Notes from the Field | Ruehl Muller, On Laotian socialist realism in the statuescape of Vientiane: a conversation with Maising Chanbouthdy
Within the realm of socialist realism, sculpture, alongside posters and murals, has long maintained considerable recognition as the most socially accessible form of artistic expression, owing to its ability to be placed in public space (or have public space constructed via it); monuments not only express power as tangible vessels of ideology, but foster spaces of strengthening collective identity. Boris Groys famously argued that socialist realism broke free from history as artists, although operating within the sphere of classical aesthetic models, read these models as attitudinal lenses through which progressive or reactionary perspectives could be recognized. In this sense, socialist realism is to be read not as a style, but as a frame of reference built upon a socialist parole, through which the viewer observes all domains of life and culture—themselves included—creating a Wagnerian gesamtkunstwerk wherein everything manifest is married with socialism.
In this regard, the Lao People’s Democratic Republic (hereafter Laos), one of the last bastions of socialist realism (alongside North Korea and, to a lesser extent, Vietnam and China), remains a fascinating case. Although the aesthetic parole is indeed that of the ruling Lao People’s Revolutionary Party (operating in tandem with local adaptions of Theravada Buddhism), the langue remains far more intriguing—a primordial system wherein these contradictory concepts share a non-mutually exclusive root.
However, across academia, Laos has routinely been (dis)regarded as some sort of vassal state, be it a socialist satellite of its “elder brother” Vietnam or a “frozen in time” extension of Buddhist Thailand (generally depending on the political leanings of the author), reducing its sociopolitical vernacular to that of ersatz culture. Historian Soren Ivarsson even went so far as to deny that Laos truly existed before its “manifestation” by the French. Such generalizations can almost be forgiven owing to the manner in which Laotian culture semiotically reveals itself. In the arts alone, seemingly mutually exclusive concepts intermingle, leaving outside observers generally restricted to following a single branch (be it socialism, Buddhism, monarchism, French colonialism, etc.), and usually at the expense of others, to find explanation and meaning without exceeding the scope of their respective expertise. Capital Vientiane is a quintessential example of such a visual medley, and Maising Chanbouthdy, who played an active role in creating sculptures for the socialist regime (à la Lenin’s “Monumental Propaganda” plan), and the construction or overseeing of the majority of the grand sculptures dotting the capital, has been one of the very few great hands in crafting the contemporary Laotian statuescape. Recently retired from his position as director of the National Institute of Fine Arts (NIFA), the government’s authority on art education and production, Maising now conducts research on the state and future of Laos’ monuments, drawing from his own portfolio of work, which most notably includes the four-meter bronze statue of Fa Ngum, founder of the 14th century Lan Xiang Kingdom, and the famed nine-meter King Anouvong Statue which overlooks the Mekong, behind the Presidential Palace.
Fa Ngum Statue, Fa Ngum Park. Source: Author, 2022.
King Anouvong Statue, Chao Anouvong Park. Source: Author, 2022.
Despite a growing independent art scene, NIFA, which came about following the consolidation of the National Faculty of Fine Art schools in Vientiane, Luang Prabang and Savannakhet, and houses the Lao Fine Arts Association, run by the Ministry of Information, Culture and Tourism, remains an integral component of the official Laos art community as almost all state-recognized artists are alumni—an almost unspoken prerequisite of sorts. After graduating from NIFA in 1981, Maising began teaching at the school’s Department of Painting. In 1984, he relocated to the Soviet Union, studying socialist realism at the Moscow School of Painting, Sculpture and Architecture (later the Moscow Surikov Art Institute), where he shifted his medium from painting to sculpture. Following the end of his studies in 1990 (and the collapse of the Soviet Union), Maising returned to Laos where he began teaching sculpture. In 2011, the Laos government named Maising a National Artist.
Curious about the state and trajectory of socialist realism in Laos, I sit down with the artist, engaging his thoughts on “Laotian socialist realism” and the allegedly paradoxical relationship between traditionalism and Marxism–Leninism.
Ruehl Muller: During the establishment of socialist realism in Vietnam in the late forties, one of the most defining factors of art became its legibility to the masses. There was also a sense of urgency for artists to produce which I think poet To Huu articulated quite nicely in his analogy that “the masses are famished [and] would rather have ‘tapioca’ than have to wait for the fancy dishes that are not available.” In this sense, complex techniques were unnecessary—they simply slowed production and distribution—and were therefore often eschewed in favor of quicker naïve forms. This, as I understand, is obviously a far cry from the Soviet focus on traditional, academic art, which many Vietnamese artists studying in the Soviet Union [with whom I’ve spoken] struggled with. Did Laotian students face a similar struggle—or am I falling into the trap of superimposing the Vietnamese experience onto the Laotian experience?
