As Vietnamese society progresses, dogs and cats’ role in our families have gradually elevated to worthy life companions instead of mere animal help in previous generations. While the archive of pet names today seems endless and every day you can easily bump into pets bearing hilariously human names, tasty food dishes, or glorious adjectives, the naming conventions of Vietnamese domestic animals in the past had recurring themes that directly correspond to the cultural and historical atmosphere of when they were coined.

The simplest and most timeless way to name dogs in Vietnam, today or in the past, is still after their coat color. Popular examples include Vàng (yellow), Nâu (tan), Mực (black) or Vện (swirly). Vện is a distinctive coat pattern often seen on dogs related to the Phú Quốc ridgeback, one of a few dog breeds native to Vietnam. The earliest record, and probably most famous dog, from this naming formula was Cậu Vàng, the treasured companion of Lão Hạc in Nam Cao’s titular short story from 1943. This formula, sadly, also spawns the name Xà Mâu, a name often used to describe dogs afflicted with skin diseases that result in patchy skin and fur.

Cậu Vàng as depicted in a 2021 film adaptation of Lão Hạc.

Starting from the 1960s all the way until the decades immediately after the war against the US, a cheeky new naming convention emerged: dogs were named after American politicians with prominent involvement in the war. The most common ones were Giôn (Lyndon Johnson), Ních or Mích (Richard Nixon), and Ki, Kiki, or Kít (Henry Kissinger). In writer Nguyễn Quang Lập’s personal essay ‘Con chó Giôn của tôi’ (My dog, Giôn), part of the essay collection Ký ức vụn (Fragmented Memories), he reminisces about his most favorite furry friend growing up:

These were fascinating expressions of passive aggression that were also short and vague enough for plausible deniability. In today’s social climate, it is a little bizarre to think of anyone naming the beloved fur babies they pamper and care for after something so entrenched in wartime bitterness, but one could look into the role that animals once occupied in the typical Vietnamese household for a possible answer.

Across Vietnamese history, any animal kept at home usually served a specific utilitarian role to justify its husbandry: water buffaloes ploughed the field, chickens laid eggs, ducks gave feathers, etc. Dogs protected the home and cats hunted rodents; they often weren’t seen as pets or family members. These clear HR boundaries might have provided sufficient emotional detachment for people to engage in some sassy name-calling.

The popularity of the comic series Tintin helped Milou become one of the most common dog names in Vietnam. Image via Studio Brillantine.

Anecdotally, with every new decade, the prevalence of Giôn and Ních seems to have waned, perhaps due to their very glaring non-Vietnamese spelling. Ki and Kiki, however, are still going strong — dare I say, because, removed from their historical origin, they sound rather… cute? After the war ended and as quality of life in Vietnam improved, our family structure opened up to welcome more dogs and cats as life companions, and their naming convention also shifted to reflect this changing dynamic.

From the 1970s until now, there are increasingly diverse and affectionate ways to name pets: after a favorite food or fruit like Quýt, Mì, Bánh Bao (because people love food and their pets); just a dude’s name like Huy, Minh, An (because people see pets as their children); or after a wish of wellness like Lạc, Lộc, Như Ý. Descriptive names based on appearance, of course, are timeless — like Vàng, Cam, Nâu, Xù, Bông, Béo, Vằn, and more.

Misha, the mascot of Moscow 1980, on a stamp. Image via Wikimedia.

There are, still, two common names with cultural significance that arose during this time period. Firstly, Mi Lu, Lu Lu or Lu originated from Milou, a white Wire Fox Terrier in Les Aventures de Tintin. This French-language comic was one of the most iconic European series of the 20^th century, documenting the thrilling global adventures of Tintin, a Belgian reporter, and his dog Milou. Legally dubious Vietnamese translations started circulating pre-1975 and continued throughout the 1980s, as part of the rise in French-language cultural products in Vietnam at the time, which brought Lucky Luke, Schtroumpf and Tintin to local readers.

Lastly, one less common but fascinating Vietnamese dog name with surprisingly European origin is Mi Sa or Misa, local versions of Misha, the official mascot of the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow. Misha is a cuddly bear designed by children’s illustrator Victor Chizhikov, widely deemed the first character from a sporting event to achieve major commercial success. Moscow 1980 — and by extension, Misha — was also historically significant to Vietnamese because it was the first Olympics in which Vietnam participated after the war ended, even though we didn’t win any medals.

There are too many good Vietnamese books to recommend, let alone read.

