Womanifesto, Penrith Regional Gallery, Jakarta Biennale
By Ian Tee

Phaptawan in front of Mahajanaka Jataka, a mural project she led at Tha Suttahawat temple, Angthong, 1990. Photo by Aroon Peampoonsopon, taken in 2017.

Phaptawan Suwannakudt is a Thai-Australian artist whose practice is informed by Buddhism, women issues and cross-cultural dialogue. Born in 1959 in Thailand, she first trained as a mural painter in the workshop of her father, the late Phaiboon Suwannakudt. Phaptawan was also involved in the founding of Womanifesto Thailand in 1995, an international art exchange programme focusing on the work of women artists. She has been living and working in Australia since 1996. Her works have been presented at the inaugural Bangkok Art Biennale (2018), Sydney College of the Arts (2016), Chiang Mai University Arts Centre (2014), and the 18th Biennale of Sydney (2012).

In this conversation, she shares personal anecdotes about her father and the poet-artist Tang Sae Chang. Phaptawan also speaks about the trajectory of her recent work, and offers a preview on her upcoming projects at the Penrith Regional Gallery and Jakarta Biennale 2021.

Phaiboon Suwannakudt, with Phaptawan in the background. Image courtesy of Phaptawan Suwannakudt.

Phaptawan and team in front of their first temple mural project, at Wat Sri Khom Khaa, Payao, 1991-92. Image courtesy of Phaptawan Suwannakudt.

You grew up assisting your father, Phaiboon Suwannakudt (Tan Kudt), on his temple mural projects and even led the mural painting team after his passing in 1982. For readers who are not familiar with Thai art, could you briefly talk about the socio-cultural significance of mural painting in Thailand?

The mural painting is a form of graphic storytelling concerning Buddhist narratives, widely practiced in the region over hundreds of years. In Thailand, they are found on walls of the ordination hall in Buddhist temples and other historical sites. The paintings also exist in other formats such as manuscripts made from mulberry paper or palm paper, scrolls and ceremonial banners. Works were funded or commissioned as offerings in homage to Buddha and Sankha communities. The style of painting varies based on local availability of materials, genres and contexts across diverse communities. Mural production gradually declined from the late 19th century as Thailand entered the era of modern nation-state. Many murals were painted over, and buildings with such works taken down by new abbots or chief community laypersons who were ignorant of their significance.

By the 1960s, there were only a few workshops with the skills needed to create decorative ornaments. They were maintained as Charng Sip Moo (The ten skills of craftsmanship) units under the Thai government’s Department of Fine Arts. This was the backdrop against which my father, Phaiboon Suwannakudt, began working on his only temple project at Wat Theppon, Talingchan, now part of Bangkok. At the time, mural painting was not considered an art form or a respected craft. My father and his team of laypeople, monks and novices faced resistance from locals who accused them of messing up the clean temple walls. He trained a new generation of mural painters using leftover paint and tools from past projects.

My father was a non-traditionalist and non-conformist. In addition to being a master of Thai mural painting, he was also a poet, writer, dancer and choreographer. He attended the Fine Arts School at Silphakorn University and was among the earliest group of students who studied with Corado Feroci (aka Silpa Bhirasri). My father fell ill in the 1970s and in 1975, we were told he might have only three years left to live. He died at the age of 57 in 1982. I was 22 years old then.

Chang Sae Tang, Phaiboon Suwannakudt, Pratuang Emjaroen at Pratuang’s House.

The late Tang Chang was a mentor with whom you studied. Do you have any interesting anecdotes from your interactions with him?

Tang Chang called me Looke (my child), and I called him ‘Aah Chang’ (Uncle Chang) and his wife Aah Phuu Ying (Auntie). I knew him as one of my father’s acquaintances whom we visited frequently from when I was young. I had a lot of respect for him, and felt a close bond with Aah Chang’s family. In his final years, my father asked Aah Chang to be my mentor and teach my poetry, so I went on my own to learn with him from 1980 to 1981.

