Thinking through Spaces: What does Independence Entail?

Thinking through Spaces: What does Independence Entail?

Ian Tee

In May 2020, I wrote a two-part essay on independent spaces and artistfounded galleries across Southeast Asia. My goal was to consolidate the reasons why such spaces were established as well as how they have engaged with market forces. The piece was a testament to the imagination and resourcefulness of artists, and their ability to inhabit — and even flourish — in different roles. Revisiting the essay today, I am even more conscious of the overlaps between artistic practice and the daily operation of these spaces. Crucially, they are about the state of being independent.

In this collection of essays, three practitioners are invited to share observations and personal sentiments about their respective spaces. Unchalee Anantawat, co-founder of Speedy Grandma in Bangkok, reflects on the space’s decade-long run. She charts the evolving needs of her community and the different collaborators who have left their mark. Curator Van Do writes about her experience working with two independent art spaces in Vietnam: The Factory in Ho Chi Minh City and Á Space in Hanoi. She meditates on the interplay between site and space by mapping recent community-based projects. Engaging with the topic on an ideological level, Jason Wee, founder of Grey Projects in Singapore, issues a polemic for dissimilation.

Taken together, their essays help us think through what it meansto make space for oneself and for one’s community, as well as thefreedoms and sacrifices doing so entails.

Running an Alternative Art Space in Bangkok for 10 years and Why We Need to Have One

Unchalee Anantawat

When I first started running Speedy Grandma in 2012, I did not have much knowledge about other art spaces or the art scene in Bangkok. My background was in graphic design, and everything I knew about contemporary art came from the time I collaborated with my artist friends in Australia. The only reason for opening my own art space was because I wanted to create a place where people could come have fun and make friends while also seeing some art. I had this idea from the time I was hanging out at this newly opened alternative space in the middle of 2010 called Chez Lodin / Toot Yung at Saphan Wanchaat in Bangkok. It was the sort of place where I could meet new people easily each time and form relationships. After two years, it had to close and everyone moved on with their lives. I felt like I could try to continue this kind of spirit at Speedy Grandma.

Speedy Grandma’s previous space in 2019 during the ‘Office Hours’ project, right before closure. From left to right: Pongsakorn Yananissorn, Nawin Nuthong.

In the first two years, I felt like I had achieved my initial idea for this space. Most of the audience were travellers and foreigners who lived and worked in Bangkok. Speedy Grandma had garnered a reputation for its wild art opening parties and after-parties. I fostered many new friendships and collaborations. In late 2014 when more members joined the team, we started to discuss further the direction we wanted this project to move towards. The craziness of the foreign crowds had died down, and more young Thai students and fresh graduates started to hang out at the space. We finally decided to shift the focus to make Speedy Grandma into a space for young Thai people. I started to see that it could be much more than just a fun hang-out. We could create some sort of a small community who believe in the same thing, whatever it may be.

We hit it off quite well with this idea and hosted talks, discussions, workshops, live performances, experimental music, and residencies. It was a vibrant and meaningful time. Our discussions with the local audiences gave me new ideas about how to see contemporary art. At that time, we were the only alternative space to host so many events in such a short period of time, and with limited resources. Most of the events came out of our frustration towards issues in the art scenes, politics, and society. We saw Speedy Grandma as a place where we could pose important questions to the public and generate discussion.

Members and friends of Speedy Grandma.

Of course, nothing lasts forever and our peak period only lasted six to eight months. Everyone on the team was madly passionate about Speedy Grandma and unfortunately we could not separate the work and our friendships. There were some big fights which could not be resolved then, and some members left. I stayed on with the other co-founder, Thomas Menard.

From 2016 to 2018, I ran the space alone. Autopilot was my main mode of operation at the time. I was lucky to receive help from many friends around me to make each exhibition happen. No one was actually willing to commit to running the space with me, and I kept asking myself why I was still doing it. To keep it going, I needed to collaborate with others. Thinking and planning everything alone was not ideal.I tried to quit Speedy Grandma a few times. Obviously, I have not been successful at that… A new team for Speedy Grandma made their way to me. I took a break for a few months only to find myself coming back to running the space with them again. It was my plan since the beginning to run Speedy Grandma for a total of 10 years.

In 2020, there were many changes. We had our first ever patron who supported the rent. We moved to a new location. We had a few exhibitions at the new venue but due to limited gallery space, I questioned what the purpose of an art exhibition was and what I liked about Speedy Grandma. The answer is that I loved to meet new people and potentially try to spark future projects and collaborations.

