The ornate oak doors of Quang’s studio require both hands to open. The room itself is nearly cube-shaped, practically as tall as it is wide. The acrid smell of paint and stale tobacco permeate the air. Each corner is occupied by a different art student. Easels and canvases are stacked against makeshift shelves. Sketches are hastily tacked high on the walls. An enormous paned glass window dominates the opposite wall. The sun pours in, and I can see a boat outside making its way lazily down the Elbe.
Quang’s nook is littered with paint. Large patches of the 18th century basketweave parquet are coated in a murky gray sludge. Oversized brushes and art tools top a low table, all of which are encrusted in a similar medley of the thick, goopy substance that cakes the floor. I am unsure if the art supplies, themselves, are an installation of sorts – perhaps along the lines of Beuys’ bathtub.
On one of the walls hangs an in-progress painting. The canvas is large; I guess it to be 1.5 x 2 meters across. The rough surface of the canvas, akin to the desiccation cracks found in a dried-out riverbed, is bordered by a series of spiky stalagmites that ooze from the edges. These formations protrude and flow organically, evoking the bubbly feel of cooled lava.
I carefully navigate the studio, sidestepping the half-squeezed tubes of pigment that dot the floor. Quang mentions that he has developed a reputation at the school for using copious amounts of paint. This technique results in his paintings being quite weighty, he says, encouraging me to lift one for good measure. Tucked into the corner of the room, like a lone soldier in a battle that is already lost, hangs a small porcelain sink, wounded and bloody with splattered paint and aged grime.
In stark contrast to the studio’s chaos, Quang is dressed impeccably. His suit jacket and glasses give him the intellectual air of a professor, at odds with his boyish looks. His black hair is combed neatly, slicked into a high wave above his smooth forehead. He gets along well with his three ‘roommates’, one of whom is here, smoking while he works, my view of the roomie obstructed by the wall of shelving and stacked canvases that dissect the space from door to window.
Quang specializes in abstract figurative paintings. His works are like looking through a window on a rainy day, the water on the glass obscuring the vision so that only the essence and color remain. A portrait catches my eye – an emulsion of autumn pigments. A faceless blonde sits serenely with one leg casually crossed over the other, her arm rests gently against the backrest. Quang tells me the model is a friend of his.
We take our seats under the window - Quang on the chair where the model once posed, and I on a loveseat adjacent to him that looks as if it was rescued from the side of a highway. Between us is a low coffee table blanketed in various debris. Quang heats an electric kettle, its surface flecked with paint, and we sip ginger tea.
He strikes me as a bit of an introvert, none-the-less kind and humble. His expression is thoughtful and serious. His seating posture is reminiscent of the model in his painting, as if the chair only provides one option. He tells me of his childhood in Vietnam. Having moved around, the city he most remembers is Ho Chi Minh, better known in the west as Saigon. With a population of nine million, Quang describes the city as noisy, hectic, and violent.
‘On the street it is violent in the sense that people don’t recognize each other as human,’ he says. He describes people using their scooters to maneuver around each other as fast as they can, coldly treating each other like obstacles. As Quang became increasingly aware of his own participation in this negative flow, his feelings of isolation and loneliness grew, eventually culminating in depression.
Concerned about his son's deteriorating mental health, Quang's father recognized the potential benefits of art therapy and arranged for an art student from the Ho Chi Minh City University of Fine Arts to act as a tutor. The new mentor not only taught Quang how to paint, but also exposed him to the international world of art and western art history. Quang felt a deep sense of connection to the subjects on the canvases. The emotions and experiences captured by the artists mirrored his own; the figures reached out to him, inviting him to share in their stories. In a city where people were always rushing and personal interaction was scarce, Quang found peace and comfort in the quiet moments of contemplation and reflection.
I ask him about his painting, simply titled 'Standing Nude'. The tranquil figure is lit against a pastel stage. She leans casually on her back leg, the front hip curving forward. One hand reaches across her torso to clasp the opposite arm. Her face angles down in peaceful contemplation. She reminds me of the Madonna. Quang reveals that it took him five months and ten do-overs before he was satisfied with the final version. In his online diary, each phase of her progress is documented in detail. In the initial version she is harsh and squat, surrounded by a shadow of darkness, her face blank and expressionless.
‘It's because I didn't know her yet,’ he says. ‘She was just this unknown person. I didn't know anything about her.’ As Quang worked, she slowly transformed into a new being. She gradually lightened, softened, and elongated. The dark, shadowy room brightened, losing its sense of forbode. Her face became clearer and more recognizable. With each new rendition, the canvas grew heavy with paint.
