What does it take to be a lacquer artist? In this behind-the-scenes look, discover the physical, mental, and artistic challenges that shape Vietnam’s most intricate and time-honored painting tradition.
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The Rhythm of Lacquer: Bound to the Seasons
As I watched artist Trần Việt Hùng carefully guide his brush across the canvas, a thought surfaced in my mind. “It seems like you live in the studio all the time,” I remarked. He nodded, but his eyes remained on the canvas. He quickly reached into his pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one up.
“Our job doesn’t follow a nine-to-five schedule,” he said, tapping the ash into a ceramic dish. “The weather dictates our work. Lacquer loves humidity—it needs moisture in the air to dry properly. In Vietnam, the best season for lacquer painting is spring, from January to March. That’s when we work most productively.”
He gestured toward a drying rack stacked with canvases, their surfaces dark and gleaming. “Of course, every lacquer studio has drying racks that help control the environment, but they can only assist us so much. The best results still come from working in harmony with nature.”
Artist Nguyễn Thành Chungnodded in agreement, setting his brush aside and pouring a bit of petrol oil on his hand covered in paint. “A seasoned lacquer artist can estimate exactly how long a painting will take to dry, just by the thickness of the layers. It takes a lot of practice to know how the material and the weather talk to each other.”
The Mark of Genuine Lacquer Art
As he wiped his hands clean, artist Nguyễn Thành Chung sighed. “These days, there are so many so-called ‘lacquer’ paints on the market. Cheap imports from China, cashew tree sap substitutes—there’s no shortage of shortcuts. Even some suppliers mix impurities into the paint, affecting the longevity of the artwork. For art buyers, it’s difficult to distinguish between true lacquer art and imitations.”
I leaned forward. “So how can a buyer tell the difference?”
Artist Nguyễn Thành Chung poured me another cup of tea before answering. “The key is time. The purer the lacquer, the longer it takes to dry. A genuine lacquer painting, depending on size and complexity, takes anywhere from three to five months to complete. That includes the drying, sanding, and reworking stages. Any piece that’s finished in a few weeks—or worse, a few days—is not real lacquer.”
He took a sip of tea, then added, “The best way to know for sure is to follow the artist’s process. Get to know their work. In lacquer, patience is proof of authenticity.”
The Price of Becoming a Lacquer Artist
At noon, the studio fell into a quiet lull as everyone took a break. Brushes were set aside, lacquer-stained hands wiped clean, and the aroma of freshly brewed tea drifted through the air. The rhythmic sounds of sanding had ceased, replaced by the soft murmur of conversation.
I turned to artist Trần Hữu Dũng and asked, “Do you think anyone can be a lacquer artist?”
He shook his head without hesitation. “No. You know the saying, ‘your job chooses you, not the other way around’? That’s especially true for us.”
Curious, I pressed further. “How so?”
Nguyễn Thanh Chung glanced up from his work, a knowing smile on his lips. “Because lacquer itself is unforgiving,” he explained. “The paint is naturally toxic. During the refining process, some of the toxins are removed—but never entirely. Every time we work, we inhale them. If someone has a sensitive constitution, they’ll develop severe allergic reactions—ulcers on the skin, rashes, respiratory issues. You can’t just decide to be a lacquer artist; your body has to accept it.”
I let his words settle before asking, “So, making a quality lacquer painting—it’s a painstaking process, isn’t it?”
Artist Tran Hữu Dũng exhaled a quiet laugh. “Painstaking is one way to put it. Most of us have to work two jobs just to survive. I work nine-to-five during the day, then paint at night. Moving from that to being a full-time artist? That’s another struggle entirely. Paying bills, raising a family—it all takes a toll on creativity.”
From the corner of the studio, artist Lương Duy chimed in while pouring more tea into my cup. “And even after all the effort, there’s no guarantee our work will sell,” he said, swirling his cup absently. “Or if it does, buyers often don’t understand why we charge what we do. Galleries haggle, trying to increase their profits. Sometimes, when deadlines loom and the bills are overdue, I’ve had to sell paintings at a break-even price.” He let out a dry chuckle. “Selling a painting like that—it feels like selling your own child.”
He glanced around the room, catching the eyes of his fellow artists. “It’s the same for all of us. Some take shortcuts, making industrialized art, mass-producing lacquer pieces to chase profit. But we choose quality over quantity. Even if we don’t sell, at least we can look at our paintings with pride. What’s the point of making art if we can’t stand to look at it ourselves?”
The Mental Resilience of a Lacquer Artist
I leaned back, watching them, thinking about the sacrifices they made. “So being an artist demands a lot of mental resilience, doesn’t it?”
Artist Trần Việt Hùng laughed, shaking his head. “More than people imagine. People think we sit around drinking, waiting for inspiration to strike.” He smirked. “The truth? It takes discipline. It’s not a game. It’s a job—and a serious one.”
A quiet settled over the studio. The rain outside had softened to a gentle drizzle, tapping against the windows. The artists resumed their work, their movements deliberate, their patience unwavering.
As I watched, I realized something: lacquer painting is not just an art form. It’s a test of endurance, of devotion. A journey not just into color and texture, but into time itself.
And only those willing to surrender to its rhythm will ever uncover its true depth.
The end.
