In the sculptural and pictorial universe created by Pinaree Sanpitak, the body is a constellation of buoyant fragments—a vague question held by a golden breast-shaped stupa, or a quiet gesture tucked inside the fold of silk. Existing in a state of intertwined materiality and visceral abstraction, her body-inspired works invite people to carefully observe their manicured textures, suggestive shapes, and barely perceptible rhythms. In her solo show, “Fragile Narratives,” at Galerie Lelong & Co., New York, Pinaree brings together a selection of somatic works to orchestrate a feast of visuals and movements: the translucent mawata silk that hugs a feminine torso in the “Womanly Bodies” painting series; the kinetic sculptures from “Balancing Act,” made of household utensils topped with stacked paper breasts; and a selection of acrylics on canvas, peppered with materials that not only symbolize a body in constant metamorphosis but also encourage viewers to dialogue with their own corporeal home.
MY FIRST ENCOUNTER with a dead body was when I was maybe seven or eight. With a group of friends, somehow, we were able to convince the guard to open the morgue at Chiang Mai University Hospital. We had a brief peek before we were chased out, but I remember being more excited than afraid of the bodies. This curiosity about—and comfort with—bodies started at home. As doctors, my parents held a very scientific, matter-of-fact attitude toward the body: My father’s skeleton is kept at the medical school of Khon Kaen University, which my parents helped cofound, and my mother has instructed me to do the same for her after her passing. She also kept the fetus from her miscarriage as a sacred memento. Growing up with them on medical school campuses taught me to see matters of life and death in a natural way. Now I’ve passed midlife, and I would be lucky to have twenty more years. . . . I think about it but am not afraid. I just wish for good health to be able to keep on working and lead a worthwhile life.
An abstracted body is an open interpretation that expands our anatomical perception, as it doesn’t hold a typical form. Its conceptual flexibility thus allows me to challenge social expectations that are usually imposed upon our bodies. This way of looking at the body fascinates me, ever since I started working with the figure of the breast. I want to see it from every angle and visualize it with every material possible. Throughout the last forty-something years, I have grown alongside my breast works; you could say that they act as my evolving self-portraits. Collectively, they intertwine to form a personal lexicon that reflects the different stages and emotions that I’ve experienced.
The title “Fragile Narratives” is a reflection on how precarious our world is, a contemplation on how we can keep balanced while still making the best out of this life. For me, this sense of fulfillment often comes from my solitude. I’m a very domestic person: Much like my artworks, my home keeps me grounded. So, naturally, this sense of domesticity and rootedness materializes in my paintings. They are developed very slowly: I take my time composing my forms and symbols, so as to create moods, stories, and sensations. For Gathering Table, I envisioned the body as a landscape, or home-scape. I imagine it as a space of congregation and intimacy. On that floating body-table, I revived symbols from my previous works, such as the breast cloud, the golden breast stupa, and a print from the “Womanly Bodies” series. Within this evanescent terrain, fragments of my practice collide to form a metaphorical regale through art, food, and human connections.
My fascination with the body—its form and texture—also manifests in an instinctive draw to certain materials. If I go out in the world and see things that I like—a shapely pot or a papery roll of mulberry bark—I will collect them, even though I don’t know how to use them until much later. There’s a time for every material to reveal itself, to be part of your work. For example, the first Womanly Bodies was created in 1998—a set of twenty-five hanging sculptures made with mulberry bark, pounded and stretched into fibrous sheets. They looked fragile but possessed an admirable durability. Still, I knew that they would not work on canvas. That is, until twenty-two years later, when I was able to realize them on canvas with mawata silk. My discovery of mawata was quite serendipitous, as it’s derived from silkworms who eat mulberry leaves—my original medium. The work thus feels like an embodiment of life cycles, both bioorganic and artistic. The mawata lends itself to novel and subtle interpretations. And that’s how I work: My works are layered, similar to a book, a poem, or a film. As you peel away each filament, the story continues to unfurl.
The “Balancing Act” series traces a similar path of organic evolution, albeit through a more tumultuous period. During the 2019 Setouchi Triennale on Honjima Island, I placed eight small sculptures—crafted by stacking hand-torn paper on wooden bases—inside the now-abandoned house of Akio Takahashi, a late shiwaku daiku carpenter, as an homage. Seeing them displayed there, I was moved by how a home can embody one’s life stories. Later, as I combined paper with household utensils, I discovered that certain utensil-sculptures could move. An idea then came to me: Instead of rendering them as static, why don’t I make my sculptures kinetic? I tested different methods, from arranging the sculptures on shelves with movable joints to experimenting with round-bottomed pots that can sway on their own. Coincidentally, Covid hit around the same time. As we all tumbled into chaos, my desire to create self-moving works gradually overlapped with my hope to remain balanced amid shaky situations. Eventually, I collaborated with Bangkok-based Studiomake designers and engineers to create a kinetic electric base, upon which each piece wiggles with its distinct momentum, akin to how one regulates one’s body to maintain balance.
My artworks show me how to interact with them. As I observe the mixture of objects that I’ve gathered—from baskets bought at Tokyo flea markets to Turkish coffeepots, from colonial baby bottles found in Sri Lanka to Russian enamel cups—their histories gradually emerge. I like to see how my works evolve outside of my hand’s reach; it’s a good practice for detachment. Personal trauma has left me sensitive to touch and protective of my personal space. But when I collaborate with the glass masters, the papermakers, the chefs, and the mechanics, I learn to allow other people in and to trust them. Working collaboratively helps me discover new perspectives on my work and to become more flexible in the process. I keep working, not just for showing and having a career; I actually need to do it. I need to get my hands dirty to be in touch with my body.
— As told to Hung Duong
