The Finitude and Fragility of the Artist in the Age of AI

A Conversation with Artist Trang Trịnh Following the Durational Performance "(In)finitude"

Interview by Trang Đoan

Original published in Vietnamese - read here

Photo by Do The Quang

Interviewer: First of all, thank you for agreeing to this interview with Sông Lam Magazine, and congratulations on a remarkable performance. This was the first time I had the opportunity to experience a 24-hour durational performance in person, and every passing hour felt genuinely meaningful. I'd like to begin by asking where the idea came from. Why did you decide to create this work in Vietnam, and why on the Summer Solstice?

Trang Trịnh:

This work began as a personal inquiry into the notion of performance itself. It grew out of my reflections on the accelerating speed of artificial intelligence (AI) and algorithmic systems, whose capacity for increasingly instantaneous response is reshaping the way we—and I include myself in this—perceive the world. This acceleration is diminishing our ability to sustain attention and narrowing our contemplative lives.

Confronted with this speed, I found myself wondering:

What might happen if we chose to linger a little longer?

At first glance, the twenty-four-hour duration of the performance may suggest an attempt at limitless optimization—another challenge to go higher, farther, longer, or an effort to achieve the impossible.

But in fact, it is an invitation to return to the most finite aspects of being human, and through them to reflect on deeply human values: fragility, memory, friendship, interdependence, and our capacity to be present with one another in real time.

That is one of the reasons the work is titled "(In)finitude."

Because the work is so personal, both a sense of place and a sense of time were essential to its realization.

Hanoi holds profound significance for me. It is where I was born, where I grew up, and where many of the experiences that shaped both my artistic thinking and artistic practice took place. As I reflected on authenticity and the search for human identity, I realized there could be no better place for this work to begin than Hanoi.

As for time, the Summer Solstice is commonly called "the longest day of the year." But I find that idea of time fascinating.

What is a day?

Is it the mechanical certainty of clock hands moving across a dial?

Or is it the natural movement of sunlight across the earth?

What is a day?

Is it simply a unit measured by timekeeping?

Or is it something created through our choice to be present with one another inside a non-traditional performance space?

I have many more questions than answers.

And I believe I have learned an extraordinary amount through this performance.

What might happen if we chose to linger a little longer?

Interviewer: In the program notes, you wrote that you longed for "a radical interruption" of the uninterrupted flow of everyday life. What is it in life that makes you yearn for such a pause?

Trang Trịnh:

I believe there are certain things that we simply cannot perceive—or truly appreciate—without taking the time to reflect.

The rapid acceleration of technologies designed for optimization promises to save us time. Yet so many experiences are then created merely to help modern people kill the very time they have saved.

More troubling still, optimization constantly asks us to value outcomes over the lived experience of working and living. Performance becomes more important than process.

Within this relentless current of life-that-just-keeps-going, is there ever a moment when we are slow enough to be genuinely happy?

Not only to appreciate the taste of a cup of water, but also—as The Little Prince reminds us—to savor the quiet journey of walking, step by step, toward the well itself.

One aspect of this performance was entirely new for me.

Throughout the twenty-four hours, I returned to the same classical works again and again.

Ordinarily, we almost never have the opportunity to "play again." A concert moves forward, one piece following another, and each work exists only once within that particular performance.

But here, repeating the same piece became a deliberate interruption of conventional concert expectations.

I wanted audiences to experience different versions of the same work alongside me—not simply the most polished or "perfect" version.

One audience member—whom I prefer to call a witness rather than merely a spectator—told me how deeply moved they were when I played Schumann at sunset.

I felt exactly the same.

It was magical.

Truly magical.

Interviewer: Throughout both your artistic practice and this performance, you speak frequently about AI. It's something I've been thinking about a great deal myself lately. When AI can compose music, create paintings, and write poetry, what do you believe remains uniquely human? What is it about an artist that cannot be replaced?

Trang Trịnh:

I have been working with AI out of genuine curiosity for quite some time now, and I have come to feel—as many AI scholars have also argued—that AI is neither as intelligent nor as frightening as we often imagine.

At the same time, I have to admit that there have been moments when, listening only to a recording, I genuinely could not distinguish between a work created by generative AI and one written by a human being.

That tells us something important.

It tells us that AI's ability to become an extraordinary tool for accelerating productivity is undeniable—even in activities we traditionally consider "creative," such as composing and performing music.

But I believe an artist is irreplaceable for exactly the same reason that no human being can truly be replaced by a machine.

What makes us irreplaceable are our genuine relationships with one another—our capacity to be moved by another person, and to move them in return; our ability to create emotional bonds, however messy, complicated, inconvenient, or difficult those relationships may sometimes be.

I see every one of my artistic practices as an act of care.

And at the heart of care lies our shared humanity.

And at the heart of care lies our shared humanity.

Interviewer: So, would you say it is precisely our imperfections—our incompleteness—that make genuine encounters between people possible, in ways technology never can?

Trang Trịnh:

Yes.

