Portfolio – Vaea Dang | Visual Artist

What the Shell Filters – 2026

Greig Farm, Red Hook, New York
Exhibition: October 14–December 14, 2026
Opening reception: Friday, October 16, 5:30–7:30 p.m.

La versión en español se encuentra más abajo ↓

Some creatures are overlooked because they are small. Yet beetles play an essential role in the ecosystems around us: they break down matter, nourish the soil, and help sustain balance. Beneath a protective shell, they carry delicate wings.

For this exhibition, I am making five beetles, building 3D paper sculptures, from perforated paper. Each has a different pattern, allowing the same light to pass through in a different way. The work grew from my interest in fragility and strength, and in how our histories and cultures shape what we see—and how we are seen.

As an immigrant, I often think about visibility and belonging. Being present does not always mean being recognized. The beetle has become a way for me to consider those who may go unnoticed while remaining vital to a larger community.

The Colony

Alongside the five sculptures, The Colony brings together beetle postcards transformed through drawing, painting, writing, embroidery, collage, and other media. Each began with the same outline and became something individual.

Together, these contributions form a collective artwork—a gathering of different voices sharing the same space.

Explore The Colony and browse the postcard carousel

The exhibition, in a book

I wanted to create something you could take home and return to after the show.

What the Shell Filters – The book – brings together the five paper beetles, close-up photographs, and the stories behind their patterns. It also celebrates The Colony and the wonderfully different postcards that so many people transformed and sent back. A QR code connects the book to the colony online.

Reserve your copy

Español

Algunas criaturas pasan desapercibidas por ser pequeñas. Sin embargo, los escarabajos desempeñan un papel esencial en los ecosistemas: descomponen la materia, nutren el suelo y ayudan a mantener el equilibrio. Bajo un caparazón protector, esconden alas delicadas.

Para esta exposición estoy creando cinco esculturas tridimensionales de escarabajos en papel perforado. Cada una tiene un patrón diferente que deja pasar la misma luz de una manera distinta. La obra nace de mi interés por la fragilidad y la fuerza, y por cómo nuestras historias y culturas influyen en lo que vemos y en cómo nos ven.

Como inmigrante, pienso a menudo en la visibilidad y la pertenencia. Estar presente no siempre significa ser reconocido. El escarabajo se ha convertido para mí en una forma de pensar en quienes pasan desapercibidos y, aun así, son fundamentales para una comunidad más amplia.

La Colonia

Junto a las cinco esculturas, La Colonia reúne postales de escarabajos transformadas mediante el dibujo, la pintura, la escritura, el bordado, el collage y otras técnicas. Todas partieron de la misma silueta y cada una se convirtió en algo único.

Juntas, estas contribuciones forman una obra colectiva: un encuentro de voces diferentes que comparten un mismo espacio.

Explora La Colonia y recorre el carrusel de postales

La exposición, en un libro

Quería crear algo que pudieras llevarte a casa y volver a disfrutar después de la exposición.

El libro What the Shell Filters reúne los cinco escarabajos de papel, fotografías de sus detalles y las historias detrás de sus patrones. También celebra La Colonia y la maravillosa diversidad de postales que tantas personas transformaron y enviaron de vuelta. Un código QR conecta el libro con la colonia en línea.

Reserva tu ejemplar

This project is made possible with funds from the Statewide Community Regrants Program, a regrant program of the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature and administered by Arts Mid-Hudson.

Este proyecto es posible gracias al apoyo financiero del programa Statewide Community Regrants (SCR), un programa de subvenciones del New York State Council on the Arts, con el apoyo de la Oficina de la Gobernadora y de la Legislatura del Estado de Nueva York, administrado por Arts Mid-Hudson.

Silent world – 2026

in Portfolio

Silent World is a dance between paper and light.
No ink, no added matter — only small perforations, patiently made, allowing light to draw.

The work asks for slowness. The image appears only when you pause, when your eyes adjust, when you truly look.

Fragile and responsive, the paper bends and ripples, entering into dialogue with my hand. Holes become lines. Light becomes drawing. Emptiness becomes space.

