Interview #175 — Linda Sok
by Allison Chhorn
Linda Sok is an Australian-Cambodian artist whose practice predominantly focuses on the materiality of objects and their potentials in relation to her culture. Her experience as a member of the Khmer diaspora informs her investigation of her family’s experience of the Khmer Rouge and their genealogical effects.
Stories and rituals from her familial and cultural heritage significantly influence her method of representing confrontational notions of trauma and genocide.
Linda Sok talked to fellow Australian-Cambodian Allison Chhorn about focusing her practice on her heritage, her process as transformation and preservation, and bridging the gaps in accessing Khmer culture and history.
From what I know, your work has always revolved around your Cambodian heritage. But was there a period where you were exploring other things that led you there—maybe first studying Fine Art at UNSW? When did you realise you wanted to focus your practice on Cambodian culture?
Up until about the second year of studying at UNSW Art & Design I was making work about a variety of different subjects. I think the inspiration to begin focusing my practice on my Cambodian culture really came from seeing other people making work about their own identities. Until then, it was never something that crossed my mind, that I could make work about something I never properly appreciated myself. It was really valuable to see other artists of colour making space for their own experiences, because it showed me that there was something there, something worth exploring. The more I dug into it, the more potential I saw in looking back and telling these untold histories. For me, it was a way to re-discover a culture I had tried to distance myself from as a teenager.
As a second generation Cambodian-Australian, I feel like your parents will tell you certain things about food/clothing/financial security, because they survived the Khmer Rouge but will avoid talking about other things, so you only really know fragments of what they went through. I’ve heard a lot of other Cambodians of our generation having to learn the larger history on their own. How much research do you feel like you need to do in order to fill in those gaps and to make work?
I think the exercise of avoiding difficult topics emerges in a lot of Cambodian families in lots of different ways, especially because there is a lot of trauma embedded in the histories they avoid. With my family, it ends up permeating many facets of our lives, and any difficult topics are often avoided or very quickly dismissed. Instead, with the conflicts arise a need to have security about certain things which manifests in habits like stocking up the shelves with food, water, utensils and other objects that never get used but are there in case things go awry. These are the circumstances that I had always lived with but never really thought to question until looking at the trauma that was rooted in my family’s history. When I started looking into my Cambodian culture, I gradually came to see more clearly how the Khmer Rouge had affected my family and began to slowly unpack the reasons for why things are the way they were.
I mentioned earlier that my practice was, for me, the way through which I began to rediscover my Cambodian culture. Inevitably, looking back at the culture also necessitates looking at the events that break that culture; the most significant rupture being the Khmer Rouge which forced my family’s migration to Australia and, for context, killed an estimated two million Cambodian people. The process of recovering a history that people try to dismiss is a slow one. It’s also a never-ending thing. It always feels like too much and not enough at the same time. When I make work, I tend to tackle just a portion of the history at a time, so I don’t get overwhelmed. Because it’s a difficult thing to do. Sometimes I avoid it because it’s painful to think about my parents, grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins having to endure such distress. But I think that the distance that I have in having been born in Australia lends me the ability to look back and unpack the trauma in a way that my parents and grandparents can’t.
Other people of the Cambodian diaspora I’ve spoken to have said that you will never know until you ask. What are some questions you’ve always wanted to ask, that, for those reasons you’ve just mentioned, haven’t been answered?
There are lots of things that I’ve wanted to ask family and other Cambodian people. Like what exactly happened to you during the war? Do you remember what happened to your brother/sister/mother/child? Do you miss them? Did you ever fear for your life? Did you understand what was happening? How did you escape? How do you feel about it now? What do you miss most? Would you ever go back now? And of course all the questions that would inevitably follow from the responses from those. But there are many barriers to these questions – including language, an inability to speak about the time, and my own hesitancy in learning about exactly what happened. But I think people—like you—are able to bridge that gap and access those stories and I am excited to see where that takes you.
For your exhibition Corporeal/Spiritual at Firstdraft gallery in 2020, you transformed joss paper into skin-like pieces, evoking the victims of the Khmer Rouge who haven’t been cremated according to Buddhist traditions, but displayed in museums. I’ve been thinking about your most recent processes as states of transformation, and forms of fragility and preservation. Is this a conscious thing for you—wanting to preserve rituals and memories that have been lost?
I think rituals for me are a way to access culture. Re-configuring these rituals and traditions have been a way for me to process that culture, so often it’s about re-configuring or contemporising rituals in my own way. It’s also about asking lots of questions. Like, what does it look like to preserve something? How can you preserve something that is non-tangible? How can you preserve something that exists across an ocean? What does that look like for me, on a daily basis? The answers to those questions are constantly changing and because of that, so are the mediums that I work with. At the same time I also see my practice as a way to try to bridge the gap that I feel with those memories of the past and the experiences of the loss of culture that happens with children of diasporic nations. I don’t necessarily think it’s a conscious thing.
My parents always tried to involve me in as many Cambodian traditions as possible and it was me who wanted to step away from it. I guess in my own way it’s a regret I have, in pushing away that side of my identity. And because of that separation it’s created a sort of longing for understanding. My work tends to be quite ephemeral and because I work with sculptures that need assembly and installation, works only really exist in exhibition spaces. Its constant transformation is exhilarating and exhausting at the same time.