This is another layer behind the title "(In)finitude."

The very reason we need one another—why we need to be cared for and why we are capable of caring for others—is because each of us is incomplete and finite.

Paradoxically, those limitations are also what make our encounters meaningful—or sometimes meaningless.

They are what allow one person, among billions, to become uniquely significant to us, while others do not.

You cannot simply order a replacement mother the way you order a product online.

Even in adoption, where there is no biological relationship, the bond between parent and child possesses something sacred.

More broadly, I believe that every genuine human relationship—whether between family members or not—contains a certain sacredness. Of course, not every relationship is healthy. Some relationships are harmful. Some are even dangerous.

But the possibility of relationship itself—the possibility that human beings can form genuine bonds with one another—is something technology cannot create.

Technology may become remarkably good at simulating relationships.

And human beings are remarkably good at anthropomorphizing machines.

But simulation is not the same as relationship.

Reporter Trang Doan and pianist Trang Trinh - Photo by Do The Quang

Interviewer: Do you pursue perfection, or have you learned to embrace imperfection?

Trang Trịnh:

You've just touched on yet another dimension of the title "(In)finitude." I think I must live in relationship with both. I have to pursue perfection—in the sense of continually striving toward something better, something more beautiful. And that horizon of "better" is, itself, infinite.

At the same time, I have to accept imperfection. Doing so is an act of compassion toward myself and toward others. And here we return once again to the foundation of my artistic practice: care. Care is not about preserving something forever exactly as it is. To care for a tree is to wait patiently for the day it blossoms and bears fruit. But whether it flowers, whether it bears fruit, and when it chooses to do so—those things lie entirely beyond our control. The same is true when caring for a child. Teaching a student. Playing a piece of music. Or drawing a bow to release an arrow. Each of these requires perseverance, practice, patience, hope, acceptance.

And dreams.

Interviewer: Throughout the twenty-four hours, you were in conversation with many people—with a parallel world, with AI. Or were you ultimately in dialogue with yourself and your own questions?

Trang Trịnh:

I think I hoped to be in conversation with all of them.

Each chapter of the performance opened onto a different dimension of what is, for me, an endless conversation—one that continues because my questions themselves continue. While creating the work, I often asked myself why I feel such a profound longing to encounter the Other. Perhaps that longing is also what drew me toward dialogue as the central structure of the performance. Every layer of the script, every conversation within it, grew out of that same desire to meet someone beyond myself.

Interviewer: Performing continuously for twenty-four hours is an enormous physical challenge. It can exhaust a human artist. AI, on the other hand, never gets tired.

Do you see that as a weakness—or as a strength?

Trang Trịnh:

I believe it is our greatest strength. Fragility is the doorway through which care becomes possible. Brené Brown once wrote that "vulnerability is the birthplace of courage." and would add that it is also the birthplace of creativity. Think of the greatest artwork in the world. A child. A child born from its mother's body. What could possibly be more radically new than that? A wholly new life. Perfectly new. So new that no one can predict who this child will become, or what kind of life they will live. And yet this sacred newness is conceived through the deepest vulnerability of a human being. When that child enters the world, they depend entirely upon those who care for them. For me, our finitude—our dependence upon one another—is not a weakness. It is our greatest strength.

Interviewer: During the performance, you referred several times to Article 41, Chapter II of the Vietnam Constitution. I also noticed that your audience was remarkably diverse, including Deaf and blind audience members, among others. The performance itself invited audiences into different sensory experiences—of listening, seeing, and perceiving.

What message were you hoping to convey through these choices?

Trang Trịnh:

Recently, much of my research and artistic practice has focused on inclusive arts.

By this, I mean artistic practices in which disabled artists and audiences—as well as communities who commonly encounter barriers to participation, such as children, older adults, people with low or unstable incomes, and many others—are able to create, perform, and experience art together.

I believe artists have a responsibility to imagine a more inclusive world.

AI can only generate models based on patterns that already exist in the data it has been trained on.

In other words, it cannot imagine a world beyond the barriers that currently exist.

Human beings can.

And because we can imagine such a world, we also bear responsibility for imagining it.

If those new worlds are never first made real within works of art—within our imaginations—how could they ever become social reality?

Every table once existed only as a drawing in the notebook of a designer who dared to imagine it.

Likewise, if we cannot imagine a world in which everyone can be fully present, we are unlikely ever to build one.

Interviewer: Throughout your artistic journey, how have you tried to realize that vision—to create greater equity in both experiencing and making art?

Trang Trịnh:

This brings us to yet another dimension of "(In)finitude." The only thing I can really do is begin with my own artistic practice and my own way of living. I continue learning. I continue meeting new people and new communities. Working and co-creating with disabled artists in Canada and around the world has transformed the way I see.

They have shown me perspectives that are unlike my own—not simply because their bodies or lived experiences differ from mine, but because every perspective is singular.

