On Thursday, February 26, the Lenfest Center for the Arts welcomed Ocean Vuong and Laurie Anderson for a two-hour event on the connection between Buddhist and creative practices. 

Last Thursday, February 26, I attended a Lenfest Center for the Arts event that featured Ocean Vuong and Laurie Anderson (BC ‘69, SoA ‘72), two well-known figures in the literary and artistic realms. As an award-winning writer and photographer, Vuong’s work often touches upon his Vietnamese-American identity, personal relationships, and family stories. With degrees in art history and sculpture from Barnard and Columbia, respectively, Anderson is a five-time Grammy-nominated musician, writer, and visual artist known for her avant-garde works. Moderated by Dominique Tonwsend, Director of the Center for Buddhist Studies in the Department of Religion, and introduced by Carol Becker, Professor of the Arts and Dean Emerita, the event explores Vuong and Anderson’s experiences with Buddhist practices and how different aspects of Buddhism are closely connected with their creative practices. 

After being introduced to Vuong’s writing in high school by my English teacher, I’ve been a major fan of his works, especially his poetry collection “Night Sky with Exit Wounds.” I learned about Anderson’s art more recently, when a close friend of mine showed me some of her art and music. Hence, when I saw the event on someone’s Instagram story, I rushed to the Lenfest website, successfully obtaining a ticket. The lobby of the building, located on 125th Street, was filled with people, some waiting for the next elevator to take them to the venue, and others who were hoping to get off the waiting list. 

As the final few people trickled into the venue, which had an expansive view of uptown Manhattan, the excited voices died down. Vuong and Anderson stepped onto the makeshift stage near the front of the room, which housed a few chairs, microphones, and what seemed to be an electronic keyboard. The event began with a performance, which Vuong and Anderson dedicated to Renee Good and Alex Pretti, who were shot and killed by ICE agents in January in Minneapolis, Minnesota. 

Vuong first stepped up to the microphone, holding a book in his hand. Other than his passionate verses, the room was completely silent, allowing his voice to echo and project. Vuong’s spoken word touched upon countless emotions and reflected upon the current state of the country, in which he said, “I know the room you’ve been crying in is called America.” As a poetry nerd myself, I began jotting down some of my favorite verses that Vuong performed. Among them was, “How come the past tense is always anger?” I found this question to be particularly thought-provoking in the way Vuong paired a verb conjugation method with a common emotion. I also contemplated as the performance went on, trying to better grasp the meaning behind each line. 

Laurie Anderson’s performance came right after. Combining spoken verse with music, she told the audience of her unique experience with John F. Kennedy when she was a girl. Running for student council, Anderson had written to Kennedy, who was then a senator, asking for advice. Her spoken account of the letter exchange—in which Kennedy had written back with advice, Anderson had responded with good news of her win, then wished Kennedy good luck on his presidential campaign—received many laughs from the crowd. Anderson also touched upon the relationship between government and love, asking, “What is love?” Once again, I found myself wondering and contemplating. What especially intrigued me was the collaboration between spoken word and live music that Anderson implemented. As she spoke, she played on the keyboard and electronic violin, creating music that heightened the atmosphere through its experimental nature. 

As the applause died down at the end of the performance, Townsend directed the attention to the key focus of the night’s event: the connections between Buddhist values, practice, and creativity. As someone who has very limited exposure to Buddhism and its ideas, I found this conversation to be an especially eye-opening experience. Vuong and Anderson talked about their experiences with Buddhism, which started off quite differently. Growing up in a Vietnamese-American household in Hartford, Connecticut, Vuong was raised to be Buddhist. He recalls wondering, “Who eats the fruit on the altar?” as a child. Continuing on about his later experiences with Buddhism, Vuong described how he initially wanted to be a monk. However, the institution he was eyeing was unaccredited, and the later series of events led Vuong to become a writer instead. 

While Anderson was not exposed to Buddhist values during childhood, she, too, has a deep relationship with the religion. She was introduced to Buddhism by her friend, who she described as having obtained a “meditation-focused mind.” Interested in the practice, Anderson began “hardcore” meditation herself, sometimes meditating up to eighteen hours a day. 

The conversation then pivoted to directly addressing the connection between Buddhist and creative practices, in which both Anderson and Vuong provided many examples in their creation processes and works. Vuong elaborated on the differences between Eastern Buddhism and Western thought, explaining that Buddhism “goes against the Western mode of storytelling.” To Vuong, westernized Buddhism is too self-absorbed, while he was taught to look around at nature and neighbors and to be more aware. In talking about creating, Vuong said, “You feel your brain is larger because your nervous system is absorbing the world.” 

The last part of the event was dedicated to answering a few questions from the audience. The first question posed was, “How do you stay awake to your own idea?” I found the responses to be extremely thought-provoking as an artist myself. I’ve suffered many sessions of what I consider to be writer’s block, so I found it surprising to hear Vuong say that “there is no such thing.” According to him, ideas move like the weather in the way a writer develops a voice they already have. This concept deeply resonated with me and is something I will keep in mind as I continue to develop as a writer. 

Anderson’s response was also eye-opening. Her perspective was that the goal of an artist is not pure expression. An artist is “making stuff that we often don’t know what it means, and it doesn’t matter.” Sometimes, one might put a verse or visual piece onto paper without knowing the true explanation behind it, and that is okay. 

The end of the discussion culminated in a question of how to maintain mindfulness in an increasingly digital world, which progressed into a talk about the presence of AI when it comes to art. “I never understood why AI would appeal to a writer,” Vuong said. 

Townsend’s conclusion was closely followed by a long roar of enthusiastic applause and an exchange of hugs. Many audience members—myself included—left the venue with a new outlook on the creation of art, Buddhist values, and a signed book (or two). This discussion between Vuong and Anderson has inspired me to continue creating art and to be more cognisant of the happenings around me. Especially during a time when the digital realm is always at our fingertips, it is now more important than ever to take ownership of our own work and to seek more opportunities to engage with the physical world.

Image via Author