Meet Emmy Tran, a queer visual artist based in Toronto, Canada, who fearlessly channels their creativity into artwork that celebrates love, trauma, life, and healing. They are an unapologetic force of artistic expression, constantly defying conventional norms and challenging the status quo.
Born and raised in Vietnam, Emmy's journey as a full-time artist in Canada embodies the audacity to live life on their own terms. With vibrant tattoos adorning their skin and the fuel of ramen powering their appetite, they fearlessly embrace their identity as a queer individual, unwavering in their pursuit of authenticity and pushing boundaries in their craft.
Arriving in Toronto with just two suitcases at the tender age of 17, they embarked on a journey of self-discovery and resilience. “My story is that of an immigrant child who had to learn how to become their own parent and imagine their life from scratch with no blueprint.” It is a journey marked by both agonizing challenges and profound moments of bliss. Their raw and honest portrayal of the human experience, amplified by their diagnosis of bipolar disorder, resonates deeply with those who have long kept their emotions muted.
In a world where queer individuals are often relegated to the shadows, the Vietnamese artist defiantly thrusts their narrative into the light. Their art becomes a weapon against pervasive stereotypes, proclaiming, “We're gay, not circus freaks, not pornstars, not a bit.” With unwavering resolve, they demand recognition and space, dismantling the barriers that confine and suppress queer voices. They challenge society to acknowledge their humanity, affirming that love and intimacy know no bounds.
Emmy’s artistic journey has been fraught with obstacles, and they admit “it hasn’t been easy” for them. “Galleries have turned me away due to the subject matter. Lots of hate speech and harassment online and in-person. Etsy banned me for life for pornography. Insurance companies refused my business because the content of my artwork did not meet their appetite.”
In celebration of Pride Month, we proudly showcase the inspiring works of this talented queer Vietnamese immigrant artist. With boldness and resilience, they dismantle the walls that confine, inviting us all to explore the limitless horizons of self-expression. Through their unapologetic artistry, they inspire us to reimagine a world where diversity thrives and acceptance knows no bounds. Emmy Tran, an artist for whom boundaries exist solely to be pushed.
What was your proudest moment, and how did it change you?
Lately, I’ve been super proud of my BYOB (Bring Your Own Booty) art classes. People join the class to paint their nudes. They send me a reference photo beforehand, I sketch the body onto a canvas, and they come to the class and paint it. Since everything is mapped out in my sketch, people walk away with a pretty strong piece regardless of their painting skills.
To be able to transfer ideas from my brain to physical reality is always satisfying. But the most rewarding part about the class is its built community and how it makes people feel. My students tell me that the class was healing to them and their relationship with their bodies because it allowed them to see themselves as art. To be able to facilitate such a vulnerable and intimate experience is not a small responsibility. I feel extraordinarily blessed and affirmed in my work when people tell me it makes a difference.
How do you define success in your life and work?
Success to me is synonymous with contentment – and it’s measured by these three pillars: autonomy, creative pursuit, and the reduction of suffering around oneself. I need, not want, the freedom to actualize ideas. I have so many of them all the time.
My art and craft might take other forms at some point, but I see myself creating for the rest of my life. And to even be able to aspire to these things shows a lot of privilege. I try not to take what’s been given to me for granted, and I try to pay it forward when I can because there’s just so much abundance around and so much suffering. My entire body of work is deeply rooted in community, and as long as one of us is hurting, all of us are hurting.
What do you miss most about Vietnam?
I don’t know where to start, but my parents are on top of the list. It’s pretty unbelievable to think about the fact that I haven’t lived in the same country as my parents for the last seven years – from my adolescence to early adulthood. So a part of me always misses the feeling of being a child living at home, with parental figures, in their motherland. Also, my moped – a 1994 Honda Cub. And all the street food.
Could you describe any specific elements of Vietnamese culture or traditions that you incorporate into your art?
The visuals I grew up seeing largely influenced my use of colors and maximalism. Our culture is so vibrant and saturated - think of Hoi An’s streets, the Tet and Trung Thu colors, or flower bikes in Hanoi. Such colorful imagery always made me happy, so I subconsciously incorporated that into my work. I’ve always associated the West with grays and monotones, and minimalism doesn’t excite me.
