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Mann
Geboren in: Hue (Vietnam) am 10 Februar 1976.
Derzeit wohnhaft in: Ho Chi Minh (Vietnam).
Aktivität: Malerei; Digital Grafik;
BIO
I was born into a rural family. Farming was hardly enough to get by, my parents had to try different ways to feed the family. My house was last in the village, leaning against the rice field. The field was always filled with wind which never stopped blowing. My childhood dream was to be a gust of wind, travelling to places aimlessly without directions. Just floating. And I drew, from a very young age.
I drew on the rammed earth floor, on walls of the upper house made out of rotten panels, on wall of the lower house made out of buffalo dung, on the jack-fruit trunks in the back garden, on the table, behind the cabinet, on notes and even on my clothes. Drawing made me a better observer. I noticed the moss on the veranda, how rough the jack fruit trunks were, how the front yard got boggy in winter and dusty in summer, foggy mornings and slow afternoons. Then the sunshine, the rain and of course the wind. When not observing nature, I buried myself in photos and drawings available around me. Some of my Dad's clients from his sewing business had access to the school supplies, donated to us by the then USSR. My little presents including paint colours, drawing paper, pens and books came from there. There were books about Ivan Aivazovsky, Levitan, Van Gogh and Monet and naturally, their paintings added fuel to my love of painting. Even though I didn't like any of Leonardo Da Vinci, I idolised him back then. Then the internet came and I fell in love with David Hockney and his colourful works of the 90s. I firmly believed, at the end of year 11, that I would become an artist. However the reality of many starving artists discouraged me from going down that path. I picked architecture. naively thinking it would provide the mean for my passion. Becoming a full time architect, I paint less and less, at no-one's surprise really, and eventually stopped even when the love for painting remains. Nonetheless, a composition forms in my head every time I encounter a ray of sunshine, a silhouette, lively plants or even a tune. I once promised to return to painting if architecture didn't work out after 10 years or so. The reality of raising a young family means the promise has always been at the back burner.
Dream of painting
with a rag I picked up at bed side
onto a large sloppy canvas on the wall
sitting on a flimsy hut
the golden moonlight shone through
draw freely
long strokes
sensuality spilling out of borders
frantically adding more canvas
Drunk, my good friend asked
"How would you get them home?"
"Well, just rip them apart and sew them up later
could turn out better you know"
draw, draw, draw...draw freely!
And I woke up, broken. The thought I have lost myself bugged me more an more to the point I lost directions. Then my daughter started to draw, my son soon followed suit. Watching them I realised my love for painting is bigger than I originally thought. And I started gain without too much thinking, without following certain styles, without joining any groups. I draw and paint to simply put my feelings on canvas and waiting for feelings to come. That's all.
I drew on the rammed earth floor, on walls of the upper house made out of rotten panels, on wall of the lower house made out of buffalo dung, on the jack-fruit trunks in the back garden, on the table, behind the cabinet, on notes and even on my clothes. Drawing made me a better observer. I noticed the moss on the veranda, how rough the jack fruit trunks were, how the front yard got boggy in winter and dusty in summer, foggy mornings and slow afternoons. Then the sunshine, the rain and of course the wind. When not observing nature, I buried myself in photos and drawings available around me. Some of my Dad's clients from his sewing business had access to the school supplies, donated to us by the then USSR. My little presents including paint colours, drawing paper, pens and books came from there. There were books about Ivan Aivazovsky, Levitan, Van Gogh and Monet and naturally, their paintings added fuel to my love of painting. Even though I didn't like any of Leonardo Da Vinci, I idolised him back then. Then the internet came and I fell in love with David Hockney and his colourful works of the 90s. I firmly believed, at the end of year 11, that I would become an artist. However the reality of many starving artists discouraged me from going down that path. I picked architecture. naively thinking it would provide the mean for my passion. Becoming a full time architect, I paint less and less, at no-one's surprise really, and eventually stopped even when the love for painting remains. Nonetheless, a composition forms in my head every time I encounter a ray of sunshine, a silhouette, lively plants or even a tune. I once promised to return to painting if architecture didn't work out after 10 years or so. The reality of raising a young family means the promise has always been at the back burner.
Dream of painting
with a rag I picked up at bed side
onto a large sloppy canvas on the wall
sitting on a flimsy hut
the golden moonlight shone through
draw freely
long strokes
sensuality spilling out of borders
frantically adding more canvas
Drunk, my good friend asked
"How would you get them home?"
"Well, just rip them apart and sew them up later
could turn out better you know"
draw, draw, draw...draw freely!
And I woke up, broken. The thought I have lost myself bugged me more an more to the point I lost directions. Then my daughter started to draw, my son soon followed suit. Watching them I realised my love for painting is bigger than I originally thought. And I started gain without too much thinking, without following certain styles, without joining any groups. I draw and paint to simply put my feelings on canvas and waiting for feelings to come. That's all.