Right now, the fourth-generation members and I have decided we do not need to exhibit artworks anymore. We want to interact with audiences in a different way. We plan to open more classrooms, host workshops, reading groups, and film screenings, and even offer our space for other groups to use.

After all these years, it is quite clear to me now why we need alternative/artist-run spaces in the city. We should have more space for people to come together, discuss ideas and start working collectively. In this city where there is not much free public space for gathering, house sharing is not a culture. A space to gather and form some sense of community is needed. I am satisfied with what Speedy Grandma has become and what we were able to achieve in the past decade. The name Speedy Grandma comes from an urban legend about the ghost of a grandma who used to feel like she needed to stay in a certain place. But now, the grandma ghost can be free and go anywhere she likes.

Space and Non-Space: A Reflection

Van Do

Do we need an art space? In a context like Vietnam where the infrastructure for contemporary art has always been limited, the answer is of course yes. But then, what do we look for in a space, and who could benefit from it? What dreams and hopes can a space uphold? These questions have been at the back of my mind for the past three years since I started becoming actively involved in the artistic landscape in Vietnam, both in Saigon and Hanoi, as a participant and as an observer.

Installation shot of ‘There’s an ant inside my glass of water’, a solo exhibition by Xuân Ha‭‬, curated by Châu Hoàng at Chaosdowntown, Saigon in 2018. Image courtesy of Chaosdowntown.

In 2021, while working at The Factory Contemporary Arts Centre in Saigon, which presented itself as the first purpose-built space for contemporary art in Vietnam, I was conducting a survey on the history of the art scene in Southern Vietnam. That was when I became intrigued with another space in town, which had ceased its operation, called Chaosdowntown, an artist collective/artist-run space/hostel co-founded by artists Xuân Hạ and Thanh (Nu) Mai, which was active from 2015 until 2017. Compared to The Factory, an art centre with carefully curated programmes and exhibitions, there was a stark difference in terms of Chaosdowntown’s experimental approach to programming and selection of artists; their active involvement with Saigonese subcultures; their strong attitude towards social injustice; and even the malleability of their architecture, which could remarkably shapeshift according to the founders’ innate preferences, at times even their mood swings.

“Why do you think you need an art space?” I asked Xuân Hạ a year after she moved back to her hometown in Đà Nẵng, a city in Central Vietnam, where she again opened an art space called A sông. She said that she wanted to be reaffirmed by the physical presence of other artists and to embrace the ethos of “learning by doing”. To her, a space means agency and community.

A mobile film screening organised by Nãi Cinema on the sidewalk of Huynh Thuc Khang Street, Street, District 1, Saigon in 2021. Photo by Van Do.

Cover image of the catalogue of ‘The Bao Loc Project’, curated by Sue Hajdu and organised by a little blah blah and Atlantic Commodities Vietnam Ltd. (ACOM) in Bao Loc City, 180km from Saigon.

On a different end of the spectrum, I am also inspired by various independent art projects that take place nomadically, moving from one place to another, mostly non-art venues, and assuming different forms each time. Such projects put more emphasis on the idea of site as opposed to space. I am reminded of a range of community-based projects by a little blah blah, an artist initiative in Saigon co-founded by artists Sue Hajdu, Nguyễn Như Huy and Motoko Uda that actively operated without a fixed space from 2005 to 2010. There are also various mobile screenings of experimental films organised by Nãi Cinema, founded by video artist Phạm Nguyễn Anh Tú; or sporadic DIYstyle exhibitions featuring emerging artists by ‘Đường Chạy’, a project co-initiated by Saigonese artists Vicky Đỗ and Phan Anh. Another notable project of the same kind is ‘Skylines with Flying People 4’, curated by a Hanoi-based performance artist group, Phụ Lục, or The Appendix Group, in which the curators rented a range of storage units to put their selected artworks on display. All of these projects stretched their arms to venues such as a bar, a cafe, a farm, a storage facility or even on the street, utilising the choice of locations as a strategy to question and further expand what is considered art and who gets to exhibit art. The situations each project creates or the specificity of a site that it responds to become the space for experimentation, contemplation and encounters.