Your artwork has explored themes that some may consider bold or explicit. What kind of reactions or discussions do you hope to evoke from viewers when they encounter your more ‘provocative’ pieces?
I’m not oblivious or naive. I know I exist in a heteronormative world as a queer woman, not just “a woman.” I am aware our love, our sex, and our lifestyles are not the same as hetero folks. The general public, or straight people, always find my work to be “pushing boundaries” or “provocative.” Some even fetishize and compare it to pornography. On the other hand, queer folks just perceive it as art.
For my well-being, I only exhibit my work at precisely queer spaces; fortunately, there are many in Toronto. I don’t have the mental capacity to justify my work to straight people who feel the subject matter is “exotic” or “abnormal.” At this stage in my career, I only want to go where I feel safe.
How do you navigate the fine line between artistic expression and potentially pushing boundaries that some may find uncomfortable?
Commissions and customs aside, I don’t think of other people or their comfort when creating. I make art because I have something to say that accidentally resonates with people.
In what ways has your queer identity influenced your artistic process and the messages you aim to convey through your artwork?
Basically, the message is just to normalize us. We’re gay, not circus freaks, not pornstars, not stereotypes, not a bit. We have sex, and we love each other in different ways than you do, but we’re still your friends, your daughters, your sons, your siblings, and your neighbors. We deserve space, and we deserve to see ourselves in movies, TV shows, and museums, just like you have been seeing yourselves for centuries. Not all of us can afford to be loud and obnoxious about it, but I can. That’s why I do what I do.
In celebration of Pride Month, what’s the role of art in fostering inclusivity and representation for the LGBTQ+ community?
Art is culture, and it moves the world, whether visual arts, film, music, etc. Art enables change AND reflects change at the same time. So as society evolves and cultures shift, the art born out of each generation embodies what the people are going through. Our LGBTQIA+ community is enjoying unprecedented freedom and liberation, yet we’re still facing extreme resistance and oppression systemically.
Living in a protected North American bubble, I confront the harsh reality that same-sex marriage remains illegal or criminalized in most parts of the world. Even in Vietnam, my home country, my partner and I don't have the opportunity to marry each other, and we don't feel safe traveling openly as queer women in numerous other places. These experiences have imbued my art with profound political significance.
By creating and showcasing our authentic selves, we break down barriers and advocate for acceptance and equality. Through art, we strive to transcend being politicized “queer people” and simply exist as individuals in a world that celebrates diversity and love.
How do you approach the intersectionality of identities, including race, gender, and sexuality, in your art to ensure diverse representation and inclusivity?
My art is just an extension of me. And I am a queer Vietnamese immigrant woman. (That’s a mouthful.) My identity is at the intersection of so many different perspectives, which gives me a deep empathy towards everyone. As annoying and abstract as that may sound, it’s true. I am moved by everyone around me. And living in a city as diverse as Toronto, I am nurtured and supported by the community every day. How can I not create art that represents and includes diversity when the very people I love are from all different backgrounds? I think it’s not a matter of going out of my way to have everyone in my work, it’s a matter of creating work that’s authentic and reflects my community.
How can the art industry better support and uplift queer artists, particularly those from underrepresented backgrounds?
There’s no secret complex solution. Give us grants. Give us residencies. Give us opportunities. Subsidize our vendor fees. Shout us out. Introduce us to your rich friends who spend crazy money on obscure art. It’s not that hard!
Finally. How do you use your platform and artwork to create dialogue and promote understanding between different communities, fostering empathy and acceptance?
I use my platform and reach to raise funds/awareness about things that affect the community. I try to step back and dedicate my space to others when appropriate. I try to educate myself and learn when others have something to teach me. I don’t know everything. I don’t know anything! And I think that humility is a great place to start for most people. Allies who wish to be allies but don’t know how to be allies just need to be OK with that and be open to learning. I love teaching my queer folks about my Asian culture, and I love teaching my Asian folks about my queer culture. We all got more to learn.
My work puts me in some exceptional spaces with different communities. I’ve found that the more representation I have in my art, the more I connect with others. People are always so happy to see themselves appreciated (not appropriated) by someone who doesn’t look or speak or act like them. And I think that joy is universal. And I think that we’re not all that different than we think we are.