He would set aside whole afternoons for uninterrupted, one-on-one sessions with me. Aah Chang did not set a fixed curriculum. We would go through several piles of work sheets which he neatly organised into topics. From time to time, he would pause to read poems or show his drawings and paintings to me. He talked about the philosophy and content behind the work, elaborating on ideas about life, nature and its beauty. I remember people in the village of Soi Sarapi, near Wongwien Yai, giving me strange looks each time I came out of Aah Chang’s house. He was perceived as a mad person in strange black attire who loitered around the district and had strange mannerisms.

Occasionally, my father brought foreign guests to visit Aah Chang at his home studio and Aah Pratuang (Emjaroen)’s house. They travelled by boat from one of the piers along Chao Praya River. This is confirmed with pictures taken by Gerald Flavin and Dwight Robinson who travelled as backpackers and carried out the American Peace Corps mission. They stayed in a motel by Hua Lamphong Central station. It was known as Hotel Pepsi, from the advertisement sign in the front. They found out that the room next door was my father’s studio and made friends with him.

I only came to know Gerald when I first arrived in Sydney in 1996. He read in a newspaper article that I was moving to Sydney and he insisted on meeting with me when I arrived. Gerald said that he only spent a day with my dad but that he would remember it for the rest of his life. It was magical.

“I aim for originality and sincerity in everything that I put out. I want the work to feel true to the intention and emotion of that particular moment”

Photograph from canal trip, 1970. — *Photograph from canal trip, 1970*.

What are your thoughts on the recent international interest in Tang Chang’s work, as seen in ‘Misfits: Pages from a loose-leaf modernity’ (2017) at Haus der Kulturen der Welt, Berlin; and his 2018 retrospective exhibition at the Smart Museum of Art, Chicago?

I cannot comment on the exhibitions as I did not see them, though I do have the catalogues. I had the privilege of seeing most of the works in the and listening to Aah Chang speak about them. This is a different way of engaging with his works, as there are aspects that cannot be translated into the museum context. Some of these personal moments are unrecorded and hence might not be picked up on by curators and art historians.

In our interactions, Aah Chang shared his thoughts about historical events, current events and how he and his peers resisted the politics of the art scene where a small elite operated a closed system of art prizes, galleries, and commercial spaces. My dad and Aah Chang probably considered themselves as outsiders: Phaiboon as a Bannok (country bumpkin) from Isan, and Chang Sae Tang as a Jek (someone from a Chinese background). They were brought together by their engagement with social issues. Their poems and artworks spoke to the concerns of ordinary people and of civil society. I believed they shared some common ground when it came to ideology and their approach to art. Dad often said that those who make money from art are worse than those who earn a living as sex workers. Sex workers use their bodies, but artists are putting their heart on sale. Aah Chang never said this but he insisted on not selling his art.

Once, Aah Chang showed an oil painting that dealt with the bloody crackdown on the student democracy movement in 1973. As a father, he felt helpless and desperate, overwhelmed by the feeling of being unable to protect his own children. When he spoke about the painting, his arms were raised and he made gestures of removing his eyes out of their sockets and cutting off his hands. To make the work, he said he exerted himself until all his energy was spent, and he fainted.

I think that the international interest in his work signals a shift in the discourse of Thai art. Previously, there was a suppression of ideas from the common people, who are not considered as thinkers. Aah Chang’s work provides a different context for understanding the development of art in Thailand.

“My dad and Aah Chang probably considered themselves as outsiders: Phaiboon as a Bannok (country bumpkin) from Isan, and Chang Sae Tang as a Jek (someone from a Chinese background).”

Phaptawan Suwannakudt, ‘RE al-re-g(l)ory’, 2021, acrylic on canvas, white mesh, plyboard, dimensions variable. Installation view at ‘The National: New Australian Art’, 2021, Art Gallery of New South Wales’. Photo by Felicity Jenkins.

‘RE-allegory Real Glory’ (2021) is a new series of paintings created for the biennial survey exhibition ‘The National 2021: New Australian Art’. It is your first overtly political work and you have described it as processing “the history of not being able to say ‘no’, the history of authority, the disappearing, the silencing, the massacres.” Could you talk about some of the images in this series, as well as your decision to display them amidst floating white panels?

