The Fluidity of Being

August 21, 2023

“There are many ways to hold water, without being called a vase,” New Haven-based artist Antonius Bui labeled their recent exhibition at Monique Meloche Gallery. After speaking to the artist ahead of the exhibition's final weeks, it became immediately apparent that they approach everything with the same poetic grace that labels their works. Exploring the politics of their existence through an intimate lens, their artwork sheds light on the AAPI experience, the queer experience, and generally, the experience of living within a world that creates its own narrow constructs of beauty — and learning to defy them with poise.

Interpreting beauty and poignancy in their own way, Bui creates portraits of a range of subjects — from close friends to admired figures, such as iconic pornstars. Infusing every one of their artistic pieces with the same fluidity that courses through their veins, Bui’s work is ever-transforming. “My work is as non-binary as myself,” they candidly share.

Interview by Kayla Curtis-Evans
Photos Courtesy of Monique-Meloche Gallery

office sat down with the multi-medium artist to discuss the poetry, defying stereotypes, and more, below.

This is your second solo exhibition, which departs from your first with the addition of certain aesthetic decisions, such as a novel color palette. How did this exhibition build off of the last?

For this body of work, I was definitely interested in still portraying us in all of our monumentality, our divinity, our poise, and our courage. But I'm also interested in the disarticulation of the body lately — us shattered or broken, exploring the hunger for a new language in politics. And how that requires us to dance within the cracks to compose and figure out ways beyond the coherent politics that we have right now.

As far as subjects, you focus on multiple different ones for this exhibition. You hand-cut verso paper to portray human subjects as well as fragmented vessels. How do these subjects further convey the message behind this exhibition?

Most of the vessels portrayed in the show, and the ones that I work with at large, are Southeast Asian vessels from museum collections around the world. I save the image and I liberate them or repatriate them in my own way, by shattering them. The thing that started this entire body of vessel work was how difficult it was for me to find Vietnamese vessels in museum collections. I stumbled upon so many stories about discovering shipwrecks and how many Vietnamese ceramic pieces had just been lost to the ocean. At first, I was so devastated because I felt like I was being denied access to history. But now, I kind of love this idea that they've escaped capture. They have found a new life underwater. They will no longer be cataloged and mislabeled. In some ways, being lost is liberation.

But regardless of whether or not I'm working with vessels, the human figure, or a combination of both, I'm interested in breaking away from the history of Orientalism. I think something that's really shaped the show and the newer directions of my work, is that the biggest given is being misunderstood. And the impossibility of fully getting to know someone, like even my own partner. We've been together for over eight years, but as deeply as we love and know one another, I'll never fully understand his narrative or his perspective. And instead of taking misunderstanding as a handicap per se, I think what I'm starting to view it as is a possibility to reinvent ourselves in every single situation. Like even when someone mispronounces your name, it reminds you of all the ways that you can be named or the ability to rename yourself. I think that goes back to this need for reassemblage and my hunger for abstraction these days.

I think it's definitely true that misunderstanding can actually bring further clarity. You have an intuitive sense of beauty in that your portraits highlight even the most minute details of your subjects, such as tattoos or unique body markings. What does an uninhibited sense of beauty look like to you?

An uninhibited sense of beauty for me acknowledges that we are past, present, and future. That we carry our ancestors whenever entering a room and we are building for future generations on a daily basis. I've been thinking so much about that, even in relation to fashion. I think this relates to beauty — what I love about fashion or self-fashioning is that every single day, we wake up and we decide which mirror to look into. And that framework changes as we continue to develop. While some may consider fashion the epitome of capitalism or too consumeristic, I truly believe in its power and also the fact that it's one of the most gorgeous ways to track the archive of being and existing. Fashion, adornments, tattooing, piercings — they speak of our values, who we are, and the geographies that we belong to. So I think another part of beauty for me lately is just understanding how porous and vulnerable we are as humans. I've been taking my dog on a lot of walks into local nature preserves and wetlands and we always see frogs, birds, and all sorts of creatures. I actually see myself so much more in those creatures than in other humans. So maybe for me, slowness is beauty. Understanding that we each go through our own seasons is beauty. All of us are capable of reinvention and queerness on the daily.

