Huong Dodinh talks fast, a habit that seems surprising for an artist (she prefers “painter”) whose paintings are contemplative examinations of form and light. But once you get to know her, it makes sense — her mind is always working. She never rests, sleeping less than five hours a night, and lives a life completely dedicated to her art. You’re unlikely to spot her on the street, as she’s nearly always at her home studio, working on her next painting. We visited Huong there to chat about seeing snow for the first time, getting gallery representation in her seventies, and coming out of a coma.
on her morning routine
I get up every day at four in the morning. I sleep very little. I go to bed around 11:30 pm and I get up at 4 am every day.
When I get up, I have a coffee, but I don't eat. I just have a small cup of coffee. And then I go straight to the studio. I work in silence in the first light of day, as the sun rises. That’s very important for my painting.
I quickly have breakfast around 8 am. I always eat something salty. In Asia, we eat something salty in the morning. Traditionally, it's a bowl of soup, but I don't eat a bowl of soup. I eat a slice of toast or some cold cuts, a fried egg. And then I go back down to the studio again.
on her memories of childhood
When I was born, my family was living in Saigon. My first clear memory is from when I was eight years old, in 1953 — the year we moved to Paris to flee war in Vietnam. My parents gave me a small box of gouache. I found it wonderful that with this small box of gouache, I could translate all my thoughts into color, into gestures. It was magical, really. At the time, we were learning La Fontaine's Fables in school, and we had to illustrate them. I illustrated that but I didn't think that my illustrations were very good. But at school, they kept them. The teacher kept all of them.
My memories of Vietnam are primarily sense memories. I remember the smell of the rain. In Vietnam, there are two seasons, the rainy season, and the beautiful season. During the Monsoon season, it rains cats and dogs, but it is nice. When it rains like that, you can't see anything anymore. We loved that as children, being underwater like that, in secret. I would get under the gutters in the garden and the water would flow over me. It was like a veil; I couldn’t see anything anymore. And every time it stopped, we would see everything that lives again, all the vegetation, because in Vietnam, we had no winter, so it was always lush. And then when we moved to France, what struck me was when I saw snow for the first time. The snow covered everything and when it started to melt, the grass reappeared. Everything reappeared, and that struck me.
“Painting was revealed to me as a deep certainty in my early childhood. The meditative practice of painting allows me to develop a deep understanding of society and be in harmony with it.”
on moving to paris from vietnam as a child
My father had already come here several times to prepare for the arrival of his wife and children. There are seven of us children. It was great to have so many brothers and sisters because when we left Vietnam, it was like we were going to discover something else, we were going to explore another country.
When we came to Paris we lived in the sixth, in front of the Luxembourg Gardens. It was great to see the seasons in the Luxembourg Gardens. I remember the chestnut trees, which are still there. I remember seeing these trees bare. It struck me because I came here, I saw fallen leaves, and I thought they were all dead. And at the same time, there were very few people outside, and there were very few cars.
I was immediately put in a boarding school the first year we were here. It was a severe environment. It was very, very hard, especially for a little girl who didn’t understand French. I remember the box spring beds, with a mattress on top. I couldn't sleep because, in Vietnam, we slept on hard, hard, hard beds. So, I wasn't used to sleeping on soft mattresses.
on her prized possessions
This stool belonged to my mother. She bought it when we first arrived in France. And this stool was always in our kitchen, although we moved, I don't know how many times. When my mother died, I inherited it.
And I bought this paint board when I was 17, with the money I earned working student jobs. It was my first real purchase as a painter. I used it every day. On it, I pinned, I made sketches, I painted, I did nudes. It was the first time I could finally paint with my parents' agreement. They agreed, and then I bought this board, so it's completely symbolic.
I also have this jewel that belonged to my mother. And never leaves me even though I have lots of jewelry. This is the important one.
“When I was 14, I had meningitis and my lungs and kidneys were affected. And as a result, when I was 17, I went into a coma. I stayed at the university hospital for months. And I was very lucky because I had doctors who were humane and very competent. When I woke up, it was a second birth for me. I realized then that light was very precious and important for my art. I readjusted to life because I realized that each moment was fundamental.”
on her time at university
It was very hard for my parents to accept that I wanted to paint because they thought I would do more literary studies. They were afraid because fine arts, at the time, still involved drawing nudes, and they thought of it as a somewhat unorthodox environment. They were very Confucian. But I made them understand that I could not do anything else, so they supported me.
I attended École Nationale Supérieure des Beaux-Arts beginning in 1965. May ‘68 nourished me, but I withdrew to protect myself — not to flee, but to build. I didn’t participate in the demonstrations, but I did give my opinion on what was happening. For example, during a competition at Beaux-Arts, I was really supportive of their demands. But I'm not going to throw stones. I'm anti-violence.
on meeting her husband
I met my husband at the university residence in Antony. I had just joined Beaux-Arts and I was in a pavilion. There was a girls' pavilion, and all the rest were boys' pavilions. He was studying at the Faculty of Science in Orsay. I hadn’t had the opportunity to really learn Vietnamese, since I was in boarding school, and at home, it was just the family, so we spoke Vietnamese, but I didn't have a literary notion of the language. And it turns out that my husband, at the time, was part of a Vietnamese association that gave free Vietnamese lessons. And I said to myself, well, if it's free since I was broke. I signed up and it turned out that he was my teacher. He's only a year older than me, but he had just arrived. He came to France from Vietnam after his baccalaureate. So, he understood Vietnamese culture and literature. But he didn't have the understanding of French that I had.
