Interview with Tidawhitney Lek

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Tidawhitney Lek in her studio (2022). Image courtesy of the artist and Sow & Tailor, Los Angeles. Photo: Adrian Gutierrez.

In a matter of six months, Tidawhitney Lek produced eight paintings and two installations for House Hold, her inaugural solo exhibition at Sow & Tailor last February. A first-generation Cambodian-American, Lek often presents elements of her culture in her paintings. Relatives (2022), a large-scale triptych, is equal parts a manifestation of the artist’s imagination and a depiction of her lived experience growing up in a multi-generational household in Long Beach, California. The warped perspective of the dense composition makes it unclear where the interiors and exteriors of the home begin and end—family members and objects crowd into the layered space. Lek’s cousin stands just off-center, holding her head in her hand (sobbing, laughing?), while another cousin strains her head upward with a grin as if to catch a glimpse of the spectacle. (Turmoil and stillness often live harmoniously in Lek’s work.) In a gated garden to the right, a figure kneels in a prayer position, only their feet and backside visible. Ghoulish hands with acrylic nails emerge from cooking pots, creep out from behind a door that seemingly leads nowhere, and offer up a rose in the foreground. Five-gallon jugs of water and a tied-up plastic bag from Ralph’s sit at the top of a set of concrete steps; three sticks of burning incense pierce a bunch of bananas. As a first-generation U.S. citizen from Los Angeles and nearly the same age as Lek, I was drawn to her busy compositions, which perfectly capture the chaos of life in a multigenerational household where private and public space is blurred, and boundaries are often nonexistent. 

While certainly vibrant, Lek’s recent paintings also grapple with Cambodia’s dark past. Lek’s parents fled the brutal Khmer Rouge regime under Prime Minister Pol Pot, who renamed the country Kampuchea and declared 1975, the year before his reign began, Year Zero. Lek is the sixth of seven children, and her two oldest siblings were born in refugee camps in Thailand and the Philippines. In the 1980s, Lek’s family made the exodus to the United States, and Lek was born and raised in the Cambodian diaspora of Long Beach.

During our recent conversation, Lek and I discussed the pressures of life as a first-generation artist. Raised in a culture of silence-as-survival and inherited pain, Lek aims to break the cycle of generational trauma through her artwork and begin the process of healing.

Tina Barouti: The Khmer Rouge regime collapsed in 1979, which is actually the same year as Iran’s Revolution. These political moments changed the course of history and our lives. Now, we are here in Los Angeles living in our respective diasporas. Our experiences are common. Some would argue that exploring bifurcated identities through art has become cliché, but I think it’s still important. 

Tidawhitney Lek: It shouldn’t be cliché. It is interesting that you bring up this political timeline. I think the parallels are what allow us to understand each other well. You know, I actually didn’t face the need to explore my identity until after I graduated with my BFA.

TB: What changed? Did you travel to Cambodia? 

TL: I didn’t tap into Cambodia’s violent history until 2016. Prior to that point, I was struggling to understand what it meant to be an artist. My instructors at Cal State Long Beach encouraged me to go see the world, so I spent six months studying at the Tianjin Academy of Fine Arts in China. My mother was in Cambodia at the time, so it was the perfect moment to visit.

For the most part, I sat back and didn’t speak during the two weeks I was there. People would ask my mother why I was so silent, and I knew enough Khmer to respond with “I can speak!” so that they would leave me alone. I spent a lot of time listening to my mother explain what Phnom Penh was like decades ago, with its straw houses and tin roofs. I felt so insignificant in such a large world. My bigger picture became bigger, and I became smaller.

TB: Is it safe to say you had an epiphany? 

TL: My epiphany actually came earlier, in 2014, when I traveled to New York City. I was able to visit so many museums and came to realize I didn’t know much about art. I wanted to take in as much history as possible and understand all of the currents in the art of the 20th century. I wanted to understand what made painting painting. 

I didn’t even really see painting as a career, although many told me at a young age that I had something. I was receiving scholarships and began to throw myself into abstraction. Everyone was telling me that painting wouldn’t actually take me anywhere, but I turned to God and said, “I’m going to do this, just show me a sign.”