Quang reflects on what makes good art good – the ability to see deeply what is there. Good art involves delving into the chaos of the unknown and attempting to understand it. In contrast, bad art is superficial and only sees what it wants to see. Bad art views people, things, and places as objects to be used as necessary, rather than seeking to understand their essence.
I tell Quang that his definition of what constitutes as good and bad art is more applicable in describing people. But in doing so, I’ve just made his point for him. Quang believes the quality of the artist's perception and ability to see deeply are what ultimately determine the quality of their art. For Quang, good art is about more than just technical skill or the ability to produce aesthetically pleasing works. It is about the artist's ability to connect with their subject on a deep emotional level and to express that connection through their art.
‘It's always about the artists.’ Quang says. ‘Good people make good art.’
Quang says that the art we create reflects who we are as people. Our ability to produce art - or anything else for that matter - is intrinsically tied to our individual character. Our personality and values are reflected in what we produce and create. We unknowingly draw inspiration from the qualities we possess, whether they be empathy, curiosity, or a willingness to explore the unknown. Conversely, negative qualities such as superficiality or egotism can manifest in our work as well. Ultimately, good art comes from a deep awareness of oneself and the world around us, and a readiness to embrace the unfamiliar and communicate that appreciation through our creative expressions.
For Quang, each brushstroke of a painting becomes a clue to understanding the artist behind it. The artist's relationship with their own work is an act of getting to know oneself. When we take the time to see deeply, as Quang puts it, we see similarities between ourselves, the art, and the artist. This is the human connection from one person to the next that Quang seeks to capture.
My thoughts return to the standing nude. I think about all the different renditions of her that Quang created, symbolizing a lifetime of experiences. Each version of the painting laid the foundation for what she eventually became. The standing nude is not just a person that Quang got to know - she is a person in her own right, messy, complicated, and most importantly, an evolving process of learning, changing, and (hopefully) improving.
In each iteration, the standing nude's form shifts, becoming less rigid and more fluid, much like the ever-changing nature of humanity. The edges of her figure soften as she learns to let go of the extreme, and her face becomes more peaceful as she masters forgiveness of herself and others. With each revision, she grows taller and more confident, just as we gain strength and clarity moving through life's challenges. The once-ominous darkness that surrounded her fades. The standing nude is a powerful metaphor for the human experience, a reminder that we are constantly evolving and growing, planting the seeds for who we will become in the future.
I ask Quang for his thoughts on AI-generated art. He laughs and assures me that artists like him will never be out of a job. AI is a highly sophisticated collage producer. It can't generate anything truly new. It can only take pieces of other people's art and combine them in different ways, much like an old-fashioned ransom note.
He admits that AI could be useful in fields like advertising, but it could never replace authentic art. For Quang sincere art is a manifestation of human feeling, which AI simply cannot replicate. While AI may be capable of generating pleasing visuals, it lacks the depth and intricacy that arise from genuine human sensation and experience. Ultimately, Quang believes that art will always be a uniquely human expression.
I ask him about the challenges that artists face in today's climate. He tells me that one of the biggest barriers is that the art world is heavily influenced by cultural trends. This means that many galleries are only interested in exhibiting art that conforms to popular styles and preferences. Artists who don't comply struggle to get their work seen. When I ask him about the contemporary directions, he describes them as being flat, pop-like, and often digitally created, with a lot of neon colors.
I can't help but wonder if this two-dimensional fad reflects the digitization of our current culture. Are we becoming increasingly intertwined with technology, sacrificing our human connection, in essence becoming our screens? Quang thinks so and we discuss how the pandemic lockdowns, home office, and Zoom calls have furthered and accelerated a pattern that already existed. I ask Quang what would happen if he were to create art that aligns with the latest hype thus making it easier to sell his work.
‘I could,’ he says, visibly troubled. ‘But it wouldn’t be true to me.’
Quang Tran has been painting since he was fifteen and has had his works showcased in Paris, Leipzig, and Dresden as well as other parts of Germany. He originally studied at Ho Chi Minh City University of Fine Arts before moving to Europe to attend the Dresden University of Fine Arts under the tutelage of Prof. Ralf Kerbach. In addition, Quang is co-founder of Spür, an art initiative and platform that fosters connection and dialogue between artists, collectors, and art appreciators. Spür provides a space for artists to share their stories and to sell their art while remaining true to their values. By focusing on communication, human emotion, and connection, Spür offers an alternative to the current trends in the art world. For Quang, it is crucial that his art reflects who he is as a person and his values, and Spür provides an ideal platform for achieving this.