There's beauty in the fact that you can present yourself to the world in whatever way you want, and it might be different tomorrow but that’s okay. Through carving out space for others, literally and metaphorically within your craft, is there a heightened clarity you have reached when it comes to your identity? Who was Antonius before this exhibition, and who are you now?

It's always such an honor and joy for me to portray people, especially when I get to work with friends and family members. As I might have mentioned, this is probably my fifth or sixth portrait of Nu, and in this show, I got to portray them with one of their lovers. When I sent them the image of the finished work they went, 'Whoa, that's how I see myself post-top surgery.' They're preparing for top surgery in September, and it was so amazing that I could play a small part in their own self-actualization. That's more than I could ever ask for. If anything, I am just overwhelmed with gratitude to be sharing this lifetime with people who each exude a light, which I wish to also omit in this lifetime. The way that they dazzle, radiate, dance, write, each of them are artists in their own right. And it reminds me that I have no limits to my own practice. Because each of us is a product of one another, I am capable of what they provide for the world.

It sounds like you take a little piece of all of your subjects with you after working on these works. A lot of your work is centered upon the idea of “unlearning” — unlearning the expectations imposed upon the way you express gender, intimacy, and sexuality. What limiting beliefs are you still currently trying to unlearn and mend?

I've been thinking a lot about my problems with the word 'healing.' Maybe this reconnects back to who I was before and after the show as well. I've always dealt with the limitations of art. And I wouldn't trade my life for the world — I love artists, the ecosystems, the visions that we provide for the world. In many ways, I think we are fortune tellers. We're able to predict what a utopia could taste, feel, or sound like. It's just unfortunate, and at times paralyzing, how capitalism continues to prioritize object-making, perpetuate the idea of singular genius, and choreograph a scarcity mindset and ecosystem. This all trickles down into the inaccessibility of art, denying us so many opportunities for collaborations with other fields/industries, which could lead to even more change and revolution. I think this all connects to the limitations of Western psychology and how it's still so grounded in individualism, instead of confronting systemic issues. The way we pathologize things is so Western. So I'm trying to let go of a lot of Western understandings. Even the Western idea of 'knowing someone.'

What makes someone a “muse”?

Maybe a muse, for me, is equivalent to a crush. Having crushes is really important to me. I think it's because, when I was younger and not out, I had to repress so many of my feelings. In many ways, I was denied love or being able to express that. And now I feel like I enter a room and I'm just like, 'Oh my gosh, that's my crush.' I have a crush everywhere I go. And my crushes are just people that I intuitively feel magnetized to and very drawn to their essence, their brilliance, their way of moving, or their fluidity. Within my bodies of work, the muses or the crushes, they vary so much, from living people to artists who have passed away such as Mark Aguhar or Anthony Veasna So. If anything, it always goes back to crushes being a compass. For instance, Mark Aguhar was the first trans, AAPI artist that I ever learned about. And to see a badass be so multidisciplinary and understand every medium as an opportunity to cast a spell was so admirable. I've thought to myself, 'I wish you were alive so I could thank you in person.' So, if anything, a muse is a love that the English language isn't sufficient to express and therefore I feel called to create a visual manifestation.

I think that just encapsulates why so many people who create art do what they do. You deconstruct stereotypical notions about Asian American masculinity by shattering vessels and then carefully reassembling them, taking great care to emphasize their imperfect cracks and bumps. What can be understood or derived from their deconstruction and reassembly?

I believe we receive work when we need it the most. So I always encourage people to ask why certain feelings arise when confronted with such movements, such bodies, and such visuals. How do you personally relate to it, uh, as someone who does or doesn't overlap in identity markers? Honor the artwork by moving slowly with it. Similarly to music, books, poems, and so on, sometimes they take months, years, or decades to produce and conceptualize. So I think the biggest lesson in receiving work is just to be with it. And to return to it if you feel called to it.

Water represents the fluidity that courses throughout many of your subjects and yourself. Tell me about how the element finds its way into this body of work.