Maising Chanbouthdy: I think that there were difficulties faced by Laotian students, but not to the same extent as those faced by the Vietnamese. The Russians definitely placed more emphasis on the form than the Vietnamese did, particularly when it came to shape, but I think Laotian artists wanted a certain kind of visual intricacy. Ironically, it was not the same kind of visual intricacy as the Russians wanted. In terms of shape, the Russians encouraged a certain “boxiness”—sharp, clean cuts.
There were only two Laotian students [studying sculpture]—the rest of the students came from the outlying Soviet states—and our previous Laotian experience and education in sculpture had come predominantly from sculpting the Buddha, something very shaped and round. Needless to say, I failed a lot. The other [Laotian] student achieved very high grades, however. When I asked what his secret was, he told me that he just copied the Russians’ boxy style. In one funny instance, he created such a grand and sharply chiseled sculpture that we all stood with our hands on our hips, gawking in awe, admiring his work; our teacher praised him—until she walked behind it to find that he had completely rounded it like the back of the Buddha.
I understand why the Russians wanted this technique: these sculptures were, primarily, outdoor pieces and these sharp cuts would reflect the sun, giving more dimension through contrast. However, Laotians prefer organic ornamentation. That is, more rounded, decorative shapes—lots of embellishments—like that seen in traditional Thai art. Even when the Russians rebuilt the King Sisavangvong Statue, they had to coat it in gold leaf in order to satisfy the Laotian decorative appeal.[1]
King Sisavangvong Statue, Si Muang Park. Source: Author, 2022.
RM: Do you not feel that the Soviet “fixing” of the King Sisavangvong Statue comes across more as paternal correction, rather than fraternal assistance?
MC: I would like to believe that it came from a place of camaraderie. The proportions of the original [Laotian-made] statue were not realist enough. And the Russians commissioned one of their best sculptors from the Leningrad Institute to rebuild it. He actually constructed two identical versions—one is here and the other at the Royal Palace in Luang Prabang. That’s not to say that the Laotian sculptors lacked talent—the King Setthathirath Statue was constructed before the King Sisavangvong Statue, but it depicts a sitting figure, whereas the King Sisavangvong Statue depicts a standing figure. Constructing a standing figure, especially one as top-heavy [as the King Sisavangvong Statue], requires a certain level of engineering skill that Laotian artists had not yet mastered at that point.
King Setthathirath Statue, Pha That Luang. Source: Author, 2022.
RM: I have always found one of the most interesting features of socialist realism to be its seemingly universalist application via internal ruptures. Wherever socialist realism has been implemented, unique ruptures have developed which, rather than collapsing the enforced system, have acclimatized and culturally solidified it. What would you say some of these defining characteristics of Laotian socialist realism are?
MC: Laoism, massism, and progressivism.[2] All art should follow these three principles. In regard to the first principle, Laoism, when the audience encounters a work, they must immediately know that it is Laotian. It must, first and foremost, reflect the Laotian culture and identity.
Secondly, in regard to massism, it must be clearly understood by the audience—the masses should be able to instantly interpret the content. In this regard, Laos places far more emphasis on the iconic realism of the work than Vietnam does, where works remain somewhat impressionist. By this I mean that as long as the visuals indexically represent the subject matter, the Vietnamese will find it acceptable. For Laos, indexical representation is not enough—the signs must visually resemble the object they are used to represent. That isn’t to say there’s no space to play around. If the sculpture depicts an individual—let’s say Kim Jong Il, for example—then obviously it has to visually resemble him as much as possible, but if it represents nameless workers or soldiers, then there is far more room for experimentation. That said, too much abstraction remains problematic. The masses do not understand it. It seems as if Europeans enjoy conceptual art more than realistic art, treating art as a means for artists to “pat each other on the back.” In Laos, art is a public service, and realism remains paramount. Even the higher-ranking officers who have studied overseas prefer realism. If you gave a Picasso to a higher-ranking officer, they wouldn’t want to display it. So how could you expect the ordinary people to appreciate it?
The third principle is not as fundamental as the first two, but rather seeks to inform and support them. Progressivism instructs artists to stay up-to-date with modern techniques and technologies; to borrow and adapt from outside the country. For example, the khosana[3] [propaganda signage] are very much a modern development imported from Vietnam. What matters most is that, in this process of adopting and adapting, the first and second principle are not lost.