Meaning emerges through subtle shifts — a quiet conversation between material, light, and attention.

These are the first chapters.

Chapter 1

Hand-perforated paper and light

7 x 7 in (unframed)

Chapter 2

Hand-perforated paper and light

7 x 7 in (unframed)

Chapter 3

Hand-perforated paper and light

7 x 7 in (unframed)

Perforation (details)

Installation view

Small works – 2025

in Portfolio

At first, it was just a matter of size.
But it quickly became a philosophical question. What does small work mean ?

Is it about scale, or the persistence of things often overlooked ?

Small work demands attention. It asks us to lean in, to notice the details, to recognize the power in precision. It is in the love and dedication, the delicate touch that shapes something enduring.
In the hands of a craftsman, the strongest tools create the finest effect. In nature, the smallest shifts cause the greatest change.

Small work does not mean insignificant. It means intentional.
Essential.

Every thing hammers

These tools once belonged to John Corcoran, also known as “Everything Johnny”. He could fix just about everything. He could build or create almost anything.

Each dent, each worn handle carries the memory of his touch, the weight of his craft. A hammer is small in the grand scheme of things, yet in the right hands, it shapes the world.

Tools study

As I draw Everything Johnny’s jewelry tools, it feels like he’s right here with me. Each tool holds echoes of our conversations — my doubts, my fears, always met with his steady reply: “Do it anyway.” With every line I trace, layer after layer, I find myself slipping into the rhythm of creation. There’s a quiet sense of order, control, and tidiness that unfolds, as if the tools themselves are guiding me.

Silver only
Patrick once shared a story that stuck with me — the kind that turns an ordinary object into a legend.

Every year, Everything Johnny would travel, and one day while he was away, P. borrowed one of his hammers for some heavy woodwork, not realizing the gravity of his choice. The hammer was returned quietly, but when John came back, he knew. The tool was no longer perfect — no longer fit for the delicate art of silversmithing. Without a word, Johnny polished back the hammer, until it was usable again and carefully marked it with two simple words: “Silver Only.”

That story lingers in every line of this piece. It’s a reminder that tools aren’t just tools. They hold stories, carry lessons, and sometimes, they tell great ones.

Every thing forks
Two forks, born from repurposed, imperfect cans, now hold stories of transformation and ingenuity.
In John’s hands, even the most ordinary objects found new purpose. These pieces aren’t just utensils — they’re a testament to playfulness, audacity, and the art of seeing beyond what is. Each fold and cut reflects his skill, his vision, and his belief that everything holds potential — if you’re bold enough to try.

Tapari’i – 2020

in Portfolio

Understand what is Tapa in Polynesian Culture

Tapa is more than cloth—it’s memory, connection, and ceremony woven from the bark of trees.

In Polynesian culture, tapa (also known as aute, siapo, kapa, or u’a, depending on the island) is made by the women, passed through hands and generations, and used in the most meaningful moments of life.
It carries not just patterns, but stories.

Tapa is present when a child is born, when two families unite in marriage, and when someone passes away. It wraps bodies, gifts, and ancestors.
It marks identity, rank, and respect.

Creating tapa is an act of patience and precision—beating the inner bark of the mulberry tree, joining fibers, dyeing with natural pigments, and imprinting symbols that often echo genealogy, territory, or spiritual beliefs. But beyond the technique, the act of making tapa is deeply
communal. Women come together to work, sing, and share knowledge.

The process becomes a space of social cohesion and feminine power.

Tapa is ephemeral yet enduring. It can tear, rot, disappear—but its role in Polynesian societies is unbreakable.

Even today, though used less in daily life, tapa continues to be made for rituals, gifts, and remembrance. It survives as a fabric of belonging—connecting the living to their ancestors, and the individual to the collective.

My Interpretation

With Tapari’i, I wanted to revisit the themes of identity, rank, and respect—central to the meaning of tapa—and explore how they apply to my own story.