TB: First off, I’m very surprised to hear that you focused on abstraction because your work is so figurative. Secondly, who was telling you that you couldn’t be a painter? In my mind, that’s the narrative of an immigrant parent.

TL: That’s exactly what it was. Family expectations. So, the abstraction part—I had an issue really articulating and identifying what I wanted to say in my paintings. After graduating, my former instructor Siobhan McClure helped me find an art assistant job. The experience was grounding and helped me afford a studio in Los Angeles, where I began building paintings. I say “building” because I am constantly thinking about paintings as a structure. In my mind, I already know the final product and have all the parts. I just need to assemble.

The artist I assisted was absolutely figurative, and I had never given myself the opportunity to try it. I figured, I just graduated, no one knows me, and there’s nothing on the line. I spent two years really deconstructing myself. By 2019, I knew myself as a painter and was confident in my space. While having to quarantine in 2020 felt like an incubation period and didn’t affect my work life, that year I had nothing in my bank account, and on my birthday, my catalytic converter was stolen.

Tidawhitney Lek, Relatives (2022). Acrylic, pastel, and oil on canvas, 72 × 144 inches. Image courtesy of the artist and Sow & Tailor, Los Angeles. Photo: Josh Schaedel.

TB: When it rains it pours.

TL: It’s true. But I felt like God was telling me something positive was coming. A few weeks later, Forrest Kirk came to support my work. Then I met another collector named AJ Rojas. Next thing you know, I met Greg Ito. Sow & Tailor, Taymour Grahne Projects, and Luna Anaïs Gallery helped me get through 2021. Now it’s 2022, and I have a solo show.

TB: How does it feel to arrive at this point?

TL: It feels great. It’s a blessing. I have to say, I am still hungry.

TB: I’d be concerned if you said you weren’t hungry.

TL: There’s always more that I am cooking up. I already feel like I am outgrowing my space again. 

As a Southeast Asian, I have to face the fact that there isn’t a big space for us. I didn’t really have any artists to refer to or look up to. I actually had no one. My community is a struggling one. For example, the pandemic really did a lot of damage to Cambodia Town. The stores have been emptied and are boarded up. We haven’t held our annual parade for the New Year in two years.¹ Yet, I think we are thriving in other ways. We have our first Cambodian councilwoman, Suely Saro, in Long Beach, and an emerging singer-songwriter named Satica. I see my people and I think, “I know what you’re trying to do here. You’re hungry like me.”

TB: Are you able to talk about the experience of being a first-generation Cambodian with your family? 

TL: In my family’s dynamic, not much is said about our story.

TB: I think many immigrant communities realize their status in this country is precarious. There’s a lot of fear and shame and generational trauma on top of that.

TL: It’s all of that. Oh my god—there’s so much I am uncovering. There was not a lot of explaining, and I never understood why my family behaved the way they did. I was just told to deal and be obedient.

TB: So, your family never spoke to you about the conflict in Cambodia growing up?

TL: No. You can ask a lot of Cambodian kids of my generation. Their parents do not talk about the war.

TB: Do you have the space to be angry and sad or are you forced to feel grateful? I personally feel that my ability to reflect is a privilege, whereas my parents, grandparents, and ancestors may have been living in survival mode.

TL: I think that’s the part my family may not understand. As an American-born Cambodian, you’re dealing with a lot of issues that they can’t comprehend. Your family is happy that they can provide you with a better life. [But,] on the other hand, they may be resentful that you are living out their wildest dreams while, like you said, they’re in survival mode. On top of that, there’s the added layer of gender. As a woman, you are not allowed to complain. So, I completely understand you. If I did poke around and ask questions, I was told to be quiet. With the paintings in House Hold, I am having the real, intimate, and necessary conversations I can’t have with my family. So, who do you turn to for your emotions? 

TB: I have a therapist! 

TL: I turn to my paintings. I cry to them! These paintings, I am telling you, they’re talking to me because nobody else was.

TB: What are some of the conversations you have with the paintings in House Hold? 

