A gesture marking the end of their three-month residency at A. Farm, the show unfolds as an amalgam of thought fragments in which, intuitively and with a dizzying dose of cheekiness, the concept of time surfaces through the artists’ use of movement, objects, and period-defining mementoes and symbols. Truly a human construct, time in this instance is stretched, punctuated, and folded as they please to make space for speculation and dreaming. By presenting bodies in severed forms—limbless, immobilised, suspended in states of precarity and contradiction—Lê Đ. Chung’s works evoke the lingering afterimage of revolution(s), seen only after its climactic rupture has passed. Whether the revolution has fulfilled what it initially set out to achieve remains uncertain. Perhaps it never truly ends; instead, like a chronic pain, it continues and transforms into another form, another upheaval. In this suspended state, time stretches indefinitely, leaving severed bodies trapped in a perpetual present, detached from both past and future.

During a visit to the Southern Vietnamese Women’s Museum, Đỗ encountered a glass case displaying personal belongings of Vietnamese Heroic Mother and People’s Armed Forces Heroine, Major Trần Quang Mẫn, also affectionately known as Mười Mẫn. Among these possessions was a handwritten autobiographical account detailing how she disguised herself as a man, without her family’s knowledge, to join the revolution as a soldier. Presented simply as a modest stack of A4 pages written in ballpoint pen, the documents offered museum visitors only a limited glimpse into the depth and complexity of her life, beyond her celebrated wartime role. Đỗ’s works in the exhibition seeks to liberate the revolutionary heroine and her personal-turned-historical artefacts from the confines of those seemingly transparent museum glass cases, and in turn re-situates their stories in another setting untethered from grand narratives and ideological agendas.