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interviews   about

Vernacular Institute
Mexico City



 

Vernacular Institute sits behind one of the old facades in Santa María la Ribera, a historic neighborhood in Mexico City. It was after this interview that I got to visit Vernacular: entering the plant-filled courtyard, the first thing I noticed was a ceiba, the sacred tree of the Maya. Next to the entrance is a small bar, with its door decorated with Fai chun (春联), traditional Chinese banners wishing for luck. All around me, a performance by Arrogante Albino was unfolding: members of the artist collective drifted through the greenery and upstairs rooms, communicating and expressing in gestures of hands, gazes, and bodies. 

In 2015, Vernacular began with a primary focus on editorial work led by Kit Hammonds in Taipei. After relocating to Mexico City in 2017, curator Jo Ying Peng, who was Kit’s partner, started running the Institute from the living room of their house. The current iteration took shape in 2020, when Jo and Kit moved into one of Santa María la Ribera’s historic houses, which had previously functioned as a school and briefly as a gallery. With its garden and empty rooms, the space invites artists and collectives to gather, make, and converse.

This conversation with Jo traces the Institute’s name and its many lives—its collaborations, evolving ambitions, and aspirations: how the meaning of “vernacular” itself resides in the verb, traversing the linguistic to the physical. As Jo describes, the project has shifted from “the editorial” to “the curatorial,” becoming an experimental hub that connects cultures and people across oceans.







Jo Ying Peng, Yindi Chen, Yutong Shi, December 30, 2024

Yutong    

For people who don't know Vernacular Institute, how would you describe it briefly?

Jo    

I'm so sexy! 

Yutong    

How did you give Vernacular its name? 

Jo    

I didn’t give Vernacular its name—it was created by its founder, Kit Hammonds. The word “vernacular" originally refers to a form of architecture rooted in local context, but it holds many layers of meaning. For me, “vernacular” is both a noun and a spirit, and its definition must remain deliberately loose. I imagine it as an amoeba—fluid, porous, and open, yet always moving with a clear sense of direction.

Yindi    

Vernacular’s email prefix is “blacklanguage”—I feel like its naming is closely related to language in general. Since you have worked in many cities and communities, what does this role of language mean to you, both in Vernacular’s naming and in your practice?

Jo    

Vernacular is not literally the same as “black language.” When Kit founded it, he asked how the title might be rendered in Chinese. There is no exact equivalent, but the closest would be 白话 (báihuà)—literally “white language.” For foreigners, this can sound confusing: does it suggest privilege, or some ethical stance toward language? In fact, it simply means plain, spoken, and accessible language, without any link to Western ideas of race.
        In English, “vernacular” also conveys the sense of everyday speech, in contrast to languages of power. Historically, the British elite spoke one register, while the working class spoke another. With his British English background, Kit was especially drawn to how language reflects class and privilege, and how “vernacular” resists those hierarchies.
        At one point, we considered naming the institute 黑话 (hēihuà) as its Chinese title, loosely translated as “black language,” a phrase that in English also recalls the languages of enslaved communities. This play between wording, translation, and context turned into a kind of language game, through which “black language” became Vernacular’s official Mandarin name.

Yutong    

Do you think this name changed its meaning when you moved from Taipei to Mexico City? 

Jo    

The meaning didn’t change much, but the language shifted its tone. In Mexico, I once considered using a Spanish version of “black language”—negro lengua, which literally means “black tongue.” In Spanish, lengua also means “language.” However, negro lengua carries negative connotations; in Western contexts, “black” is often framed in opposition, and in Mexico, due to its colonial history, negro can even be used as a derogatory term toward Indigenous people.

Yutong    

How do you relate to the space personally and professionally?

Jo    

Personally, I relate to Vernacular as an extension of my daily life; professionally, it’s a space where my curatorial thinking takes form. The boundary between the two has always been porous.
        Vernacular was first initiated at a book fair table in Mexico City, when Kit announced the closure of his decade-long project Publish and Be Damned and the beginning of Vernacular. From the outset, it moved across Taipei, Mexico City, and London, collaborating with institutions such as Taipei Contemporary Art Center, Taipei Fine Arts Museum, and Asia Art Archive. Kit positioned Vernacular on equal footing with museums and organizations, extending its reach through networks rather than a fixed site.
        My approach took another path—not in opposition, but in pursuit of a different vision. I wanted Vernacular to inhabit a physical space, to become a site for hosting and gathering with artists. Lacking resources for a gallery, I turned instead to the domestic: our living room in Mexico City became Vernacular’s first home.
        This intimacy shaped its ethos. I resisted the distance of institutional professionalism, choosing instead to blur the line between the domestic and the curatorial, and to imagine hosting itself as a practice.

Yutong    

Why didn’t you start a new project rather than taking over Vernacular?