This body of work is a reflection on the displacement and dysphoria caused by US Imperialism and Orientalism, among many other things. In Vietnamese, Nước is a homonym for water and country. As a child of Vietnamese refugees, so much of my life has been learning to build a home and build a sense of community in a place that we were never intended to be on or in. That requires fluidity or porosity, and not only that but being willing to embody every single state of water. I can be a calm as a pond, and other days I have to embody the veracity of a tsunami to stand up for myself and for my own rights. I think this body of work starts to expand my own relationship to water and the spectrum of emotions. I think after this exhibition, I'm a lot fiercer than I used to be. I'm really learning to hone in on anger, anger as a compass for where I want to dedicate my time, energy, and care.

If the sum of your parts was titled like a poem, what would it be called?

“Upon Skin, Upon Stone”

Art

LIA by Iga Drobisz

Your work often explores intimacy and vulnerability. How do you create a safe and authentic environment for your subjects during a shoot?

The past few months, I’ve been working on two series of photographs: nudes of women in their own apartments and portraits of women before and after giving birth. Both series involve capturing them in deeply personal spaces—bedrooms or nurseries—where they feel at ease.

Shooting in their spaces, in their own beds, plays a crucial role in creating comfort. I choose film and cameras that show them in a way they find beautiful and empowering, emphasizing softness and warmth. It's a stark contrast to modern, hyper-detailed phone cameras that sometimes reveal more than one wants to see.

Your photography has a distinct emotional depth and texture. How do you approach the interplay of light, color, and composition to achieve this?

My process is highly intuitive. I’ve never formally studied photography or apprenticed under anyone—I learned by experimenting and seeing what felt right. It’s about trusting my instincts rather than adhering to rigid rules.

What role do personal experiences or cultural influences play in shaping the stories you tell through your images? Many of your photographs feel deeply narrative.

Growing up, I was surrounded by great cinematography. My grandmother had a TV, but my mom only brought home VHS tapes—films with substance. I think that exposure shaped how I see the world, how I approach subjects, and the narrative depth in my work.

What role does spontaneity play in your shoots? Do you leave room for improvisation, or is everything carefully planned?

To balance spontaneity and structure, I go in with a clear plan and strong direction, but I remain open to surprises. It’s about letting the subject feel like the shoot is about them, not me. That openness often leads to the most unexpected, meaningful moments.

What inspired the shoot with singer Lia? How did it come together?

Collaborating with Ruby and Naomi always takes me out of my comfort zone in the best way. For this shoot, we wanted to transform someone with an iconic face but also someone like Lia—someone with a clear sense of self.

Giving her a completely new look was exciting; it brought an unexpected energy to the set. The approach was playful and experimental. The night before, I had no idea what wigs Ruby would bring or what colors Naomi might choose. It was a beautiful mix of spontaneity and collaboration.

What inspires you the most?

Movies and music are big inspirations for me, as well as the work of other photographers like Carlijn Jacobs, Harley Weir, Rineke Dijkstra, Charlotte Wales, and Nan Goldin.

What emotions or truths are the hardest for you to express through your art, and why?

I don’t think I consciously try to express specific emotions when I work. Instead, I follow what feels right in the moment—what draws me in or excites me that day. It’s less about a deliberate expression and more about letting intuition guide the way.

Art

Luna Luna: Surrealist Spectacle Lands in New York

November 21, 2024

In the 1980s, André Heller, an Austrian artist, singer-songwriter, and former actor, was looking for a new place to showcase his art. He had already taken to gardens, creating a colorful, surrealistic character using 40,000 flowers, and to the skies, organizing a 'fire theatre,' which involved an over-the-top fireworks show complete with steel-frame sculptures set on fire. But he had never tried out a fair.

So began "Luna Luna." Created as the world's first art carnival, "Luna Luna" combined the spectacular with the absurd, showcasing original rides and attractions from rising and already-at-the-top artists in Hamburg. Nearly forty years since its debut, followed by foiled plans for a worldwide tour, breached contracts, and 44 storage containers, the art fair has finally returned, calling New York home after re-debuting last year in Los Angeles.

By Hailey Johnson
Photography by Delvin Claro and Sabrina Sarnitz, courtesy of Luna Luna LLC

On a recent evening in Hudson Yards, a small carousel featured characters in quirky, Twister-like poses and an outstretched dog with seven legs. (Almost a century old, the rides are no longer rideable.) Goofy wooden sculptures were elevated in another corner, some of them cross-eyed or with a horn for a nose. A geodesic dome glowed, with Gregorian chants hovering somewhere above it.