If you search around online, you’ll find some pretty good lists to steer you to works translated from English and written by diasporic writers. There are also a few publishers who focus on the genre, such as Curbstone Press’ now-completed Voices From Vietnam series, which featured several Saigoneer favorites, including An Insignificant Family by Dạ Ngân and The Cemetery of Chua Village by Đoàn Lê. The newly established Major Books recently released Water: A Chronicle by Nguyễn Ngọc Tư and the first English version of Making a Whore by Vũ Trọng Phụng. 

Popular works by authors like Bảo Ninh, Ocean Vuong, Viet Thanh Nguyen, and Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai are recommended, rightfully so, all the time. But what if you are looking for something a little stranger, lesser-known, or quixotic?

Saigoneer has assembled a list of quirky, off-kilter, or overlooked books to supplement the familiar titles for you. While unlikely to occupy a bookshop’s limited selection of Vietnamese literature, they can all be tracked down and are very much worth the effort.

1. McSweeney’s 78: The Make-Believers

This doesn’t look like a book*. The Make-Believers arrives in the form of a cardboard cigar box with a lid featuring seven brooding figures smoking cigarettes. Opening it reveals a back lid depicting three more writers, also smoking cigarettes, as well as three pieces of literature. The smokers are all members of DVAN, the Diasporic Vietnamese Artists Network, a multi-genre collective. In 2023, ten members met in France for a writers residency, and this collection, edited by Thi Bui and Vu Tran, captures the spirit and conversations of their time together and serves as an introduction to the group and Vietnamese diasporic writers, in general. 

When the music industry was operated via physical CDs put out by record labels, an occasional sampler disc would be released with a track or two from each artist on a single label as a means of introducing the cohesive sound or ethos shared by the label as a whole. The main 182-page The Believers book functions much this way for DVAN. Self-described as spanning “from highbrow to lowbrow, proper to naughty, logical to absurd, and painful to funny,” it's a great way to acquaint yourself to the energy, styles, and concerns of some of the diaspora’s most accomplished writers.

A heart-wrenching story of regret tinged with ghosts set in Đà Lạt by Vu Tran; a collection of politically charged poems by Bao Phi; and a snapshot of life within early 2000s American rave culture by H’Rina DeTroy are amongst the standouts. The box, beautifully illustrated by Thi Bui, of The Best We Could Do fame, also contains a hilarious glossary of broken Vietnamese as understood by Doan Bui; and a separate collaborative poem with lines from each resident assembled by Isabelle Thuy Pelaud, DVAN’s co-founder along with Viet Thanh Nguyen. Like the best label samplers CDs of the 2000s, not every piece will be your jam, but at least a few will play on repeat inside your head, and you’ll have an easy way to get an overview of a larger scene.

*Technically, this is a special edition of a literary journal, but it features a book-length selection of short stories, essays, and poems, and literary journals deserve more love.

2. Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta

Did you know the Mekong Delta is home to 698 different species of plants? You can read the names of each one, marveling at the pretty sounds such as Ipomoea triloba and Digitaria setigera in Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta. After a brief but instructive 40 pages introducing the region’s water and soil characteristics and the plants that occupy the region, you'll find a listing of the scientific name and group type for all 698. Then, it's page after page of gorgeous, glossy photographic plates of plant species. Numerous images of different plant parts — such as stamen, flower, fruit, pistil and leaf — are presented along with a sentence of notable characteristics and their habitat.

Intended mainly for scientists and researchers, Wetland Plants of the Mekong Delta may function best for average readers as a coffee table text. The photos do feature the Vietnamese names along with scientific ones, making it perhaps the most niche vocabulary study tool available.

And if you’re like me and draw pleasure and inspiration from plants, having the a verticle cross section of a Canalavia lineata in reach is a particular gift. Saigoneer’s favorite botany illustator, Phan Thị Thanh Nhã, contributed several works to the text. It's a travesty that all our daylight hours are not adrift in a melaleuca peat swamp, but at least we have this book brings tidings from those magical realms. And next time we visit, we will be able to identify a few plants, much to the chagrin of any non-plant nerds you are traveling with. 

3. Down and Out in Saigon: Stories of the Poor in a Colonial City | Haydon Cherry

Few people associate fun with academic texts, but this work by Hayden Cherry offers a thrilling opportunity to picture turn-of-the-20^th-century Saigon like no other work. Pushing back against conventional efforts to understand history through significant dates and powerful figures, Cherry identifies six regular individuals to explain what average life was like in the colonial capital. 

Relying on archival documents, including police records across several languages, he provides conjectures for what decisions were made by a prostitute, a Chinese laborer, a rickshaw puller, a Catholic orphan, an incurable invalid, and a destitute Frenchman. Readers are left with an overarching understanding that, within the turbulent time period, much was beyond the control of society’s lower and middle classes, while happenstance and the whims of the elite reverberated across the populace.

