Walking in, Mike’s place was everything you’d expect of a painter’s lodgings: art of all kinds hanging from the walls, one portrait of his wife dressed in Renaissance garb, another of a shanty town in the Philippines. Tacked to the side of the kitchen cupboard was a mosaic of Janet Leigh from Psycho in the classic scene before she gets stabbed, right below that a refrigerator on top of which sat a few bottles of wine, whiskey, and other spirits. Displayed atop a shelf storing his hat collection was a piece he’d recently finished. An all-too-familiar Saigon scene of motorbikes jam packed together, done on an orange background. Pointing out a girl in the painting, he laughed and said that was his friend, had nothing to do with the picture—Something of a Where’s Waldo situation, a fun little easter egg. Opening the fridge, Mike asked if I wanted a drink. Whiskey, we decided. Four in the afternoon on another one of these sweltering Saigon days, one second it’s raining, the next the sun’s burning you to the bone. I sat in front of a bookshelf filled with paperbacks, hardcovers, and some of his favourite painter’s art books. Velázquez, he told me, is the one. Something about an effortless natural ability at painting the royalty of his time. With a fan blowing right in my face, droning music playing from Mike’s laptop, and ice melting in glasses filled with Canadian Club, the next few hours talking to Mike were shrouded in a tropical haze.
He was born in Burlington, Ontario. After looking up the place, I realise it’s probably as far away as you can get from a city like Saigon. Situated on the shores of Lake Ontario between Toronto and Niagara Falls, pictures reveal a spacious, green-filled city. From there, he did a bit of moving around to a few areas in Ontario like Milton, London, and Fonthill. It’s hard to say whether his childhood surroundings had any affect on his art—That whole nature vs nurture debate, but what I can infer is that perhaps growing up there ignited his desire to see more of the world. Less of his birthplace’s postcard picturesqueness and more of the rugged, raw, and real. No matter what, Mike’s love of art began at an early age. The first drawing he remembers is of a remote controlled car—Radio Shack was all the hype back then. He also loved to write. One of the main stories he’d tell during show and tell hours at school were about a stuffed puppet dog called Wrinkles. Despite a shared passion for both art forms, it wasn’t long before he decided to focus on painting. In high school he started oil painting. Wildlife was the subject, which he painted by attempting to copy Edgar Degas’ Impressionist style. Upon graduating he went on to study at the Nova Scotia College of Art and Design where he majored in painting and minored in art history. As is common among arts university graduates—myself included—once you’re done you’re left a little aimless, unsure whether those years spent studying your passion really made any difference. The fact is, art school might teach you a lot, but you never really learn how to start making a living through your art. So, despite a graduate art show with the renowned pop artist Claus Oldenberg, he was unable to get much work. Mike loaded a U-Haul and drove back to Fonthill. Home, again.
Call it chance or call it fate, there are moments in your life when you’re presented with choices that can alter its course. For Mike, the fact that his dad’s friend, who owned an international school in Wuhan, China, was looking for teachers could be considered one such moment. Once again he packed up his bags, decided to go on a solo trip through Europe beforehand. He hit 13 countries in total, immersing himself in the culture through visits to museums like the Louvre in Paris and Rembrandt’s House in Amsterdam. It’s during this time he says he really got his first glimpse into what the masters had done. In the year 2006, off to Wuhan. His retired dad joined him there, and they taught English for five hundred dollars a month. He didn’t do much art in Wuhan owing to a lack of galleries, art stores, and inspiration. More than that, he was too busy navigating the shock of finally being in Asia. After ten months he moved to Korea where it wasn’t long before the art bug bit him once more. Mike ended up staying in Korea for four years, learned a bit of the language, and even had two exhibitions in Samcheongdong and Hongdae. At the time he was inspired by the skyscrapers dotting Seoul’s skyline, and the way scenery came out warped in the window’s reflections. Though he enjoyed his time in Korea, after four years he started asking questions about what he really wanted to do. Those questions resulted in a move back to Canada and the possibility of getting a masters in art. Another one of those moments. He might’ve gone down that path were it not for a friend who’d been teaching in Vietnam who told him to join. Away, again.
Mike’s been in Saigon since 2012. That’s long for someone who seems to have made it a habit to travel whenever given the opportunity, and hearing him tell it, he did leave once in 2018 thinking he was done with the place. He went to Turkey, Egypt, Morocco, among others, back on the road again with that childlike wonder and just a need to see it all. Though he loved being away, home beckoned. Home was Saigon. Home was a woman who would go on to become his wife. Vietnam did to him what it does to so many of us. Grabs you—and even if it loosens its grip for a moment—never lets go.
The effect it’s had on his art is especially evident. Since his arrival he’s always had something to work on, and he even explained that he used to cycle to a different coffee shop everyday, maneuvering through the hems for photos which would later serve as inspiration for paintings. As he put it, it’s impossible to get tired of this city. While he doesn’t go out on his bicycle as much, his process remains the same. Using his phone, he takes a picture of whatever piques his interest. Once it’s printed, he’ll put a pink ground on a canvas to serve as the base layer—He started this after visiting the Prado Museum in Spain where he saw a pink ground on an unfinished portion of a Goya. With the ground set, he’ll sketch onto the canvas with a blue pencil crayon. All the while, he’ll have music playing: anything droning, shoegaze-y, indie rock. Think Guided by Voices, DIIV, Tim Hecker. Once the sketch is done, he’ll head out onto the balcony where he’s got his easel, paint, and light set up, not to mention a semi-obstructed view of Trường Sa. He always paints at night (it’s too hot during the day), sometimes with some wine, and in past rainy seasons he had to tuck himself into a corner to protect his paintings from the rain. He’s a little better off now, thanks to the roof his landlord installed. What’s born then out of this process that begins with Mike’s eye are paintings depicting all facets of Saigonese life. A horde of motorbikes waiting for the light to go green, ladies selling vegetables on the side of the road, a twisted jumble of houses, stacked one atop the other.
A few hours had passed. The oppressive humidity hadn’t let up even once. I wiped the sweat on my forehead, had the last sip from my glass, more melted ice than whiskey. Before I left Mike told me what was next. He was working on a website, he said, someplace he could showcase all his art. Besides that, he wanted to do another show. The last one was last year at Neo-, and though he currently has art up at Mixtape and Alibi, he wants to put on another exhibition. Regardless of when that happens, he’ll be painting until it does. Like he told me, it’s impossible to get tired of this city, and he’s still got so much of it to see.
- Follow Mike on Instagram
- Add Mike on Facebook
- Check out Mike’s website