RM: It’s interesting that you mention Kim Jong Il as an example. Something that struck me when viewing the statues in the main square of the Kaysone Phomvihane Museum was the depth of human emotion that was rendered legible through the intricate details in the facial expressions. As we know, these particular statues were designed and built by North Korea. And while the interior of the Museum is modelled off the Ho Chi Minh Museum in Hanoi, the exterior seems to be based directly on North Korea’s Mansudae Grand Monument—the leader figure flanked by two sculptures made up of the revolutionary masses, one bearing the national flag and representing national construction and the struggle against imperialism, the other bearing the Party flag and representing the struggle for socialism. If we are to take the Museum as a template for Laos’ socialist realist trajectory, we find ourselves between two very different variations of socialist realism:
Where the didactic emphasis is paramount—as we often see in Vietnam where the object is instructive information promulgated by the state through authoritative slogans and directives at the expense of the imagery. Here, the auxiliary visuals take on the form of collages of socialist clipart: poorly vectorized renderings of workers and soldiers haphazardly pasted over industrial or agricultural backdrops with little care for overall technique or composition.
Where the emotionally expressive emphasis is paramount—as we see in North Korea where a certain level of transcendence is attained through dynamic and vigorous portraiture focused on conveying one’s deepest and innermost feelings through facial expression. I think painter Konstantin Yuon was perhaps one of the first to contend that socialist realist art was not simply to be seen as ideological education, but as a means of generating a strong attraction from the spectator through an intensive magnetic force.
Where does the emphasis within Laotian socialist realism tend to lean with regard to these once non-mutually exclusive elements?
Monument to the Struggle for Socialism (as named in a Mansudae Art Studio brochure), Kaysone Phomvihane Museum. Source: Author, 2022.
Monument to National Construction (as named in a Mansudae Art Studio brochure), Kaysone Phomvihane Museum. Source: Author, 2022.
MC: I’d like to think that, while Laos is open to these new techniques we see coming from Vietnam, we are still committed to preserving artistic quality and integrity through the emotional experience of the audience. In this sense, I think we lean to the latter. The difference [between Laotian and North Korean socialist realism], however, is that, for us, it is the story encompassed in the work that generates that strong and passionate attraction, not how successfully the technique reflects our innermost feelings. Our statues always depict a historical figure with a strong story—be it a great individual or someone of a higher rank—and this is where, for us, emotion is drawn from. One of the reasons why the kings had so many wives was because every village wanted royal blood. Laotians have always carried an inherent awe and respect for royalty. This is why, even in our transitionary phase, the socialist government was trained and introduced to the people by those who were from or associated with the royal family. Laotians have an intrinsic call towards great humans with great stories.
RM: Do you not think there are similarities here with most contemporary European monarchies? Their power isn’t so much political as it is narrative. It often feels as if nowadays they exist solely for the purpose of giving us a taste of a “fairy tale.”
MC: That is true, however I don’t think it’s similar to the phenomenon in Laos where political and narrative power are one and the same. You cannot have a narrative without politics, and you cannot have political power without a narrative. Take Souphanouvong’s symbolic capital for example: a communist with royal blood. He embodied the Lao identity.
RM: I’m glad that you’ve alluded to the paradox of the “Red Prince.” In terms of paradox, the Stalinist recipe of “national in form, socialist in content” manifests quite interestingly in Laos in regards to Buddhism. The Monument of the Unknown Soldier is probably the quintessential example with its socialist content and traditional form—that of a that [Lao Buddhist stupa]. On the other hand, we see public murals in a style that was usually reserved for socialist propaganda now depicting Laotians making merit and lamvong dancing. This, as it would seem, is national content presented in socialist form. But the paradox here is also not hard to see: Buddhism amalgamated with Marxism–Leninism, an (often vehemently) atheistic doctrine.
Monument of the Unknown Solider (rebuilt circa 2000), Nong Sa Phang Lenh Park. Source: Author, 2022.
MC: I would rather describe it as “Laotian in form, Laotian in content.” In this sense, I don’t think there is a paradox here. Initially, during the revolution, all government officers were banned from participating in any religion, but the average person was not really affected so long as they practiced quietly. During this time, most Buddhist art was banned, especially festival works—and there were “religious police” who made sure of this, arresting those who openly practiced or did missionary work—but the campaign was fairly short-lived because it was unnecessary to maintaining communist power—the Buddhist Laotians were all intrinsically communist. Many great monks [like Pha Maha Khamtan] joined the Pathet Lao. Buddhist philosophy has nothing to do with nuanced economic reform and therefore wasn’t a threat to the socialist system.