Even though 1900s Saigon was only a few generations ago, the time period feels utterly impenetrable compared to the present landscape. While it is a quick and light read, as far as academic texts go at least, what I appreciate most about Down and Out in Saigon is how intimately it renders the realities of living then. It can be difficult to imagine yourself as a colonial authority or a rich landowner, yet when entering the experiences of ordinary citizens, it's possible to envision yourself there and thus discover Saigon anew. It’s bold to say, but to best understand Saigon today, you should pick up this book and go back 130 years. 

4. Parallels | Vũ Đình Giang

This list could use a novel, and this is a strange one! Parallels by Vũ Đình Giang, translated by Khải Q. Nguyễn, upends expectations from the beginning. Perspective shifts between characters and epistolary interludes while surrealism creeps in through a series of bizarre behaviors, such as attempts to drown the sun in a crude sluice made with cleaning supplies or plans to murder an adopted puppy. And just when you get the sense the book is content to list on via a nonlinear series of depictions of urban ennui, violent incidents whose veracity cannot be questioned take place. It becomes a revolting examination of humans’ propensity for evil.

Parallels is frequently presented as the first modern homosexual story published in Vietnamese. Hearing that, in a relatively conservative environment, you might expect the book to take a restrained, understated approach to discussing gay sex, but it’s graphic and intertwined with violence. These lurid elements, combined with the experimental writing style is a perfect contrast to many of the popular novels that adhere closely to conventions and deliver near-Disney-esque levels of family-friendly entertainment. It’s nice to be reminded that not all books that make it from Vietnam to the world play it safe, and some have the potential to shock and challenge as well as entertain.

Read Saigoneer’s full review of Parallels here. 

5. The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt: Empire, Disease, and Modernity in French Colonial Vietnam | Michael G. Vann and Liz Clarke

Do you like to learn about the selfish cruelty of colonialists and root for the oppressed Vietnamese who employ trickery to outsmart them? Want to do it while looking at colorful illustrations? The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt, an entry in Oxford University’s Graphic History series, which tells intriguing and largely unknown stories with a comic style, is one of those elusive works that is as educational as it is enjoyable. 

The core of the book’s pleasure rests in the story itself. France’s empire-building involved “modernizing” Hanoi in western terms, and the transporting of Parisian elements resulted in some unintended consequences. Plague-carrying rats ran rampant via the newly constructed sewer system that connected to the private dwellings of rich French residents. Colonial officials responded by offering a bounty on the rats as issued per submitted tail (dealing with an entire corpse was deemed undesirable by authorities). Inevitably, locals would simply cut the tails off rats so their revenue stream would continue to breed and even open rat farms outside of the city.

The graphic novel provides a great lesson in hubris and unintended consequences that applies to contexts far beyond colonial Vietnam. But it should be particularly interesting if you are interested in the nation’s history as its filled with asides and anecdotes, including the story behind the statue of liberty that once stood in Turtle Lake. Clever layout decisions, such as including rendering Vietnamese dialogue red-bordered speech bubbles and French in blue to show how the two groups lived side-by-side yet maintained only a minimal understanding of one another, enhance the experience.

Following the graphic novel, there are extensive prose sections that delve into the primary sources used, offer historical context for those not familiar with Vietnamese history and, most interestingly, a “making of” discussion that reveals how the book was envisioned and completed, offering a powerful guide for how to find and tell stories that make history engaging, which is something Saigoneer can certainly get behind. 

Read Saigoneer’s article about The Great Hanoi Rat Hunt here.

What is an artists-in-residence program? This simple question arose repeatedly when Saigoneer explained to friends and peers that we would spend three weeks traveling throughout Vietnam, visiting the nine local art residencies taking part in the GoSEA program.

While groups and activities similar to art residency programs emerged alongside art academies in the 16th and 17th centuries in Europe, the concept solidified and gained popularity in the late 20th and early 21st centuries in the west. Broadly understood as an arrangement where a host institution provides an artist with time, space, and resources to pursue their work in a new environment, they have a range of aims, including supporting artists with professional development and the creation of new or ongoing work, as well as fostering cultural exchange and community enrichment. During our trip, we learned that residencies can prioritize and approach these goals in drastically different ways while catering to unique types of artists in diverse contexts.

Rare Sea: a central hub plugged into Saigon’s energy and history 

“I've identified needs in the community and opportunities for exchange. And ultimately, although a gallery would be cool, having an arts organization made more sense,”  explained Luke Schneider of the motivations to found Rare Sea with Nguyễn Trà My earlier this year. While Rare Sea has gallery space to hold exhibitions, it has room for much more. The organization hosts exhibitions, public programming, workshops, professional development events, and an international residency program in a classic tube house on Đặng Thị Nhu Street, just two blocks from the Fine Arts Museum. 