What I mean is this: They are not extraordinary because they are disabled. They are extraordinary because they are themselves. The simple fact that someone exists as their own unique, irreplaceable self—and that we are able to meet one another within that uniqueness—is profoundly precious. Unfortunately, countless barriers still prevent many communities from experiencing those encounters. That is the tragedy. Sometimes I imagine how extraordinary the arts could become if we were able to hear the voices of so many more people—each carrying experiences unlike anyone else's.

Every individual offers a way of seeing the world that has never existed before.

That dream feels almost infinite.

What is finite—what is actually within my reach—is to continue directing my research and artistic practice toward the pursuit of this necessary equity.

Interviewer: In an era where everyone seems eager to distinguish themselves, to build a personal brand, and to attract attention, why do you instead speak about sitting together as friends and relying on one another?

Trang Trịnh:

(Laughs.)

Well, I would be lying if I said I didn't also want to be different—or that I didn't want people to notice my work. I'm only human. Like a child, I naturally want my existence to matter. In that sense, I hope to be irreplaceable to the people I love.

But you're right.

When I speak about care as the foundation of my artistic practice, I'm searching for something much deeper than making music or art that simply becomes another form of "cultural consumption"—something people purchase, enjoy, and leave behind without ever forming a relationship with the person who created it.

What I seek is encounter. And once we truly encounter one another, there are no customers and sellers. No masters and servants. There are only friends.

And friendship means relying on one another.

Being present when the other person needs you.

Even if that encounter lasts only for the brief duration of a performance.

Interviewer: Do you think our technological age—with all its convenience and instant connectivity—is causing us to take one another's presence for granted?

Trang Trịnh:

I believe genuine presence requires time.

Time is a very peculiar thing.

Everyone has experienced how slowly each second passes while waiting for someone they love.

And everyone has experienced how time seems to disappear entirely while doing something they deeply love.

Technology and convenience can create the illusion that we can truly be present for one another without giving one another very much time.

I don't believe that's possible. At the same time, I'm not outside the pull of technology myself. I'm just as susceptible to its conveniences and its seductions as anyone else.

Perhaps we are all being pushed toward the extreme limits of speed—

only so that we might rediscover how precious it is to spend time truly present with one another.

Interviewer: I was deeply struck by the ending of the performance. As you continued playing, the flowers, props, and elements of the stage were gradually cleared away. It made me feel the finitude within infinitude almost physically. It also led me to reflect on how we face loss in our own lives.

Why did you choose to end the work that way? What did you hope audiences would take away from it?

Trang Trịnh:

You know, that ending was actually an unexpected change.

It wasn't in the script.

The decision was made only a few hours before the performance began.

Because of circumstances beyond our control, the performance had to conclude earlier than we had originally planned.

But that's life.

Director Nguyễn Đức Tú, producer Phương Vũ, our entire creative team, and I decided together to embrace that reality and create an ending that felt complete precisely because it was incomplete.

As I played that final chapter, I found myself thinking constantly about "(In)finitude."

I thought about loss. About endings. But I also thought about beginnings.

Some pieces of music seem to end before they have even begun.

Others continue to resonate long after the final sound has faded away.

Whatever happens, life asks us to continue.

Interviewer: Throughout those twenty-four hours, audiences journeyed with you through memories, shifting emotions, tenderness, happiness, and pain. There were moments when I found myself in tears because of the beauty of what was unfolding, only to realize that every human life is itself a form of finitude within infinitude.

So let me ask you this:

How can our finite lives become meaningful? How can they leave a trace?

Trang Trịnh:

Thank you.

May I answer this using the Vietnamese form of address chị–em?

I'm deeply moved to know that "(In)finitude" touched you in that way.

I think, perhaps in the simplest sense—and perhaps happiness itself becomes greater the simpler we allow things to be—our lives have meaning only through the relationships in which we ourselves are genuinely present. That is enough.

I hope that our existence leaves behind beautiful traces in the lives of others.

Whether our names endure for centuries belongs to a timescale far beyond our brief human existence. The same is true of this performance.

If, within those twenty-four hours, even one person was moved—

if even one person paused long enough to connect with these reflections, which are at once deeply personal and profoundly universal— then that is already enough.

Time moves on.

Each of us returns to the busyness of everyday life. Yet I believe in the enduring necessity of art. I think of art as a ritual of attention.

Performances like "(In)finitude" are much like Lunar New Year, the return of the Summer Solstice, anniversaries, birthdays, or the first day of school. They are moments that invite us to step out of the relentless current of daily life. Places where we can pause. Take shelter. Anchor ourselves.

Within those moments, we offer ourselves—and one another—the generosity of time.

Time to pay attention. Time to reflect. Time to ask what matters most. Our relationship with ourselves. Our relationship with the Other. And our relationship with this world.

Interviewer:

Thank you sincerely for your honest, thoughtful, and deeply meaningful reflections—not only in this interview, but throughout your performance.

We wish you every success on the artistic path you have chosen, and hope you continue creating work that enriches professional music and the arts in Vietnam and around the world.