[I personally think that] one of the key reasons why the government began allowing for Buddhist freedom in the arts was because they realized that Laotians were importing so many costly Buddha statues from Thailand, unable to produce them locally. It was therefore very much an economic decision to benefit local artists.
RM: You say “Laotian in form, Laotian in content.” Can you expand on this? Especially since it often feels as if, nowadays in Laos, socialist realism no longer serves the purpose of illustrating a communist future, or educating us on what we should do to achieve it, but serving as a bulwark for Laotian identity against the rising Thai influence.
MC: What you say is very true—the influence from the outside is strong—but I don’t think this [defensive position] is necessarily at the expense of building communism. In the Laosphere there is no separation between “socialism” and “nationalism.” In this sense, our tradition is inherently socialist. The Laotian identity is a socialist one, just as much as it’s a Buddhist one and a [royalist] one. Our culture, all the way back to ancient times, has always had these elements—long before their structured codifying and Western definitions came about.
As long as we stick to the three principles, Laotian identity will be protected within the arts. Interestingly, when students [from NIFA] go abroad, we encourage them to experiment in foreign techniques and concepts. This may seem contradictory. However, when they return—when they can choose their own topics and techniques—they, almost always, return to socialist realism. It is for that reason too that I think that as long as the Laotian state exists, so too will socialist realism—especially in sculpture. Without tradition, the concept of “Lao” cannot exist. And it’s our traditional style. It’s even taught as part of “sinlapa phunmeuong” [traditional art] in the NIFA curriculum. Alongside folktales and vat [temple] painting.
Notes
[1] As the general consensus goes, during the early 70s, Crown Prince Sisavang Vatthana rejected the NIFA-produced statue of King Sisavangvong owing to what he deemed a disproportional figure, and instead sought assistance from the Soviet cultural attaché. How strong a role the Soviets played in Sisavang’s rejection of the statue—or how much pressure was put on Sisavang to accept their “assistance”—remains debated. It should equally be noted that the Soviet statue was donated to the Royal Lao Government—not the Pathet Lao—prior to the revolution.
[2] These three principles are drawn from the three aesthetic principles of Vietnamese new-democracy culture as codified by Truong Chinh in 1943 (see Building a People’s Art): Vietnamization [dân tộc hóa], scientification [khoa học hóa], and massification [đại chúng hóa]—themselves an adaption of Mao’s requirements for a new-democracy culture. I have opted to translate the term “laksana sad” [ລັກສະນະຊາດ] as “Laoism” because, like the Vietnamese “dân tộc,” the Lao “sad” can be used synonymously for “race,” “nation,” and “ethnicity”—or even a composite: “race–nation–ethnicity.” In this sense, the term transcends racial, national, ethnic, and even geographic concerns. It represents the primordial state or condition of that which “being Laotian” is. As one’s social past (how we recognize the irreversible real past and read our own identity through it) is inconstant, defining pastness in terms of genetically continuous groups (race), historical sociopolitical groups (nation), or cultural groups (ethnicity) is a fatuous exercise. Each modal term hinges on one of the basic structural features of the capitalist world-economy: “race” stems from the axial division of labor wherein capital accumulates by creating unequal differentiations of human value; “nation” stems from the political superstructure of this historical system, wherein capital accumulates by creating unequal differentiations of sovereignty; “ethnicity” stems from the creation of household structures wherein capital accumulates through the maintenance of large components of non-waged labor. In this sense, any attempt to translate “laksana sad” as something more than “Laoism” would inevitably embed it within the capitalist world-economy, stealing its kernel of unbridled peoplehoodedness.
[3] ໂຄສະນາ—literally translated as “advertisements,” emphasizing the contemporariness of their arrival.
Acknowledgments
The author would like to thank Somthida Chanthabouala for her invaluable support in facilitating this conversation, and Anna Koshcheeva for her extensive insights.
Ruehl Muller is the Head of the Graphic and Digital Design Department at Greenwich Vietnam, an international alliance between the University of Greenwich (United Kingdom) and FPT University (Vietnam). His research focuses on the contemporary African and Asian domestication of socialist realism in the plastic arts.
To cite this essay, please use the entry suggested below:
Ruehl Muller, “On Laotian socialist realism in the statuescape of Vientiane: a conversation with Maising Chanbouthdy,” criticalasianstudies.org Commentary Board, 11/29/2022; https://doi.org/10.52698/MCSF2052.