Jo    

Because I couldn’t find a better name than Vernacular, I decided to steal it from its founder, kidnap the title and give it a second life.
        I didn’t think about taking over Vernacular. When Kit and I moved to Mexico, I thought, What am I going to do in Mexico? I would start running our space, not just a project. That was just a very basic idea. And I first had to give the space a title. It took me three months but I couldn’t find any title better than Vernacular. Vernacular is a good name, and I love the spirit of it.

Yutong    

The full name of your space is Vernacular Institute. Why did the founder call it an “institute” when it's an independent space but not an institution? 

Jo    

Kind of a playful act—it began as a joke to test what an institute could be, and to stretch people’s imagination of one.

Yutong    

What do you think about the relationship between the person running a space and the space itself? It’s interesting—at first, you almost outgrow the space. But as an independent space grows over the years, it can also start to outgrow the person. What’s your perspective on that dynamic?

Jo    

Indeed! Every art space begins with personal energy, but over time it outgrows its founder and becomes part of a shared ecology—that’s when it truly succeeds.

Yindi    

Why was having a physical space so crucial to you when you first moved to Mexico City? What does a space mean to you?

Jo    

Because I see space as more than architecture—it’s a living organism, a vessel for encounters, gestures, and time. When I first moved to Mexico City, I needed something tangible to root myself in—a place that could hold not just work, but daily rhythms, conversations, and the unpredictability of process.
        When we decided to relocate to Mexico, I knew I had to leave behind the career I had built in Taipei—a difficult but necessary leap toward something more experimental, a kind of DIY curating.
        Leaving my position at one of Taipei’s most dynamic art spaces,Taipei Contemporary Art Center felt like a gamble, but I was in my mid-30s and ready to take the risk—to start over and see what could grow elsewhere.
        Unlike Kit’s earlier version of Vernacular, which collaborated with institutions, I imagined a physical space—something intimate and process-based. It could be a living room, a studio, a place where artists cook, talk, and work together. Inside such a space, everything remains in progress: performances, readings, screenings, workshops, and evolving projects. I never invite artists to only “make an exhibition”—we build projects, and those projects can become anything.

Yutong    

I’ve read in an interview where you talked about the curatorial narrative. I want to hear more about how you define the difference between curatorial, editorial, and artistic. The way you used those terms was very specific. What’s the distinction?

Jo    

As my very own definition of what a curatorial narrative is, I often return to three elements: idea, context, and concept. The idea usually begins informally—perhaps over a drink with an artist or writer—something raw, still forming. The context is what I live with as a curator, shaped by daily research and the world around me. The concept emerges later, when these fragments are cooked together into something more intentional. It’s a slow, intuitive process—where conversation becomes method, and life itself folds into curating.

Yindi    

On Vernacular’s website, there are In House Projects and Open House Events. Could you explain the difference between them?

Jo    

In House Projects are the programs I curate myself, or those initiated by artists and curators I invite. Open House Events, on the other hand, run parallel to the curatorial program. They’re moments when Vernacular opens its doors to artists, musicians, and practitioners from different fields to host live sessions—experimental sound and music, performances, book presentations, and other gatherings that carry the DIY spirit of self-organization at the program’s core.
        For me, what matters is that Vernacular doesn’t become just a venue—it’s a platform shared with the community. Most of the time, it’s friends or friends of friends who reach out. While a museum might never respond to their emails, Vernacular can open its doors, share its space and equipment, and support their ideas. That’s how I imagine a space that truly belongs to its community.

Yutong    

Do you charge people for using the space? 

Jo    

Nope. Art events are always free. Concerts depend on the musicians—they’re welcome to ticket if they want. I don’t take a peso; I just run the bar, which makes a tiny profit to cover basic admin costs on the day of the event.

Yutong    

Vernacular has collaborated with artists and collectives both in Mexico City and internationally; is there a geographical focus or intention behind how you organize Vernacular’s program? What kinds of financial strategies have you developed over time?

Jo    

The program isn’t strictly divided by geography; instead of a fixed structure, it flows between three directions: projects rooted in Latin America, exchanges with Asia, and collaborations with artists from other regions whose practices engage with Global South narratives or unfold through local collaborations in Mexico.
        Projects related to Asian exchanges are often supported by Taiwanese funding bodies such as the Ministry of Culture. For Latin American projects, the artists and I usually seek potential funding or sponsors together. The rest of the program tends to draw from multiple funding channels, depending on the project’s nature. Recently, I’ve also started approaching galleries to co-sponsor production funds for the artists I work with—it feels like the right moment to explore new economic models.    
        The reality, though, is that funding is always a challenge. I have a long list of artists and projects waiting to happen, but I have to respond to what’s possible at each moment—to what can actually be done within the resources I have.