"the forest lives as unfinished film reels" works, from left to right, by Aliansyah Caniago, Hoàng Vũ and Rab.

Saigoneer readers may be familiar with Rare Sea thanks to its first exhibition, ”the forest lives as unfinished film reels.” Once we’d passed through Aliansyah Caniago’s first-floor installation, which includes a haunting dwelling constructed with 35mm reels, and stopped on the second floor to see Rab's ink on silk maps depicting the dissaperance of tigers and listen to Hoàng Vũ’s soundscapes that incorporate the noise recorded during the construction of the building’s facade, the Rare Sea team showed us around the rest of the building, which includes shared studio space overlooking the city. 

Rare Sea co-founder Luke Schneider.

“The studio space is not only where they [the artists in residence] practice making art, but also where they meet people and shape how they move around in the residency,” explained Lại Minh Ngọc, the residency’s coordinator. Movement is a key component of the Rare Sea residency program, as artists working across all mediums are expected to get out and engage with Saigon and its many layers of history, culture, and communities. “It's very important for them to have a starting point and then when they are done exploring, we have a space that they come back to and then reflect on their research and their practice,” she said.

"Rare Sea's studio space (left) and a portion of the second floor that can be used for additional studio space or for exhibitions and events.

Rare Sea’s strong connection with the local art scene and wealth of research knowledge enables the curatorial and technical teams to guide artists who are self-motivated and arrive with project goals that are open to the transformative influence of Saigon and its inhabitants. Rare Sea arranges field trips, studio visits, and events. While there are no expectations regarding final outcomes for residency, Rare Sea anticipates collaborative works, co-curated events, exhibitions, film screenings, readings, and workshops that reveal the invention, reflection, and discovery each artist underwent. The program emphasizes introducing international artists to Vietnam while raising the visibility and opportunities for Vietnamese artists. Such cross-cultural exchange, Luke explained, “can be quite beneficial for the artist in the sense that it's a stepping stone and a learning experience … that puts them in a position to then go on and do something else.”

Phố Bên Đồi achieves art through institutional collaboration in Đà Lạt

After visiting Rare Sea, we traded Saigon’s sprawling snarls of traffic and a vibrant international art scene typified by themes of departure and return, loss, recollection, and reinvention for Đà Lạt’s peaceful, pine-covered hills and somber, solitary vibe that calls to mind Khánh Ly’s romantic renditions of Trịnh Công Sơn songs. There, we met with Nguyễn Trung Hiền, the founder of Phố Bên Đồi Creative Studio. Having been born and raised in the city, he has watched with concern as it expands beyond its infrastructure limits at the expense of its small-town charm and inspiring serenity.

Greenhouses, farms and windmills comprise the outskirts of Đà Lạt

“Đà Lạt has long been known as a city of education, research, and leisure, with a cool climate year-round and a rich, diverse agricultural landscape. Its population includes migrants and indigenous communities, creating a culturally diverse environment,” Hiền explained. “Today, creativity has become central to Đà Lạt’s sustainable development, creating opportunities for artists and experts to come together and contribute to the city’s future.” This future, Hiền believes, can best be achieved through local and international partnerships. Since its founding ten years ago, Phố Bên Đồi has worked with the British Council, UNESCO, L'Institut français, and Goethe-Institut, as well as the city’s People’s Committee, and various corporate sponsors to create a wide range of public programs across music, visual arts, and architecture, including one of our most beloved public mural projects. 

Nguyễn Như Bảo Khánh, Phố Bên Đồi’s manager, helps conduct a youth orchestra (left) and Phố Bên Đồi’s founder Nguyễn Trung Hiền (right)

Their recently launched artist residency program aligns well with Phố Bên Đồi’s goals and resources. They are situated in a more than 600-square-meter physical location that includes event and working spaces, studios, an art gallery, a live music venue, a ceramics workshop, a STEAM experience space, a library, and a cafe with an art shop. This gives artists who want to engage with the community opportunities to lead and participate in research, performances, discussion panels, workshops, and development programs with a particular emphasis on connecting with young people and university students. Because Đà Lạt was officially recognised by UNESCO as a Creative City in the field of music in 2023, Phố Bên Đồi is particularly interested in hosting musicians, music educators, and music researchers. Residency outcome goals are flexible, but collaboration is key. “When talking about the outcomes of a residency,” explained Phố Bên Đồi manager, Nguyễn Như Bảo Khánh, “what we value most is the connection between artists and the community. That is the core idea behind our motto, ‘Art Connects Us.’”

