about it. I didn’t know that Vietnam had made their own logographic writing system by borrowing from classical Chinese characters. Chữ Quốc Ngữ is something I studied as a child, it’s the modern-day Vietnamese writing system developed by the French. I stopped going to Saturday Vietnamese School when I was quite young because I complained about my friends not having to do it and so my parents decided it was best for me to be a real ‘Australian’. So, I’m really slow at reading and writing now but I’ve been gradually trying to learn it again on my own.
The text is painted on with bleach and I quickly washed it before it became any lighter and whiter. I’m not sure what my exact thinking was behind why I didn’t want the full bleaching process to happen on the material, leaving remnants of red behind. As I was painting it, I felt the text embodied a tension between the gain and loss of language and power and it kind of became its own thing.
I get asked if I’m into abject art, which is funny because I don’t see it as disgusting at all, I actually think they’re really beautiful and peaceful works.
Tell us about the work you did in your residency at Hyphenated Projects in January.
The work investigates iconography, colours and stories that link to Lunar New Year as well as critiquing the link between Asian Australians, internalised racism and the model minority myth. I played around with old clothing I purchased from an op shop in Sunshine, which I really enjoyed, because previously I had only been using my own clothing. I found the work became less about me and I wondered who the previous owners were and what their stories and experiences are.
Some of the things I made I think are obviously critiques of power and the desire for economic progression in Australia, whereas others are just me being able to play around with the things that I grew up with: rearranging, adding on, carving out materials such as watermelon, oats, jelly, chicken feet etc. I came in with no plan; the only thing I took with me was my sewing machine. I was lucky enough to be given the opportunity by Hyphenated Projects to freely explore, and it worked out so well because I’ve been able to further develop and understand my practice and my confidence in making. It was so nice to end the residency with these established artists sitting around me without feeling like the chicken feet hanging in the corner was offensive.
Your installation Unicorn Land/Hai Con Lân Việt Kiều (2019) juxtaposes two lion-dancing costumes: a bigger one in buttery yellow, pink, peach and blue tones with a yellow head, and a smaller one in dark flannels and stripes with a black head, representing first and second-generation migrants. How does being a second-generation migrant shape your work?
The piece was sparked by an essay by Ghassan Hage in which he discusses the differences between first and second-generation migrants:
‘[T]he second generation are likely to experience not only a different but also a more intense sense of injury from racism than the first generation … Because they always get a whiff of the racism experienced by their parents before them, but more importantly, because, unlike their parents, they experience racism from an early age, and because this racism is directed at them with a language and culture that is their own, they develop an excessive and even a reactive idealized sense of entitlement to non-discriminatory treatment …’
I felt the essay helped me form an understanding of my rage towards racism in Australia compared to my parents’ modest tolerance of it. I’ve gotten into some heated arguments with my parents about ‘fighting back’ and I’ve said some ignorant and hurtful things about their generation but at the end of the day it’s not how I really feel.
So in this piece, the yellow lion represents wisdom and leadership and the first generation. My parents have had to deal with so much more hardship than my sister and I, but they continue to constantly love and give back to the community that surrounds them. The black lion represents the youthful warrior, which is why it symbolises the second generation. They’re a good team and it reminds me that this journey of getting rid of these bad spirits is done together.
How do you approach research when it comes to other people’s stories, whether they’re people in your family or beyond?
In terms of research I try to be as genuine as possible when asking my family and friends about their stories. Essentially, it’s not about plastering their life into my work, it’s actually just about building relationships, and if it happens to make connections with my own understanding that’s great, but if not, it’s still great. Relationships are more important than work. For example, I’m very wary of discussing what marginality is for all Vietnamese Australians, I understand that everyone’s experience is different.
I’ve heard so many interesting stories from people over the years but often I’ve just left it, especially if I feel it’s not my story to tell. I think it’s easier to approach research with integrity and genuine interest than compared to using research to make work. I find that side complicated, I still have so much more to learn.
Some of the things I made I think are obviously critiques of power and the desire for economic progression in Australia, whereas others are just me being able to play around with the things that I grew up with: rearranging, adding on, carving out materials such as watermelon, oats, jelly, chicken feet...
What do your family and community think of your work?
Most of my family are very supportive but I do have the occasional member who thinks I shouldn’t ‘upset the Australians’. There are people in my community who find my work relevant and relatable, and there are some that don’t understand it. My work investigates internalised racism because it’s what I had to unlearn about myself. It’s a touchy subject, still very taboo, because some people think that it’s an attack on my community, like I’m wanting to embarrass my Vietnamese family, but that’s far from the truth. I’m happy for my work to spark a conversation, or even just a thought that somebody hasn’t explored before.
Another subject that’s often taboo is mental health. What’s the connection between artmaking and mental health for you?