Yindi    

Why do you focus on building connections between Asian and Latin American artists?

Jo    

Because they reflect both my personal trajectory and the network I’ve built through practice. It’s a way to keep the dialogue geographically open yet conceptually grounded.
        As for my background, I’ve always wanted to bridge Asian and Latin American art. These two regions share a certain rhythm—similar struggles, desires, and ways of imagining the world—yet their dialogues have often remained apart. I haven’t used this term for a while, but my focus still leans toward the Global South, where these stories overlap.

Yindi    

What were the first projects you did for the living-room version of Vernacular?

Jo    

It was There after Here: Performing a Verb (2017), a residency series featuring five Taiwanese artists—Su Hui-Yu, Cheng Yi-Ping, Chang Wen-Hsuan, River Lin, and Yu Cheng-Ta. The project examined performativity through linguistic, theoretical, and bodily contexts, using performance to question how body politics might be redefined through alternative interpretations. From July to November, the artists arrived in Mexico City in turns, each working on site for about six weeks. It evolved into an intense five-month marathon of work-in-progress presentations—screenings, lectures, and performances—everything but a conventional exhibition.

Yindi    

How long have you run Vernacular in your living room?

Jo    

Between 2017 and 2019—it all took place there, though a few off-site projects were unfolding in parallel.

Yindi    

How do you usually work with artists during the residency—did you plan things ahead, or  was it more about inviting them and giving them an open framework?

Jo    

Each residency involved an extended conversation between me and the artist. I usually approached them about a year in advance to exchange ideas, draft funding applications together, and imagine what they might do in Mexico. Then came the waiting—applying, securing the funds, and finally realizing everything in real time. The working journey is like a long run together with each artist.
        I prefer artists to develop new ideas on site. There are two things I avoid: showing ready-made works and dealing with shipping. Cargo logistics are neither an ecological choice nor in line with the spirit of Vernacular.

Yutong    

I am curious, who do you consider your peers, both in Mexico City and elsewhere around the world?

Jo    

Many! Some have inspired me for years, others are more recent discoveries. Kunci is forever there—an ideal figure for my curatorial soul. Khoj in New Delhi, of course. Pivô in São Paulo, which I got to know in recent years. Framer Framed in Amsterdam and Shimmer in Rotterdam—I don’t know them personally, but I love what they do. Also SAVVY Contemporary, DAAD, and Motto in Berlin; Lux and Cafe OTO in London; and The Kitchen in New York, which deeply influenced how I approach performance. A newer one is CARA in New York. And surely TheCube in Taipei—one of the curator-led project spaces from which I’ve learned so much.
        They’re not just peers—all of them have shaped how I think about curating and community. In Mexico City, most initiatives are artist-run rather than non-profit or curator-led. I see them as colleagues and neighbors within the same ecosystem. If I had to name one local reference, it would be INSITE—even though it’s based along the Mexico–U.S. border, it remains a meaningful model for me.

Yutong    

What kinds of support or opportunities do you feel are missing for a space like yours—things you wish existed but don’t yet?

Jo    

As I mentioned before, funding is always the main challenge. Beyond public grants, I’ve started seeking more private support, which offers greater freedom and flexibility—allowing projects to remain open-ended. Over the past few years, I’ve realized that relying too heavily on public funding isn’t sustainable; the paperwork often drains one’s energy. The more diverse the network, the more resilient the program becomes.

Yindi    

What do you envision as the next step for Vernacular, and do you plan to continue focusing on this idea of cultural connection?

Jo    

Expanding beyond its local roots, Vernacular now moves through international collaborations—such as recent projects with SOMA in Berlin and the Hong Foundation in Taipei—continuing to weave connections between Latin America and Asia through shared dialogues.

Yutong    

What kind of collaboration are you thinking about? 

Jo    

It could take many forms—a collaboration with other art spaces, or extending beyond artists to work with writers, researchers, scientists, or even farmers. Why not?

Yindi    

Do you see curators as artists? 

Jo    

I think of curators as artists because both engage in creative practice. Artists produce works; curators also create—through exhibitions, books, or conversations. Our work is harder to define because it’s often immaterial, rooted in ideas, narrative, and process. In that sense, curating is another form of art-making, just in a different language.

Yindi    

People are always talking about artists as curators, but not the other way around. So I think what you said is interesting, and I agree.

Jo    

It’s a different conversation when we talk about artists curating, because some artists naturally develop their practice through curatorial methods. But when I say “curator as artist,” I mean that curators also create—our work generates artistic content. Even writing an essay can become a form of artistic expression, depending on how it’s conceived and realized. Of course, not every curatorial project is a work of art, but I believe curating should remain a free and fluid practice—one that resists institutional boundaries and keeps its creative core alive.

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