Inevitably, looking back at the culture also necessitates looking at the events that break that culture; the most significant rupture being the Khmer Rouge which forced my family’s migration to Australia and, for context, killed an estimated two million Cambodian people.
Can you talk about Salt Water Deluge? Someone commented on your Instagram that the crystalised silks look like dried fruit. Did you anticipate this or was it surprising seeing these forms for the first time? How much trial and error was involved?
Salt Water Deluge is a project that I had been thinking about for a while, and that I have been working on refining throughout the whole of last year and will be continuing to iterate on. The work involves the use of silk, salt, and collected water (including rainwater and water from lakes, waterways, and oceans). The work has shifted quite a lot, and I honestly didn’t really know what the work would end up looking like. The way that I work often starts with material play, which then progresses into lots of experimentation with form and how to install it. Sometimes I do have an image in mind that I am working towards. But because I’m playing with so many different variables and constantly trialling ratios of materials (for example the salinity of the water I am collecting and the type of salt I use) it doesn’t always turn out the way that I expect, but I think that’s a good thing. One iteration of the work is currently on display at Casula Powerhouse Arts Centre in their exhibition LOSS and is a collaboration between my sister and I, working from opposite sides of the world to produce the work.
Are there other ways you connect with the culture besides through your practice?
The main way I’ve experienced culture is through my family. My parents often go to the temple, so I sometimes join them. I participate in rituals and ceremonies like Ancestor Day and Khmer New Year celebrations. Sometimes it’s the small things that make me feel connected to culture, like hearing strangers speak Khmer when I am out and about or seeing some form of Khmer writing (that I’m not able to read). When I was living at my parent’s house, my Grandma and Aunt on my Dad’s side often watched Khmer dubbed dramas that echoed through the house, and my Grandma on my Mum’s side often watched videos of people moving through the Cambodian countryside, both of which I’ve caught glimpses of. I intend to take up Khmer language lessons to pick up where I left off some fifteen years ago, and learn to speak to my family in a language they understand.
You mentioned before about being overwhelmed if the traumatic history isn’t taken a portion at a time, but are there aspects of the culture you find joyful or positive?
There are lots of things I enjoy. The food! Although, since going vegan I’ve not been able to have very much Cambodian cuisine. I really enjoy the culture’s emphasis and reliance on the importance of family. The natural desire to help without being asked to. The majestic temples and shrines. The emphasis on tradition and community and respect for the elderly. The traditional dress and crafts upheld by artisans. And the resilience of the culture. They are all things I really admire.
You’ve moved around a couple of times in the last few years. How have you adapted the way you work to each space?
Each time I move to a new space, I kind of have to shift the way that I fit into that space, especially in relation to other people. I’ve had to move a lot because my husband moved overseas to study, so for me that meant moving in with a friend, then back to living with family, then with my husband again but adding a roommate. In 2019, I was lucky enough to be offered a studio space with 4A Centre for Contemporary Asian Art, and in 2020 I was living with my parents in Western Sydney, which allowed me a lot of space to spread out, which was really valuable in creating my work Corporeal/Spiritual.
I’ve just recently moved to Boston. Each time I move feels like a disruption to my practice. I am still acclimatising, but I have tried to keep some routines the same and brought along as many art materials as my suitcase would allow—it helps to be surrounded by familiar things. I’ve found that having a studio space has been quite valuable to my practice, so I’ll be moving into a more permanent studio space soon.
Do you have any advice for emerging artists?
Work so that you can make art. Prioritise your art making because it is important! Look at things outside your field for inspiration. But also be kind to yourself and take breaks when you need them.
Who inspires you?
The people behind Hyphenated Projects, all the people at Pari, artists like Erik N Mack, Carolina Caycedo, Princess Moon, Shivanjani Lal, Salote Taweel, Tau Lewis, Shireen Tawale, Hayley Megan French, Ricky Orng, pretty much anyone who is able to keep making art, and most importantly, my husband.
What are you listening to?
A playlist on Spotify called Zombie Radio and a podcast called Nice White Parents.
What are you reading?
I’ve started a couple of books: Funny Weather by Olivia Laing and Phantasmatic Indochina by Panivong Norindr, both books recommended to me by friends of mine. And also Return Engagements by Việt Lê.
How do you practice self-care?
I am trying to get into the habit of reading every morning while I am having my coffee, and also meditating and practicing a skincare routine. I also try to keep track of when I do these things in a journal so I can look back and see times where I’ve been better at looking after myself.
What does being Asian-Australian mean to you?
To me it means to be in-between. It means to be both and to be neither. It’s a weird space to encompass, but it also means to have the best of both worlds. It means solidarity with other Asian-Australians, but also a longing for a homeland. I think there has been more of a resurgence in the importance of togetherness in these times, and I think that really reflects what it means to be Asian-Australian.
The way that I work often starts with material play, which then progresses into lots of experimentation with form and how to install it. Sometimes I do have an image in mind that I am working towards.
Linda Sok’s Corporeal/Spiritual was recently selected
as a finalist for the Ravenswood Women’s Art Prize.
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Linda is also currently showing work at the Multicultural Centre of Art in Boston.
Find out more
Interview by Allison Chhorn
Illustrations by Viet-My Bui