Ánh Dương and the Visual Grammar of "Magical Silence"

Some artists seek images to tell a story; others seek them to capture a moment. For Ánh Dương, the artistic journey seems to move in the opposite direction: he seeks to let the image settle—to speak less and display less—so that what lies deeper within memory, sensation, and the inner life may emerge.

Perhaps that is why the word *lắng* (to settle/subside/deepen) is more fitting than *lặng* (silence/stillness) when entering his world. While *lặng* leans toward a static state, *lắng* implies a process: listening, settling, deepening, and distilling. Within that word lie elements of Zen and the passage of time; there is introspection, yet also the sediment of cultural memory. On a uniquely personal level, *lắng* also touches upon a specific Hue aesthetic: one that does not clamor for attention or engage in overt display, but allows beauty to permeate gradually through tonal nuances, traces, empty spaces, and elements that seem to have faded.

Ánh Dương himself has stated that his interest in Zen is "not as a subject to be illustrated, but as a way of seeing": pausing before an object and observing its actual state of being, rather than imposing a pre-existing narrative upon it. Elsewhere, he emphasizes that an artistic image should not merely replicate the physical object but should be distilled down to its essential lines and its "soul." These two ideas seem to converge into a guiding principle: stripping away the external to reveal the internal.

Notably, this principle does not exist as a rigid formula; Ánh Dương adapts his visual grammar according to the medium.

With silk, the imagery appears liberated from weight. Slender female figures with elongated bodies and soft contours merge seamlessly with hair, flora, and flowing ribbons of color. In works such as *Hương đêm 1* (Night Scent 1), *Hương đêm 2* (Night Scent 2), *Hương xưa* (Olden Scent), or *Nhớ biển* (Longing for the Sea), the woman does not appear as a character requiring specific identification; rather, these figures embody states of being rather than distinct individuals.

The silk medium allows Ánh Dương to soften the boundaries between figure and setting. An arm might extend the rhythm of a tree branch; hair transforms into a dark expanse; the body seems to elongate into the water, flowers, or air. Consequently, the viewer’s gaze does not rest solely on the human form but drifts across layers of color and returns, creating a slow, cyclical movement without a definitive end point.

Here, "stillness" is, first and foremost, a quietude of sensation.

In *Nhớ biển*, the sea requires almost no literal depiction. A woman holds a seashell to her ear; a few bands of color suffice to evoke a distant seascape. What is most powerfully present is precisely what is absent. The viewer does not see the sea with the physical eye but is drawn into a state of longing for it alongside the subject. The image ceases to narrate a story and instead becomes a perceptual experience.

With the shift to oil painting, that visual grammar changes completely.

While silk allows the image to dissolve into sensation, oil paint causes it to sink into materiality. Faces of the Buddha, bowls, lotus flowers, prayer beads, and hands lose their lightness and weightlessness; they emerge from fields of color that are thick, rugged, pitted, scratched, and multi-layered. The surface of the painting appears to have undergone a process of sedimentation.

In works like *Vô ưu* (Serenity), *Hạnh ngộ* (Encounter), or *Hành trì* (Practice), objects are isolated from real space to become points of pause. Viewers recognize them yet cannot pinpoint exactly where they exist. A bowl might be a tangible object or merely a void; a Buddha’s face seems to emerge only to be swallowed back into the material background. Ánh Dương refers to these visages as "carefree" faces—distilled from the likeness of the Buddha yet not intended to fully render every facial feature. He links this simplification to the concept of "mystical silence," a state where physical form is gradually stripped away to turn one’s gaze inward.

Yet, delving deeper into Ánh Dương’s painting, one might expand this concept to a state of "mystical stillness": a silence that is not merely for looking inward, but also for listening—allowing the deeper layers of memory and time to emerge.

It is within the medium of lacquerware that this process attains a profound depth.

In works such as *Thuở vàng son* (A Golden Era) and *Vàng son một thuở* (A Golden Era Past), vermilion, gold leaf, and imperial motifs emerge from surfaces that are layered, abraded, and fragmented. Thrones, dragons, clouds, and calligraphic characters remain recognizable yet constantly hover between visibility and concealment, between glowing brightly and receding into the background. This coexistence of splendor and the traces of erosion transforms the past into a visual experience of memory.

The artist himself has described clouds, dragons, the character for "Longevity" (*Thọ*), vermilion hues, gold, and imperial architecture and artifacts as "fragments of cultural memory"—elements he has no desire to reconstruct in the classical sense. He extracts them from their original contexts, transforming, layering, and blurring them, or allowing them to dissolve into the picture plane.

Here, Huế does not appear merely as a geographical location.

Huế emerges as the memory of material things.

A throne sits empty. A dragon no longer needs to symbolize power. A seal need not be legible. Objects that once served specific functions are transformed into traces. And it is precisely in losing their original utility that they open up a new existence—the life of memory.

This is precisely where the aesthetic of Huế in Ánh Dương’s paintings becomes remarkable. It is not the Huế of familiar landscapes, but a Huế of bygone splendor—a beauty imbued with an awareness of transience. Beauty does not stand in opposition to loss; on the contrary, it is its very fragility that deepens memory.

Thus, in Ánh Dương’s artistic realm, Huế exists simultaneously as memory and present reality; as something lost yet living, and as a source of creative joy.

Lacquer, therefore, suits Ánh Dương beyond mere technical compatibility. The very process of layering, obscuring, sanding, and revealing inherent to lacquer painting seems to operate according to a logic closely akin to that of memory itself. Some elements are covered over. Some seem lost. Others unexpectedly emerge from beneath multiple layers. The artist has noted that this technique makes images appear as if hidden within layers of time; history in his paintings does not unfold as a recounted narrative but rather manifests like a geological stratum.

Consequently, the thread connecting Ánh Dương’s work across silk, oil, and lacquer is not merely a stylistic surface feature.

It is a grammar of transformation.

In silk, forms are softened until they dissolve into pure sensation.

In oil, objects are distilled until they sink into contemplation.

In lacquer, symbols are both veiled and unveiled, becoming strata of memory.

Three mediums, three distinct methods, yet all converging on a single point: the image is brought to the threshold of recognizability—just enough to be perceived—yet held back before its meaning becomes fixed and closed.

Perhaps this constitutes the "magical" quality within Ánh Dương’s silence.

He does not erase the image; he compels it to speak less so that it may resonate further.

Ánh Dương has spoken of seeking a "symbolic beauty" and exploring the world through distilled imagery. Yet, perhaps what ultimately defines the distinctiveness of his artistic language is not merely symbolism, but the ability to let symbols transcend their prescribed meanings, opening up a realm of resonant, multi-layered significance.

In that moment, the painting becomes a kaleidoscope: with every shift of the gaze, those same fragments of imagery reconfigure into a new structure. Zen meets memory; the body meets nature; gold leaf meets impermanence; Huế meets the present; the tangible meets the departed.

There is no definitive narrative.

There are only layers of imagery continuing to settle—and from that very depth, their resonance begins anew.

Nguyễn Thanh Bình