A year later in 2022, I found myself working at an artist-driven space in Hanoi called Á Space for Experimental Arts. This came after a few months of tirelessly initiating experimental projects that took place either online or at a range of different places and locales. Situated in artist Tuấn Mami's private home on the fringe of Hanoi, Á Space refrains from constantly putting on shows, while acting both as an activator and a champion of experimental and emerging practices. With the freedom I am generously given to shape this space and its programming, I am able to materialise this interplay between site and space.

A structure designed by Thao Nguyên Phan in response to Đie‬m Phùng Th‮i‬'s letter system, produced for a group exhibition ‘Within / Between / Beneath / Upon’ at The Factory in 2021, re-presented in an open studio ‘Tò he learns how to swim’ organised by Te Ret in Binh Quoi, Saigon in 2021. Photo by Van Do.

Image of a private critique session with artist Pha‬m Hà Ninh at Á Space last April, 2022. Photo by Hai Le.

Recently, long-standing art spaces in Hanoi such as the Centre for Assistance & Development of Movie Talents (TPD) and L’Espace were replaced by high-rise buildings one after another, and the question of the necessity of space for the arts continues to be urgent as it has always been. This time for me though, the question of what a space could mean began to feel strangely personal. It started to dawn on me that, while the fragility will still run deep in the lives of many art spaces in Vietnam, what I do and will continue to care about is the specific community of artists and art practitioners. For them and because of them, a space is needed. It is, thus, the longevity of their practices that I believe in, and I am stimulated to seek different ways of engaging and learning with them. I endeavour to nurture and live by the values passed on to me: their capacity to question the conventional and to propose alternatives, their earnest consideration of context, and their genuine care for past and future generations. It is not an easy path to take, but I will humbly take on this task.

Twelve Theses on Dissimilation

Jason Wee

A shorter version of this polemic was performed at Objectifs Centre for Photography & Filmmaking on 17 September 2021. Image courtesy of the 'Inventory: Reconsidering Curatorial Practice' conference.

1. Collaboration is such an aspirational word, like transformation, consultation or inclusion. STPI does not represent artists; they collaborate with them. So do sneaker brands, with celebrities and designers. Even art councils, previously touting partnerships, now announce collaborations. But collaboration in times of social violence is a denigration, a working together but with the enemy. These theses are not the naming of the enemy, or an enemy, or its inversion. The etymology of sneaker is instructive; what used to refer in the 16th century as something vulpine, vixenly, sly, furtive by the early 20th is popularised as a comfortably weightbearing footwear that silently, too-sneakily steps out onto the streets. The artist Gary Carsley in an upcoming text considered queering curating as colluding, and it is this sense I am stepping out. The theses are not an aspiration, but a conspiration. Not to take a breath ahead of ourselves, in anticipation, but to breathe together, to consider this time of cautious, guarded breathing. To think of conspiration as in conspiracy, breathing together, but very deliberately muffled, out of earshot or detection, with a touch of the extralegal, a buc king of a proper education for a truancy.

2. To consider a truant curating as a failure to attend to the normative practices which many of us are informally educated in. This informality is a matter of history rather than inevitability. Up till this moment, there was only occasional education on curatorial practice, histories and habits. What took its place is the formalisation in the academy and the museum of art history as the near-synonym for curatorial history, writing and/or history, a formalisation that mistook these historical precedents for future thinking. Meanwhile, instructional sessions on grant-writing and cultural policy are embedded in college and university academics. This spawns adepts who excel at reading shifts in bureaucratic whims and policy lurches while eliding the constraints on grant-reliant activity (no openly queer activity, no commentary on multicultural matrixes, no rights-based advocacy). Demands swarm us, to respond to policy, facilitate their enactment, enact good standing for subsequent proposals and CV submissions. It is as though these are the central activities in what can be formalised as professional practice. As though these activities limn the foci of our cultural consciousness as the most neglectful, rather than the overdetermined, the well-framed and mainstreamed, the already obsessed over.

3. To be truant is to neglect one’s duty in our anxiously patriotic times to represent country, state, institution, and blood. To be truant is to state infra-filiations, to name or perform our care for other bodies, other selves. As the Hokkien saying goes, chew doe boh doe lao gao ma si swa. Whether the tree falls, it is the monkeys’ time to scatter.