He was the one who courted me. At the time, boys weren't allowed to go into girls' rooms, but there were a couple of guards who were very nice and very understanding. They would let him come up to my room because he was there to give me lessons. And that was true, he was really giving me lessons, but it was more than that.
“Everything I do is in full awareness. I am completely present in what I do. For example, when I wash myself, I am with the water, with the soap. When I eat, I eat. That’s it.”
on dedicating herself to painting
I live a monastic life. I don't go out. I rarely leave the house, except to do some shopping nearby. I have friends, I have a beautiful little family, my son, and my granddaughter, but I don't see them often. I don't want to lose focus. I'm here, in my own world, and I don't calculate the time I spend painting. When you've brushed with death, time is very precious. Painting represents everything for me. It is my life. I never said, “I want to be a painter.” Being a painter is not a profession, it's a need, and I’ve felt it since childhood. And this need saves you. It puts you in a context where you can refocus and get to the essentials.
My work over the course of my life has been a continuous whole, a progression. At different stages, I have related to what is happening outside differently. To arrive at abstraction, you have to move through figuration and see how far you can go, otherwise the abstraction is shallow.
For me, painting is a communication tool. It is opening yourself to the other. If the other accepts and enters into a dance with me, it is wonderful, and I am the happiest. My quest has always been clarity and light. I have not experimented with style because that does not interest me. What interests me is what is happening and what I experience. I work according to what makes me vibrate.
on silence and music
When I listen to a piece of music, I travel with the music. That's why I never listen to music when I paint. Because it's already a separate creation that takes me somewhere other than where I need to go. When I paint, it's a sensory experience and at the same time, it’s meditative. So, I can’t have anything disturb me. But once I have completed this sensory and meditative gesture, I can listen to music — I can enter into something else.
on her relationship with her husband
When I met my husband, I was only in contact with French people. So, at first, I thought of him more as a brother than as a young man courting me. He was like part of my family because the only Vietnamese people I saw were my own family.
We would go out to eat. There were Vietnamese restaurant centers at the time, which were very good. They were run by older people, and they were very welcoming to students. It was around Maubert-Mutualité, because there were a lot of Vietnamese people in that area and the restaurants there were real Vietnamese restaurants. I found that he brought me something I missed — he brought me closer to my origins.
He is my husband, but he is also my friend because we met when we were so young. He knows me by heart. He respects me, and I respect him. And of course, from time to time, we hurt each other’s feelings because of a misunderstanding, but there is always an explanation. We just have to explain ourselves and then we can continue to move forward. That’s a lesson I learned from my mother.
“I don’t shop. I don’t have time. I don’t care about what I wear when I paint. I just like to wear comfortable, dark clothes preferably gray or black. Right now, I’m wearing a piece from Comme des Garçons. I like it because it was a gift from my son.”
on making a living
When I was at Beaux-Arts, I did student work like any other. I gave lessons, I looked after children. I removed weeds at the Faculty of Sciences at Orsay during the holidays. They hired students to remove weeds. I did a lot of things.
After I finished my studies at Beaux-Arts, I taught visual art to underprivileged young people. I stopped working when my son was born.
I have never made a living from my painting. I am content with very little. A painter does not need a lot of material means to create and live. I never thought about making money from my paintings because, for me, it’s part of life. I grow each time I paint. I was always so happy to be alive that I never thought about it. I never tried to sell my work. Friends would introduce me to other friends because they liked my work, and I sold some things that way, but otherwise, I didn’t sell anything.
on sensitivity
I wouldn’t say I’m inspired by other artists, but there are artists I’m sensitive to. When I see a painting, I know how the artist works in their heads, I know why they made those choices. I understand their creative path, and if it's the same path I take in parallel, I feel a sensitivity there.
I am very sensitive to Vermeer’s chiaroscuro. I am very sensitive to Mondrian’s artistic approach. And Rothko’s work, although it is very colorful and then very dark, has a clarity and an immersive quality.
on getting gallery representation in her seventies
It’s thanks to my son and his close friends that I finally got representation. Without him, I don’t think my paintings would ever have left my studio. I’m very proud that my painting is recognized by a very prestigious gallery. My first solo show felt like a splitting of my self since my paintings are now outside my studio.
on learning from her mother
I cook, and when I cook, I really cook. I love all kinds of food from around the world. Cooking is a noble act. I like cooking for family and friends. I learned by watching my mother. My mother loved cooking for her children. She spent her time in the kitchen preparing traditional Vietnamese dishes. My mother was full of wisdom. She instilled solidarity and respect for others, love for one’s own, and modesty in all of us.
on her reading habits
I always do a little reading before going to sleep. I rarely read novels. I mostly read newspapers because it is very important for me to experience what is happening in the world. Sometimes it hurts me, but at the same time, this pain is necessary. It is necessary because it builds you, it constructs you, and it forges you. It gives you strength to counter evil.
And reading the newspapers also nourishes me. It nourishes me because it reminds me that I live in a society where everything moves so quickly.
I also read books on Buddhism. My mother was very pious, and I received that from her as a cultural heritage.
on her beauty routine
As a teenager, I was a little concerned about my looks, and I really didn't feel like an attractive woman. At that time, I would get dolled up. But in general, it’s not a big concern for me. The exterior reflects my image and I want it to reflect me. It’s not about seduction, not about being in a fashion story, or anything like that. It has to be me first.
I don't do any exercise. I don’t take any supplements. My routine is cerebral, everything is in my head. I’m in permanent meditation through painting, and it saves me.