‘RE-allegory Real Glory’ (2021) is an exploration of personal narratives. It depicts a series of Thai posters made during the Cold War. The work also incorporates blank, white boards wrapped around with sheer fabric, a symbol of the recent Thai youth resistance movements against the current repressive regime. I grew up seeing posters depicting communists in neighbouring countries as devils. People, including students, would disappear and those suspected of being involved in communism were killed. My studio is on Addison Road in Marrickville, and was once used as the conscription centre for young Australian men. It was also the place where mothers rallied against sending their children to fight in the Vietnam War.

Recently in Sydney, there were rallies against violence towards Indigenous youth and deaths in custody. While in Thailand, people rallied to demand changes in the current Thai Constitution, notably high school students who held blank sheets of paper in front of their faces to conceal their identities. These parallel incidents inspired the work.

Thai society has gone through many incidents, but this was the first time in many years when the younger generations became the main actors in challenging authority. Historically, there is impunity for powerful people who create the culture of avoidance and fear of confrontation. When I was a child, I could never imagine myself saying no to my elders and seniors. Yet, by holding a blank A4 sheet of paper and raising three fingers, school kids in the protest are expressing disobedience to the authorities. This is despite the consequences being expelled from school, harassment and unlawful arrest of children under 18. The blank paper is so powerful because it says I claim my control and power to say “no”. As a statement of resistance, it is louder than using text or visuals.

“The blank paper is so powerful because it says I claim my control and power to say “no”. As a statement of resistance, it is louder than using text or visuals.”

Field trip photo taken by the artist during the Sam Rit residency, 2016.

On a related note, I would like to discuss ‘Leave it and Break no Hearts’. The work deals with narratives around the Toong Samrith Monument in the city of Korat in Isan province, North-eastern Thailand. What drew you to this legend? And what was your response after finding out the historical facts behind it?

In December 2016, I conducted a self-directed residency at Sam Rit, a district in Nakorn Rachasima, Northeast of Thailand. There was no plan to work. Instead, I wanted to use the residency as a base to make frequent visits to my mother, who was bedbound and had dementia. The Battlefield of Sam Rit monument was near the one-room cabin I stayed at. It shows Ya-Mo and her niece Nangsao Boonleur, two local women who led villagers in the battle to protect sovereignty of the Kingdom of Thailand from the neighbouring enemy Laos. Nangsao Boonleur died during the resistance battle. This is according to oral stories I heard from the village, and there is no evidence found in the histories of Thailand and Laos about the women. The monument was officially launched in 1986 by Major General Prem Tinsulanonda, the unelected Prime Minister at the time.

At the residency, I met Orn, a single mother who raised three boys on her own after her husband died in a tragic accident. She became a widow at the age of 18 and also had government debt to repay. Each year, the village commemorates the victory at Sam Rit battlefield during which all the village women, young and old dance, in front of the monument. The ceremony is said to claim one life each year. Ironically, Orn has been engaging the village girls in the dance rehearsal for it. To me, she and the villagers are the real heroes. Here is a community vulnerable to exploitation by the system. I feel utmost sorrow and a sense of being useless, as I question if things would change should the facts about this story be known. Should I pursue the truth or leave the lie unchallenged? This is the point of departure of the installation piece ‘Leave it and Break no Hearts’. The title indicates this choice, with two of the words crossed out.

Phaptawan Suwannakudt, ‘Lives of the Buddha’, 1997-98, acrylic and gold leaf on canvas, 180 x 432cm. Collection of the Art Gallery of New South Wales.

In your essay ‘Merpeople in a Man’s Land: The Comfort Zone of Awkwardness in which We Dwell’ (2007) published in the journal Ctrl+P, you reflected: “In Sydney 2007, there may be too many categories available for me to fit in: feminist, feminine, Asian, South-East Asian, something Thai or a very Thai, Buddhist, a confused cross-cultural product in identity crisis, even an Asian Australian, and so on as far as the stream goes." What are your sentiments on this issue today, after living in Australia for 25 years?

It is true that the spaces I was offered and the attention I received over time show the different boxes I belong in. These social discourses should not be ignored. However, I also learned not to trust the system which normalises things. Labelling an artist or exhibition may reduce the capacity of an audience to engage with the work itself.

