Jacqueline Hoàng Nguyễn was SWICH Artist in Residence at the Museum of Ethnography in Stockholm from September until November 2015. This is an excerpt of the blog she wrote during her stay at the museum.
During her residency, she investigated the museum's photographic collections with a focus on how personal and institutional histories converge and create friction in the archive. The work process was presented at several public events at the museum and in a blog. At the SWICH website, you can read an excerpt of her blog, the whole blog can be found HERE
It took me some time to write this blog entry partly because I needed time to reflect upon the holdings of the Museum of Ethnography. I had to come to term with the immense gaps in the archive for, far from being complete and exhaustive, the culled material is selective, limited, and intrinsic to the ethnographers' personal interests. If I may generalize, it has been almost impossible to find traces of the colonial power in Indochina in its photographic archive but, rather, the images are the direct result of colonial infrastructures which facilitated colonial presence, including ethnographic endavours.[1]
I researched in vain, but I had to recognize that the focal point of many ethnographers was the search for primitive populations of exotic cultures who, ideally, were untouched by Western culture.[2] So, this specific blind spot became a source of frustration, but also of reflexion. Therefore, I was forced to look obliquely, to cut through the museum's aporias, in order to find points of contact between the French colonial power and the indigenous people of Indochina. Looking sideways into history was possible thanks to the photographs that my grand-father salvaged from the two wars, the Indochina (1946-1954) and the Vietnam (1955-1975) wars, alongside with some notes he wrote.
The photograph on the right side [see: Image 1] shows my great-grandfather Nguyễn Khương (standing in the first row and 10th person from the left) together with his colleagues in front of the administrative office of An Nhơn, in the province of Bình Định.[3] There are two elements in this photograph that I wish to reflect upon. First, the six men standing on the left of the image are soldiers, but I am uncertain of their ranking and the reason of their presence in this photographic moment. Second, the poster placed above the main door of the building caught my attention. After much research, I came to realize that it is probably the portrait of Philippe Pétain. If this is correct, then the photograph was most certainly taken sometime between 1940-1944, during the French State (État français) under World War II, or perhaps later. I was lucky to find a copy of this poster online.
The poster of Philippe Pétain [see: Image 2] is accompanied by a propaganda text of the Vichy ideology, which says: "Dear French and Vietnamese countrymen, there is not a better time than now to work together. A consensus between France and Vietnam is of most importance for the future of East-France." (My translation)
This collaboration between the French and the Vietnamese had been deadly for some members of our family. I came across a note that my grandfather sent me a few years ago and confirmed the political ties between our family and the French. Without trying to be apologetic, I wonder if any other possibilities would have been possible for them than to collaborate. They occupied high-ranking positions of the ruling class for many generations and the French had been fostering deep economic, religous and political ties with Indochina since the 19th century.
Dear Hoàng,
Here is a succinct biography of the Reverend monk (Buddhist nun) Nguyên Huệ, eldest of the family. Born June 3, 1921 in Huế, the ancient capital of Vietnam, she was given the name Nguyễn Thị Phương, meaning "The virtuous Nguyen." Her Buddhist name is Nguyên Huệ which can be translated "Origin of the lily." In 1945, she married with a descendant of the Emperor Lê Lợi named Lê Hữu Sở. In 1946, he died in Nha Trang during a battle with the French colonialists who strove to regain their colony. (My translation) [see: Image 3]
In addition to work with an uncooperative archive, I am forced to deal with an inherited history that is far from being heroic or revolutionary. On the contrary, I am left with documents that are a reminder of a double chagrin. On the one hand, I carry the history of a family who lost two wars, who lost a country, where all social relations that had been fortified for generations have been shattered due to civic unrest and migration, and on the other hand, I carry the immigrant body who is constantly reminded of the out-of-place position that I occupy. This double embarrassment is not so much how we have lost everything, such as material goods, status and beloved ones, but that we are lost. We surrended our identity for being on the wrong side of history and, once again, in the hands of our new country. Immigrant bodies, like mine, who are tucked in the dead angle of patriotic grand narratives, are forced to look in zigzag into the archives when the consolation of nationalism fails too many of us.
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[1] For example, when I discussed with Curator Klas Grinell at the Museum of World Culture in Gothenburg he told me that during the first half of the 20th century it was not unusual for hotels to rent out their rooms unfurnished. This meant that travellers had to organize their journeys with an existing on-site colonial infrastructure, which would organize the local indigenous labour––most often performed without remuneration––so the travellers' belongings, including their furniture, would be transported.
[2] I am indebted to Curator Michael Barrett at the Museum of Ethnography for our multiple conversations on the topic, which made me realize the limitations of my research within the museum's holdings.
[3] As indicated in a hand-written note by my grandfather which accompanies the photograph, image 3 on the right side.
