Tidawhitney Lek’s Elsewheres

In Tidawhitney Lek’s paintings, figures are often depicted in transitional spaces: standing in doorways, walking through hallways, or climbing and descending stairs. When they are not resting or tending to each other, they are in motion. Her women frequently wear traditional Cambodian sarongs or sompots – skirts made of shimmering, geometrically patterned fabric cinched at the waist – usually paired with lacy blouses. Lek’s compositions evoke the feeling that these moments happen in our peripheral vision. Look away for a moment, and the scene might change. The people will have moved on. The viewer is left examining bags of rice or open doors leading elsewhere. Meanwhile, bougainvillea blooms on a metal fence as the sun sets in the distance. If you look closely enough, sometimes you’ll find an outstretched, ghostly hand.

Between 1975 and 1995, more than 150,000 Cambodians entered the United States, the majority of them as refugees fleeing the impact of the genocidal and destructive Khmer Rouge regime. Lek’s parents, who were teenagers when the movement seized power, were among those who survived and later resettled in the greater Long Beach, California area, which is home to one of the largest Cambodian communities in the United States. Born in Long Beach, Lek is the youngest daughter and sixth out of seven siblings. She grew up in this unique diasporic environment, one where you might hear the distinctive pok-pok sound of a neighbour pounding chili paste in a mortar and pestle or, on the weekends, join family in giving alms to monks from the local temple.

It is within this greater context – one shaped by forced migration, community care and translated traditions – that Lek creates her paintings. Lek’s smaller-scale works capture moments of unexpected beauty in her native landscape, as seen in Around the Corner, which features a trash can adorned with stickers and spray paint. Garbage bins, wrought-iron fences, street signs and other markers of suburban and urban sprawl make frequent appearances in her work. These paintings express an evident affection for place. In memorialising the mundane, Lek offers visual gestures of recognition to her family and community elders: This is not your motherland, but it is mine. I will translate this place for you; I will make it ours.

‘As much as Lek is interested in her motherland, her paintings are less about Cambodia or the United States as nations than the boundary where someone’s memory of a place coincides with another’s lived experience.’

To understand the present, Lek draws on her family’s past, creating compositions inspired by, or sometimes directly referencing, her family’s oral histories and experiences. These allusions are not always obvious, and even something as simple as a silhouetted palm tree in the background reminds us that the landscape of Southern California is not entirely different from that of Southeast Asia. (Many common plants in the United States are non-native, including almost all varieties of palm trees. Movement is, after all, a part of human and non-human life). As much as Lek is interested in her motherland, her paintings are less about Cambodia or the United States as nations than the boundary where someone’s memory of a place coincides with another’s lived experience. These meetings often occur in interior spaces like living rooms and bedrooms, such as in Can I Hold You?, where Lek’s mother and her two daughters lounge together on a bed. In the background, a recent news clip indicative of our present political climate – where the definition of American citizenship is once again contested – plays on an old-fashioned television. Threats to the safety of non-white people in the United States are nothing new. They infiltrate the sanctity of domestic space, but life goes on anyway. While this painting offers us a picture of supposed relaxation, it is also an image of strength in the face of ideological terror.

Although Lek’s tender gatherings evoke a sense of intimacy, they don’t promise a utopian escape. In these spaces, tough conversations might happen, or they might not. It’s unclear whether families can truly heal from intergenerational trauma or share their feelings without fear of judgment. However, as the artist notes, ‘It’s not until we make the paintings that we find room to address it.’ The ‘it’ – that may be addressed – might refer to all of the above and more. What matters is that in these images, Lek offers the space to explore the possibilities between us and the people we love. When words fail or can’t be said, perhaps painting can help bridge a divide.

‘Diasporic life insists that we are tethered to other lands through people and objects, while global trade makes the boundary between here and there ambiguous, like the spaces in Lek’s paintings.’