From left to right: Phố Bên Đồi's co-working space, a partnering ceramics studio, cafe, and multipurpose space.

Rigorous art achievement amidst Cù Rú’s creative chaos

Just down the road from Phố Bên Đồi stands its aesthetic opposite. Cù Rú occupies a former plot of agricultural land that has been repurposed as a bar, partially contained in an old greenhouse. Visitors are met with sensory overload as a cavalcade of oddities occupies every direction: paier-mâché head with glowing LED, single golden sandal, windchimes hanging from a broken fan, busts of military figures, traditional glass paintings, plastic bus station benches, stone statues, birds nest filled with ping pong balls, a disco ball transformed into a helmet, literary magazines, knockoff Disney toys, and countless paintings, sculptures and ceramics. Behind the bar are rows of jugs and bottles filled with rượu and local fruits and herbs. The back garden ungoverns itself into a tangle of weeds in the distance. Many know of Cù Rú, rightfully so, as a quirky bar essential for quixotic folk in search of acceptance and good times. It’s also home to a thriving artist residency program.

Art is always on display at Cù Rú as well as found objects and in-house distilled rượu. Works in the center by Karina Kristina titled MULTIFACED

Cù Rú opened in Saigon because members of the Sao La artist collective decided it was more fun to turn their apartment into a bar and invite friends over than it was to go out. “Cù Rú is a space where friends, artists, and people who love art can come to meet and have fun. It’s a place to find joy,” said Nguyễn Kim Tố Lan, a multidisciplinary artist and Sao La cofounder. The move to Đà Lạt in 2020 gave Cù Rú more space to host events and distill alcohols, while providing the Sao La Collective with additional space to create art and invite artists to join meaningful conversations while uncovering inspiration in the city's cultural, material, ecological, and social fabric. 

At all hours of the day, Cù Rú exudes a calm, accepting vibe.

Artists from a wide range of disciplines, backgrounds, and goals typically work for a month or two in one of Cù Rú’s three private studios. Access to lacquer, ceramics, and wood-metal workshops allows them to experiment, exchange, and develop projects in the fresh air of a nature-oriented environment. Casual meetings with local artists and shared meals, as well as planned workshops, talks, and presentations, deepen their connections with the location and its communities. “The idea here is that during your stay, you don’t need to feel pressured to produce a finished work immediately. What you gain are new experiences and perspectives that are different from your home environment,” Lan summarized. 

Artwork on display in one of the three studios by Nguyễn Kim Tố Lan (left) and Dương Văn Tốn (right).

Such a laid-back ethos and embrace of casual hours doesn’t mean Cù Rú isn’t rigorous, however. Canvas streaked with stunning acrylics, delicate ceramics comprised of carefully collected sediment samples, silk paintings, and mixed media works on display from past and current residents are testaments to the level of skill and dedication the space attracts. The works were bathed in shifting lights and splashed with music on the night of our visit. Lan sat on the floor for her first-ever DJ set as part of a scheduled music night. Guests danced, bartenders poured rượu cocktails with ingredients like fermented tobacco and mountain plum, and resident artists showed off their work to new friends in the background. The entire scene exemplified what Lan had told us earlier: “If artists come here with flexibility, a sense of humor, and an open mind, they will fit in well … This place is open to everyone, as long as you come with a friendly and positive spirit.”

Cù Rú and Sao La co-founder Nguyễn Kim Tố Lan is an artist across many genres including laquer, acrylic, ceramics, and in this case, live music.

The southern leg of Saigoneer’s exploration of Vietnam’s artist residencies revealed how diverse they can be in terms of vibes, resources and structure. Visiting residencies in the central area expands on these observations: part 2 coming soon. 

French cinema experienced a creative renaissance in the 1960s with arguably the most influential movement in its history, the French New Wave. Intellectuals within this movement strived for new techniques to tell stories in ways never seen before. Most of them were socialists who were against the American war in Vietnam.

While the filmmakers were often at odds with the general public on many topics, in this situation, both sides' views were aligned. French society viewed the intervention as aggression against Vietnamese people’s right to self-determination. After the escalation in 1965, public opinion was strongly on the Vietnamese side. Therefore, when Robert Bozzi, a Parisian gallerist, organized an operation to send medicine to Vietnam with the help of many artists, it was rather surprising that local cineasts were silent.

Bozzi pointed out the matter to his director friend Chris Marker, who then decided to create a project for Vietnam. Always seen as separate from his contemporaries because his works resemble those of an essayist rather than a director, Marker might be less famous than some of the most renowned directors of this period. He would progressively work on the relationship between political engagement and art throughout his filmography. Loin du Vietnam (Far From Vietnam), the cinematic work that was born of this initiative, is no exception.