I have Chinese roots. Both of my maternal grandparents are Chinese, and even though I was raised in Tahiti, and all my family still lives there, we don’t have Polynesian blood. This sometimes brings up the question of belonging _ Where do I stand in the cultural fabric I grew up in?_

So I decided to create a tapa that would weave together these two civilizations—Polynesian and Chinese.

Instead of using traditional materials and ink, I used Chinese candy wrappers. Their printed designs became my patterns. I imagined the wrappers as a form of bark cloth—fragile, shiny,
mass-produced, but also intimate and deeply nostalgic.

An unexpected detail emerged: the blue ink on the wrappers formed clean, straight lines. So the patterns I composed didn’t mimic Polynesian motifs; they looked unmistakably Asian!

At first, I worried this might move the work too far from tapa. But then I remembered — Polynesia has Asian ancestors. The lines between cultures aren’t always borders; they can also be threads.

Tapari’i became a personal reconciliation — a way to honor both the culture I was raised in and the one I carry in my blood. It’s a tapa that doesn’t claim tradition, but reimagines it. It asks: What if identity isn’t about choosing one heritage over another, but about holding space for both?

If you look closely, Tapari’i also hides a few easter eggs.

The candy wrappers I used were all printed with the word “traditional”—over and over again, impossible to
ignore.

That repetition stuck with me.

It felt like a reminder, but also a weight. Tradition can be beautiful and grounding, but it can also become a wall — impressive, even oppressive.

So I made one small move. I flipped a line upside down.

It’s almost invisible. Most people won’t notice it. But it’s there—a quiet shift, a gentle push. A way to mark the
possibility of change, of rethinking what tradition allows. A nod to anyone who feels the urge to do things
differently, but fears they don’t have permission.

This upside-down line is for them. For us.

Polynesian tapa often includes many symbolic representations of the human figure. These motifs are more than decoration—they speak of lineage, protection, presence.

In Tapari’i, I chose to create five human figures.

They’re a quiet reference to the five archipelagoes of French Polynesia: the Society Islands, the Marquesas,
the Tuamotu, the Gambier, and the Austral Islands.

This is also a nod to the five stars on the Polynesian flag, each one representing a part of the larger whole.
Through these five figures, I wanted to express unity across distance—how each archipelago carries its own
identity, yet they all belong to the same body. Much like the different cultural elements I’m weaving together in
this piece.

It’s a way of anchoring the work back to where I come from, while still leaving space for where I might be going.

I also included Marquisian crosses—those powerful, geometric crosses that are so distinctive in Marquesan design.

They’re often carved into stone, wood, or skin, and they carry a strong spiritual weight. The Marquisian cross can symbolize balance, connection between the elements, or the guiding presence of ancestors.

To me, they represent anchoring—something steady at the core
of movement and change.

By integrating these into Tapari’i, I wanted to pay tribute to one of the most visually and spiritually rich traditions within Polynesia. And at the same time, I was asking: What happens when we take these ancestral symbols and place them in a new context—wrapped in candy paper,
in a hybrid tapa?

It’s not about desecration. It’s about conversation.
Between past and future, between cultures, between who we are and who we are becoming.

Tapari’i is not a tapa in the traditional sense.

It’s not made of bark, nor painted with ancestral pigments. But it carries the weight of tradition, the questions of identity, and the desire to belong—even when the lines don’t align perfectly.

The name Tapari’i comes from a joke I used to make—a mix between tapa and tamari’i, the Tahitian word for “child.” Like a tapa-child, this piece is both an homage and a playful reinvention. It’s a child of two cultures, raised in between worlds, curious and slightly mischievous, trying to find its place while rewriting the rules.

By weaving together Chinese candy wrappers and Polynesian symbols, I wanted to explore what it means to grow up in one culture while carrying the legacy of another. What it means to honor traditions without being bound by them. And what it means to take part in a visual language—
even if you speak it with an accent.

This piece is personal, but it’s also part of a larger story—a story of movement, of blending, of quiet resistance and creative inheritance.
Like the flipped line hidden among the patterns, Tapari’i doesn’t shout. But it asks. It invites. It makes room.