Discussing this topic is difficult just because I know that everyone’s mental health experience is unique. Speaking for myself, the only reason I pursued the arts is because I had a very tough year in 2016 and became very suicidal. Fortunately, my sister had noticed that I wasn’t myself and stepped in to organise doctor’s appointments for me which was my first step in trying to get better. I was reluctant to see a professional about my situation but it has been a very holistic experience. I was given a rundown of what was happening in my brain and body, what medication would do, how therapy would help, and how physical exercise could help me exert energy stored in my body.
It was perfect timing because during this period, I was completing my first year of a teaching degree, and I was about to start a ceramics elective. From finding it hard to get out of bed and leave the house, I would find myself in the studio for 12 hours on my own working with clay, which is deceivingly laborious. I didn’t understand the art world at all—all I thought about was survival, ceramics was working for my mental health and so I continued with it. I actually went to uni to graduate from a degree that would provide me with a secure job and income but I quickly learnt that having a nine-to-five was not the most important thing in my life. Art has and continues to be a way for me to clear my mind. It’s such an intertwined process, I can’t really separate my art practice from my mental health. Even the materials that I use, such as intestines and incense, come from a place of trying to understand how my mind works and how my body processes trauma.
Has that process changed during the pandemic? I wonder how the different elements of this crisis have affected your work or your life.
When Adelaide went into lockdown, I actually thought to myself ‘you’ve been preparing for this over the past three years’ because during my studies I was working solo and just hanging out with my dogs anyway. I don’t think it was until recently (three months later) that I realised how much it’s affected me. I went from studying full-time to part-time which gave me a lot of ‘me time’—probably too much time to myself because I ended up feeling very anxious. It also didn’t help that I went from having 24/7 access to equipment at uni to being sent home to work in my makeshift garage on my own. I wanted Honours to be my strongest year, but it’s been really hard to motivate myself to do anything. I’m trying to bounce back by changing my routine and environment, it’s slowly getting there and I’m starting to feel like myself again.
I feel it’s hard to think about the future at all right now, but what’s something you’re excited for or looking forward to?
I’ve never really been into painting but it seems to be calling my name lately. It’s nice to be able to say I’m not a painter, and so I can just have fun, be myself, and make the shittiest paintings. I have no idea where the world is heading in terms of exhibitions and galleries, so I’m excited about making shit paintings just for the hell of it.
Do you have any advice for emerging artists?
I find it weird giving advice—I’m no guru, but from experience, I would say don’t let the critics determine what and why you make! I’m still learning to take my own advice. Sometimes I dwell on the negativity and then end up making work to please people. I’m all about using criticism for further experimenting and exploring, but what some tutor or established artist says isn’t the holy grail.
Most of my family are very supportive but I do have the occasional member who thinks I shouldn’t ‘upset the Australians.’
Who are you inspired by?
I’m inspired by a range of people but the people that really stand out are those who choose to be vulnerable. I seem to steer toward people who are able to talk about their brokenness and doubts, possibly because it’s relatable and I don’t feel like I have to pretend to be somebody I’m not.
What are you listening to?
At the moment I’m listening to Jhene Aiko, Snoh Aalegra, OutKast, The Fugees, Baker Boy, Robert Glasper, and a lot of jazz if I’m feeling tense.
What are you reading?
I’m currently still studying so my reading is based on my research at the moment.
With internalised racism as my main focus, writings from Ghassan Hage and Karen Pyke have been really helpful not only for my work, but also just to understand my own experiences. I’ve had to read a bunch of older writings which has been really hard because I can’t grasp the academic style of texts (like Foucault, kill me now!) but I was surprised by The Souls of Black Folk by W.E.B Du Bois being so relevant for someone like me reading it for the first time in 2020 when it was published in 1903.
How do you practice self-care?
I get a little hate for it, but I have two dogs that I’m quite obsessed with. I have Miles who is probably the worst behaved dog in the world, hated by many but loved by me, and Thelonious who is the sweetest and goofiest thing to walk the planet. Getting a coffee with Theo in the sun is how I look after myself. If I were to really dig deep and try to decipher that, it’s possibly because I’m able to just be who I am without having to cater or adjust to another human. Humans are so complex and complicated!
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
This question is so difficult to answer. Today I would say it means being accepted because my family and I fit the model minority myth. We don’t challenge the status quo or discrimination that we receive in real life. Sure, we sit and complain or cry about it in private conversations amongst other people of colour or the very few white people that we can trust, but aside from an occasional social media post, it means being silent in the real world so that we are accepted. It means dealing with a white supremacy that is so invisible and subtle, but soul-sucking, that sometimes saying the most positive thing about being Asian-Australian is easier for everyone.
There are so many around me who are tired of this conversation—to be honest, me too—but it’s one I’m going to keep having, even if for now it’s behind closed doors and innately in an artwork.
There are so many around me who are tired of this conversation—to be honest, me too—but it’s one I’m going to keep having, even if for now it’s behind closed doors and innately in an artwork.
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Interview by Jinghua Qian
Photographs by Nikki Lam