The film poster.

Loin du Vietnam is hard to classify. Marker gathered a group of more than 150 cineasts, intellectuals, technicians, and historians to work on the film voluntarily, including Joris Ivens, William Klein, Claude Lelouch, Agnès Varda, Jean-Luc Godard and Alain Resnais who served as directors with him. At first, the project was intended to be a cohesive piece of work from every participant, but it evolved into an 11-chapter movie released in 1967. A militant essay criticizing the US intervention in Vietnam, it goes further than simple political commitment and mixes fiction and documentary to offer different perspectives on the event, going from historical review to personal, intimate thoughts.

War of the rich against war of the poor

The entire film's perspective on the war is established on the outset via an opening voice-over sequence:

Still from the film showing Vietnamese soldiers.

The contrast described here is even more striking in the images: the US, armed with boats filled with rows of bombs, dominates the hostile environment of the sea with metallic and mechanized power. After this shot, the Vietnamese blend into the fields with their clothes covered with leaves, trying to use their surroundings as an advantage. The message is clear: the scale of the war is not balanced. But the stakes are where the true fundamental unfairness of the war lies, as stated shortly after the previous quote: North Vietnam fights to claim “the right of the poor to create, for progress, a society based on something besides the interests of the rich,” whereas the US fight to “show the world that revolutionary struggle is a dead end.”

The disparity of resources, which emphasizes the cruelty of the one-sided aggression, is illustrated by Joris Ivens, who had just released an acclaimed documentary on North Vietnam at the time, in several chapters of the film. In the first chapter, entitled ‘Bomb Hanoi,’ he shows footage of the shelters people in Hanoi have learned to develop in response to the incessant bombing. Buried along the roads, the cement tubes were mass-produced using casts in wooden molds, designed to be accessible shelters that civilians could find easily and quickly in case of sudden raids. Ivens captured the unexpected serenity found on Hanoi streets, acknowledging that “by living with them, one becomes calm like them. And certain of victory.” The unbothered will is poignant, even more so when one realizes that this is the calm before the storm, which is the next shot. The loud sounds of the sirens interrupt the tranquil atmosphere, and everybody seeks refuge in the shelters. And yet, amid this chaos, some are still confidently walking through the streets.

Boys playing beside solo sidewalk bomb shelters, Old Quarter, Sommer Mark, May 1968.

The original footage captured by Ivens shows the power imbalance, like a modern David and Goliath. Even though the opposition has overwhelming power, resilience is the key to victory. The parallel with the myth is pushed even further by the voice-over: “On the American side, the same ignorance of the adversary. American society has a principle: the poorest is always the least equipped. Poverty can be the basis of moral strength superior to the rich aggressor and America doesn't understand this.”

War as a spark of polarized reactions

To emphasize how the conflict was relevant to citizens around the globe, Loin du Vietnam features footage from outside Vietnam. William Klein effectively offers a perspective of the war by manifesting it through people’s emotions. A renowned street photographer, he adopted direct cinema aesthetics, which entail hand-held cameras and portable sound systems to capture the raw emotions in different live demonstrations.

William Klein

As the only US citizen of the group at the time, Klein had the opportunity to travel there to film without being asked too many questions. His footage of the demonstration on Wall Street on May 1, featured in the second chapter entitled ‘A Parade Is a Parade,’ offers nuanced perspectives to the project. It was originally an anti-war parade in the famous New York financial district, as can be read on the signs of demonstrators walking the picket line: “The rich get richer, you get drafted.” But Klein goes further, and true to direct cinema’s aim to represent reality, he stands in between the demonstrators and the crowd of traders gathered for the occasion, who boo the protesters before screaming “Bomb Hanoi” in unison.

More than just a figure behind the camera filming both sides, Klein was also an instigator, provoking heated debates, as shown in the last chapter of the movie called ‘Vertigo,’ which focuses on the famous parade led by Martin Luther King on April 15, 1967. This was one of the biggest demonstrations for peace, gathering more than half a million people from various socioeconomic backgrounds to march from Central Park to the United Nations. This variety gave the director room to spark discussions, some of which were very heated. Klein decried the war through the initiation of debates, trusting that, because the war is so unjustified and absurd, his ideas would eventually prevail.

Photo shown in the movie, taken during the April 15, 1967 anti-war demonstration in New York.