4. It is not to curate as though they (country, institution) do not exist, or to assist in imagining for them their alternate lives; it is to do so insisting on our coevality without continuity. Country or institutionality, for that matter, is not the aim or consequence of our activity as artists, artist-curators and collectives. Neither are institutions the necessary end of a pipeline within which we register the “experimental” as “early” or “prototyping” or chronologically “young” that undergoes subsequent development in the larger, generously funded spatialities. It seems obvious yet necessary to state that even a scalar continuity is illusory, in both directions – country is not an institution writ large, institutionality is not truancy writ large, and truant curating simply is not institutional curating on a smaller scale.

5. To have coevality without continuity is to seize upon a temporal expansiveness, to be in the same time without moving at the same time. An expansive temporality to labour, to demonstrate, to perform, offer and trade at speeds, periodicities, and with moments of acceleration and deceleration contingent only on changes to our social material – our friendships, ally-ships, loves, publics, partners, even antagonists. In the past 18 months, when conversations around racial discrimination finally broke out of comment threads into newsprint, public discussions, parliamentary record and the recent National Day Rally (Beow Tan’s public transport harassments, brownface national advertisements to name two moments), I recall only artist-run spaces taking the time with it, while the museums and university galleries remained silent.

6. The notion recently raised of curating nothing puts a hyphen between the two syllables of “no” and “thing” to emphasise the absence of physical production, the missing object or the floor sans performance or body. It does nott go far enough. In all of these scenarios cited, no-thing belies the curate-thing à la Marina and that performative superego. The curator is always and still present, the naming has taken the place of the making. Let’s rewrite “curating nothing” as an imperfect anagram: Think no curating. Truant time clears art of itself, a truancy in the ontology of art, of what art is, in the demand to grasp the passage of its appearances, the mechanisms and matter through which art becomes. To have more time for art is necessary to make no time for it, to neglect its productivity, its naming. In order to have time for art, the space for art is not the space for art; it is not for the care of art to name it as such; the curator un-names their labour, themselves. To refuse the expectation to show up as “curate”. It is time for art to attend to itself by not marking attendance. It is time for truancy.

7. We can only be truant conspiratorially. No one must give those playing truant up. Can anyone keep a secret? No one divulges it all away. If all truants are caught and named, attendance is full. When we are caught, we become poach-otypes, i.e. scrutinised by institutions as prototypes of emergent or successful structurations that said institutions could poach for subsequent and scalar iterations. Contemplate ways to avoid capture: absent oneself from institutional examination; insist on non-attendance in the face of demands for greater publicity; attend nonetheless but to offer no work; slow down institutional work.

8. To create extra-institutionality in this way is to take opacity, inaccessibility, obscure and eccentricity not as points of didactic critique and turn them towards forms of production and explication. It is to demonstrate the obscure as they are. To bemoan inaccessibility is to return again and again to Civic District and Museum Roundtable programming as the centre of both cultural production and urbanity. In these times of watchful breathing, fewer people now travel into the city than in any other time since independence. The city is everywhere. In ‘Walk Walk Don’t Run’, our upcoming month-long islandwide open studios, you can see Malaysian waters from the vicinity of one of our friend’s studios. You can taste the sea in the air.

In situating his projects in the inaccessible and the obscure, the curator Nadim Samman considers the exhibition as a para-state or a parasite, a wandering-off that takes curatorial vectors away from the transnational with its categorically geopolitical demarcations towards the translocal, allowing “functional proximities” (his words) to span geographical distances. There are lessons here for me. I point out two crucial separations. First, that truant vectors free these parasites, if they are to be described as such, from host-dependence. Like protozoa that can live off the humanoid, even adapt to be entirely subsistent on their human host, they can also have utterly and entirely independent lives in other oceans, other vessels.

9. Second, that a disidentification exists between parasite and host, beginning with a dissimilation (“we are not the same”) that pushes against an encroaching assimilation (“we cannot be together”). A year ago, a museum leadership once gathered other museum professionals as well as a handful of non-museum folks in generating keywords for everything a museum could envision itself in Singapore’s “museum landscape”: a public square, a forum, a residency, a laboratory, a classroom, an archive, a collection. In other words, an everything-in ark holding all that in the great and coming deluge, the outside-museum becomes bereft of. No, we are not the same. The disidentification is a breaking away through which the fragments are read as they are, not for the whole. The Greek word for pottery shards with inscriptions or poetry fragments is ostracon. Think of the proximity between the words ostracon and ostracise. These are the pieces of the possible. We are the ostracons.

10. There is something to be said for incompleteness. I do not have allthe answers. I am given only so much space, and time, so it ends here.