TL: Well, the exhibition is called House Hold because it’s framed around the home and this experience of what takes place both within it and in the exterior spaces. The show has an undertone of violence that obviously stems from our history. The Vietnam War and the brutal Khmer Rouge regime and King Sihanouk’s involvement are a big part of the conversation. I began retracing the steps of my family’s migration and the history of Cambodia originally for a public art project in Long Beach. When my family left Southeast Asia in the 1980s, they ended up in a neighborhood with a heavy gang presence. I was born in the 1990s during the technology boom, which I reference in Monitor (2021). I pulled [the source] image [for the painting] from family photographs. My mother didn’t want my brother to get mixed up with gangs, so he was encouraged to stay home and play in front of the computer. 

In Remember the War (2022), I also included the iconic computer game Minesweeper. I threw that in because before Nixon pulled out of the war, he had littered the region with mine bombs, and today people are dealing with finding them.

TB: I am very curious about the hand motif in your work, in both the paintings and the installations.

TL: The hands were a strategy. I wanted to present a figure without actually including one. I really wanted to add a feminine touch, so I added the acrylic nails. They appear very ghoulish—some are green and others are blue. I wanted them to represent the trauma of war, violence, and displacement. The hands emerge out of the computer screen, [from] behind doors, underneath dirt and furniture. I like things to be ambiguous. It’s up to the viewer to decide whether the glass is half full or half empty. 

TB: I noticed you play with different times of day in a single composition. Also, some of the foliage appears tropical, as if we are in Cambodia, while the palm trees and sunsets are quintessentially Los Angeles.

TL: I am glad you noticed that because there’s this idea of being in two places at once. I also depict mirrors as a way to play with the picture plane. You exist in one space but all of a sudden you’re pulled elsewhere. At one moment you’re looking inside the home and the next minute you’re outside. In Relatives, you first see a horizon, and then you’re confronted with the ground. I like to set up these challenges in my painting.

TB: You talk about your relationship with God a lot, and I see a lot of religious references in your work. Tell me about your faith. 

TL: I rely on God to get a grip on timing. My mother is a practicing Buddhist, and there are Christian relatives on my father’s side. I am constantly surrounded by monks, candlelight, and incense. In Altar (2021), I painted the place where my mom asks for blessings and prays for goodness in the world. In Bless Us (2021), I depicted a monk who comes twice a year to bless us. He fills a Lowe’s bucket with water, perfume, and flower petals. We sit in front of him and repeat his chants. He then flicks us with the mixture. When my mother came to see the show, she said that he had visited the day before.

TB: What was your parents’ reaction to seeing your work? 

TL: They visited my studio for the first time this year, although I decided to pursue painting eight years ago. There’s a language barrier with my mom, and we can’t communicate that well. I think for the most part they’re proud because I can take care of my bills. 

TB: It sounds like they’re emotionally detaching from the work.

TL: Exactly. We don’t often talk about generational trauma or our family’s history. I don’t think they are able to properly discuss what they went through or communicate their emotions. When I began the work five or six months ago, I felt like the paintings were going to be powerful enough to do the work to bring all of these issues to the surface. I think they really did. Honestly, these paintings are like making notes in a diary or connecting the dots in my family history. I couldn’t talk to anyone, so I talked to the paintings.

Tidawhitney Lek (b. Long Beach, CA, 1992) lives and works in Long Beach, California. Lek was recently included in group exhibitions at the Museum of Contemporary Art Santa Barbara, Sow & Tailor, and Durden and Ray. She has also participated in two-person exhibitions at Long Beach Museum of Art, Cerritos College, and Luna Anaïs Gallery. Her work is included in the permanent collection of ICA Miami.

This interview was originally published in Carla issue 28.

Tidawhitney Lek, Kre (detail) (2022). Image courtesy of the artist and Sow & Tailor, Los Angeles. Photo: Josh Schaedel.

Tidawhitney Lek, House Hold (installation view) (2022). Image courtesy of the artist and Sow & Tailor, Los Angeles. Photo: Josh Schaedel.

Tidawhitney Lek, Remember the War (2022). Acrylic and oil on canvas, 72 × 38 inches. Image courtesy of the artist and Sow & Tailor, Los Angeles. Photo: Josh Schaedel.

Tina Barouti, PhD is an art historian and curator from Los Angeles. She lectures in SAIC’s Art History, Theory, and Criticism department.

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