Manichean war in a complex world

While it’s represented as an unjust American intervention against the self-determination of the Vietnamese people, this war is embedded in a complex geopolitical situation. The film acknowledges this history in the didactic fifth chapter, ‘Flash Back,’ which starts with the First Indochina War. The chapter doesn’t shy away from how French colonialism precipitated and contributed to the US’s imperialist involvement. The parallel between those two imperial aggressions is shown historically: documentary footage and a voice-over bring up important moments of colonial history in Vietnam, but end up in comic strips fighting each other. This technique is clearly inspired by the Situationists, whose influence was at its peak at the time of the movie. The Situationists were a political group merging avant-garde artists and far-left militants. Their particular aesthetic, called le détournement, involves using footage of comics, ads and movies and changing the context to protest against capitalist societies and the effects of over-consumerism.

Situationist International using the détournement, text by Raoul Vaneigem and image by André Bertrand, 1967. Sarcastic comic image used to address culture as a commercial product in capitalists societies.

This connection to a niche political movement serves as a reminder that the movie is directed by a group of French intellectuals and self-described Marxists outside of the general public. While their perspectives represented an undeniable part of the western opinion on the American War, they didn't reflect the whole of it. Most of this group was already against imperialism during the era of French colonization and the First Indochina War. Amongst the average French layperson, anti-war views only started becoming more popular during the decades of the American War in Vietnam.

In January 1948, a survey included the question “What were the most important events of 1947?” and so few French respondents were aware of the Indochina War that it was grouped in the “Other” category — which amounted to 6%. In 1966, however, when queried about the American involvement in Vietnam, 41% of the people disapproved, four times higher than the 10% that showed approval.

The film becomes more ambiguous in Alain Resnais’ chapter ‘Claude Ridder,’ which portrays a fictional French bourgeois intellectual performing a long monologue about his struggle to support Vietnamese people. This character, meant to be despised, speaks his mind in brutal honesty about his contradictory feelings. He’d love to support the Vietnamese people wholeheartedly, but cannot fully put himself in their shoes. For example, he explains his turmoil about the war by drawing an inevitable connection with his past experience in World War II as a member of the Resistance against Nazis:

A still from the ‘Claude Ridder’ chapter showing Alain Resnais’s fictional character, who can also be found in his movie Je t’aime, je t’aime (1968).

He feels that, as a French person, it’s almost hypocritical to protest after the long history of colonization, that it’s futile to just “protest” from the other side of the world, while people give their lives in battle. He also feels that it's reductive to focus on the Vietnam War while a lot of other people also face violence and aggression. All of this piles up into an overwhelming sense of being ill-equipped to address the issue that his intellectual morals can’t disregard, and creates visible uneasiness towards a situation that should be simple.

This character can be seen as a fictional mirror of the directors, and a stand-in to voice their dilemma: they want to capture the war truthfully, but in order to do this, they need to take a step back and look at themselves picturing the war.

Letting the war ‘invade’ us

The fictional representation of bad faith created by Resnais raises the question of the role of the outsiders, full of their own biases, in a war, and how art can tackle the complex subject. This necessity in maintaining a critical distance to wonder about the role of everyone in the conflict is what leads to the deepest layer of the movie. Godard tries to answer this question in a chapter called ‘Camera Eye,' where we can exclusively hear him reflect. The footage feels at first even more off topic: it is mostly him behind a huge camera, and we almost can’t even see his face. The topic is clear: as a French director, why is it important to protest against the American war in Vietnam?

Jean-Luc Godard

Godard begins his monologue with what he would have filmed, if he could have gone there: he wanted to describe how a cluster bomb impacts a naked body or the effect of defoliation on humans, and more. However, the director was not able to go there to execute these ideas; he tells us he asked Hanoi for authorization, but was refused. He is very humble about it, yet we can feel a touch of pain while he explains that he agrees with this refusal, because his ideology was still vague, and more than anything, falsely generous. It cannot come from the bottom of his heart, as he hadn’t experienced it: “It seemed difficult to address certain topics, to speak of bombs when they don’t fall on your head.”

Building on this idea, he chose to “let Vietnam invade us.” This means seeing it as a symbol, “Vietnam” here is not the country, but a more general image of resistance. The “invasion” means realizing the importance of the conflict, and that it’s not alone. Many other countries are facing imperialism, and Vietnam is a synonym of resistance when the director quotes Castro about the importance to “create two, three, many Vietnams.” It also implies creating a Vietnam inside each one of us, and resisting the oppression that applies to us: for Godard, it was against the economics and aesthetics of American cinema which he deemed to have corrupted the global cinema landscape. As a cineast, he viewed “being invaded by Vietnam” also to involve talking about it and picturing it in movies. Which is why he told us about mentioning Vietnam in his other works, to diffuse Vietnam — the symbol of resistance.

Fan footage of a Fidel Castro interview used in the movie.