"It's an art experience like no other," Michael Goldberg, Chief Experience Officer of Luna Luna, said recently. "People get to see artists do things they've never done before," he added.

Goldberg, founder of Something Special Studios, a creative agency behind many Nike campaigns, was determined to resurrect “Luna Luna” after reading about it online in 2019. Goldberg shopped for investors, eventually teaming up with DreamCrew, a media company co-owned by the rapper Drake. (Details on the company's investment remain vague; sources have reported that DreamCrew spent over "100 million dollars.") In 2022, an intensive restoration process began, with a team of artists reviving many of the original works, which had remained in boxes in a Texas warehouse for over thirty years. Several had been in pieces. (The team reportedly had to rebuild each work "bolt by bolt.")

That night, at the Shed, fourteen out of the original thirty-five works were on display, including the small carousel (Keith Haring), the goofy sculptures (Kenny Scharf), the neon dome (Salvador Dali), and a towering Ferris wheel decorated in drawings of stick figures, upside crowns, and references to Jim Crow (Basquiat). Missing works are in a "constant state of restoration," Goldberg said. Meanwhile, new attractions are joining the line-up. For the New York show, the Puerto Rican duo Poncilí Creación was commissioned to create "PonciliLand," a blink-and-you-miss-it section where guests "can create fantastical characters out of custom building blocks." Poncili also developed floating characters, inspired by performers who circulated the original “Luna Luna” fairgrounds in 1987. Known as "Lovers," the two characters, large and dreamlike, teetered to one side, mumbling the kind of nervous groans one does before a fall. (They never ended up falling.)

I asked Goldberg if, given that today's culture doesn't quite look or feel the same way as it did in 1987, there was any hesitation in showing some of the original works. On a back wall, a tribute featured Manfred Diex's "Palace of the Wind," a show featuring performers who fart into a microphone; on another, two ornate pedestals held sculptures of spiral poop.

"I don't see any reason why we wouldn't show any of these works," he said. "A lot of the time, art is exclusive and uninviting. The big difference between “Luna Luna” and other art experiences is that it has many sides to it, and things that have a bit of humor and playful energy. "As for "Palace of the Winds,” the decision to keep it was simple: farting is universal. He went on: "The “Crap Chancellery" is, conceptually, one of the most important works in “Luna Luna.” Daniel Spoerri's dad was killed in the Holocaust, and the work was inspired by Albert Speer, who was Hitler's architect. He took the facade of what was meant to be a Nazi shrine and turned it into the facade of a bathroom with two steaming statues of shit standing on the outside. These works are extremely important and are things that we would definitely want to honor and draw attention to."

As “Luna Luna” further develops, the show will likely change. "It will continue to evolve as we go to different cities in response to the spaces that we pop up into and in collaboration with the local city," Goldberg said." With it, there will be new characters and new stories to tell. One aspect that won't change, though, as Goldberg assured, is a long-held sentiment about a potential partnership. At one point, early on during the original “Luna Luna” era, McDonald's wanted to buy into it. Heller said no, adding that he "didn't want it to feel like Disneyland." Goldberg agreed. Nonetheless, as I watched Kenny Scharf's dizzying swing ride go around for what felt like the hundredth time, with the cartoon characters decorated on it blurring together (one with a villain's grin, another morphed into a martini glass), I couldn't help but feel like maybe I was at Disneyland, only not as robbed, but just as entertained and exhausted by its rides and fantastical characters, and wanting to go again.

Luna Luna, Hamburg, Germany, 1987.

Art

Pamela Sneed’s Speaking Tongue opens at Dashwood Projects

November 15, 2024

Pamela Sneed’s latest exhibition, Speaking Tongue, will be on view at Dashwood Projects from November 20 to December 21. The show features twenty watercolor and ink paintings inspired by her recent trip to Kenya, where she was deeply moved by the elegance of giraffes, the landscapes, and the energy of Nairobi.

Blending her background as a poet and visual artist, Sneed’s work reflects on themes of identity, nature, and connection. Her paintings capture the beauty and spirit of the animals she encountered, alongside reflections on her own experiences as part of the African diaspora.

This exhibition marks Sneed’s first solo show with Dashwood Projects and will be accompanied by a new book, also titled Speaking Tongue, to be released in December.