In Thailand, I was featured in an interview with a television show ‘Women’s Today’ in 1995. I was alarmed to be contacted by another crew of the same programme six months later. It turned out that they were newly recruited and did not check to see if I was already in a previous episode. I questioned if it was about the subject I dealt with at the time or if it was because I fitted the audience’s expectations. I did not have a formal art education which is liberating for me, but it also restricted my visibility as an artist.

In 2014, I exhibited ‘Retold Untold Stories’ in Chiang Mai University Arts Centre. A year later, I proposed to show the same work at a project art space in Sydney. The exhibition topic was future feminism and participating artists were asked to research works by women artists in the Australian archive or reflect on their own work. Unfamiliar with Australian works made in earlier periods, I chose to deal with the latter. However, looking into the archive, I also came to realise that after twenty years my work and practice still have not arrived in Australia.

We are now in a century which is more interconnected than ever, so where one lives matters less. We should think less about “Who am I?” and instead pay more attention to the question of “Where are we?” The future depends on how we deal with current issues together.

Phaptawan Suwannakudt and Sue Pedley, with their collaborative piece ‘Line Work’, 2021. Photo by Tina Fiveash.

‘Line Work: Rivers of the Basin’ is a collaborative art project with Sue Pedley which will open at the Penrith Regional Gallery. How does this project respond to the site? And how did you and Sue go about researching and producing work amidst COVID-19 restrictions?

Sue and I started the collaboration in 2019 with no aims in mind, except to meet weekly and practice mark making together for two hours in the studio. We also prepared two sets of materials, which we each took home to make work and brought back for discussion and exchange. We would continue where each other left off in the next meeting. Before the outbreak of Covid 19, we alternated between her studio and my study room at home. I now sublet a space in the Ultimo studio complex where Sue works. To observe social distancing, we had our discussions outdoors and continued working across each other, separated by a corridor.

We used this collaborative practice to approach the project ‘Line work: Rivers of the Basin’ at the Lewers House bequest, Penrith Regional Gallery. We visited the site, the river, and explored the surrounding plants. We also spoke to Shayne Roberts who attended the garden plan, as well as Darani Lewers-Larsen who grew up at the house. With Shayne’s guidance, we collected materials and ingredients from the garden. In the work, I utilised bamboo and banana trees from the garden, as well as a plant called Pak Plung in Thai (Ceylon spinach) found by the river which Sue’s Vietnamese friend said is widely used as a home remedy for minor bodily discomfort. My own stories and cultural perspectives informed the way I related to the site.

Our research also involved reading ‘The People of the River, Lost Worlds of Early Australia’ (2020) by Grace Karskens, a non-fiction book that reflects on the dynamics between settlers and first nation people. When Sue and I developed work for the exhibition, we took turns reading the pages with names, places, histories, incidents that occurred during the settlements in the river areas. Some of these names appeared as scripts in our collaborative sessions.

You are also developing a project for the upcoming Jakarta Biennale 2021. What audiences can expect?

I am developing an installation titled ‘Sleeping Deep Beauty’. It is a labyrinth structure based on cosmic patterns in Tribhumi, in which audiences are invited to walk. Inside, two paintings of the Samrit war heroine statue are placed in different locations so viewers can only see one of them at a time. I relate the work to the regional historical events, beliefs, and folklore to explore expectations and hopes of people.

Are there future exhibitions or projects you would like to share?

I will be a part of ‘Presence of Mind’, a group exhibition that examines the varied ways that Buddhist practices inform the creative process. Curated by two Buddhist practitioners Rachael Kiang and Kath Fries, it brings together diasporic artists from Australia and Singapore.

I am also working on ‘Leave it and Break no Hearts’, a collaborative project with Samak Kosem and Patrick Flores. It is for a programme at 100 Tonson Foundation, slated to run from March to August 2022.

This interview has been edited for length and clarity.

‘Line works: Rivers of the Basin’ is on view at Penrith Regional Gallery from 25 October 2021 to 9 January 2022.

‘Presence of Mind’ is on view at Gallery Lane Cove, in New South Wales, from 11 December 2021 to 29 January 2022.