This movie is 11 chapters long and offers many different perspectives on one of the most prominent conflicts of the century. Its original run in the few cinemas that agreed to screen it was cut short by protests orchestrated by an armed far-right group, followed by numerous bomb threats. Since Loin du Vietnam was restored about 10 years ago, the film has remained under the radar, almost impossible to watch. Now, 60 years after it first aired, the war in Vietnam has been extensively covered in media products from a wide range of sources. However, the clarion call against aggression in Loin du Vietnam is just as relevant today as it was in 1967. More than a simple documentary about the Vietnam War, it provides deep reflections into global oppression and how its affect our society at large.

Loin du Vietnam (Far From Vietnam) is available for viewing in full on YouTube.

For the first time, Vũ Trọng Phụng’s novel Làm đĩ is available in English. Originally published in 1936, the novel has been translated by Đinh Ngọc Mai under the title Making a Whore and was released last year by Major Books, an independent publishing house dedicated to making Vietnamese literature more available for the English-speaking world.

The highly prolific writer Vũ Trọng Phụng is perhaps best known for his satirical novel Số đỏ, or Dumb Luck — a scathing critique of westernization, or “Europeanization,” and the rise of the bourgeoisie class in colonial Vietnam. Many Vietnamese are no doubt familiar with Dumb Luck, as an excerpt of it is featured in the official literature curriculum for Vietnamese high schools. He was praised by the historian Peter Zinoman in the introduction to Making a Whore as “widely considered twentieth-century Vietnam’s greatest writer,” and his literary influences on future generations have far outlived his own short-lived life, which tragically ended at the young age of 26 due to tuberculosis.

At the time of its publication, Making a Whore was highly controversial amongst critics and intellectuals, the debate having been whether Phụng’s novel “should be denounced as pornography or praised as a bold contribution to science and sex education.” For readers today, nine decades after the novel’s original publication, the debate may strike as a bit silly. Making a Whore is neither as sexually explicit nor raunchy as some popular novels of today, nor is the novel really that informative when it comes to offering practical sex education. Nonetheless, the novel offers us acute perspectives into the fascinating discourses on gender and sexuality of late colonial Vietnam.

Image via Facebook page Mộng Tình Lâu.

In his own introduction to the novel, Phụng explains that the purpose of his novel is “to urge moralists and parents to care for their children’s happiness and to pay attention to what corrupt prejudices still consider dirty: that is, sexuality.” As one of his more widely acclaimed novels, the new translation marks a major step forward in expanding the horizon of English-language readership and scholarship on Phụng and his complex views on sex, gender, and colonial modernity.

The story

Making a Whore begins with two friends — the narrator and his longtime friend Quý, who has come to visit — embarking on a night out in town and eventually ending up at a licensed brothel. There, the hostess asks them to wait in a room for their prostitute to arrive. To their surprise, the prostitute who arrives is none other than Huyền, a girl that Quý had obsessed over in high school, who was adored by everyone for her beauty, her seemingly innocent yet sophisticated mannerisms, and her noble family background. 

The two friends thus abandon their original purpose for coming to the brothel entirely and begin inquiring into Huyền’s life, their central curiosity being how a girl like Huyền, “well-groomed, well-behaved, well-raised, the daughter of a judge, the niece of a doctor,” could end up in such a place. “How come the Creator let such a marvel of nature fall from grace without batting an eye? How did society let someone go off the rails without a shred of regret?” asks the narrator.

What follows is Huyền’s story told in the form of a novel manuscript within a novel, structured into four chapters: “Puberty,” “Into the World,” “Married Life,” and “Debauchery.” As Huyền’s life progresses through the respective stages, her “sexual crisis” increasingly spirals out of control. Despite the fact that, by the very structure of the novel, readers follow Huyền’s story already well aware of its ending, the sequence in which Huyền’s life unravels is alluring at every turn. The novel is highly accessible, relatively short for its genre, and its tone and style rather straightforward and blunt. On some level, the novel’s plot — as well as its characters — at times feels a bit absurd, but that is part of the novel’s charm. For it is through such absurdity that Phụng satirizes the “sexual chaos” of late colonial Vietnamese society.

Repression and westernization

Who or what is to be blamed of Huyền’s corruption? For Phụng, the answer is two-pronged: the lack of proper sex education for adolescents and the influences of westernization.

Reflecting back on her life journey, Huyền remarks, “puberty, a rotten environment, and unsavoury company, all fused into a flawed education system that eventually threw me to the wolves.” Seemingly drawing on Freud’s notion of the “return of the repressed” — whose psychoanalytic theory greatly influenced Phụng’s novel — Phụng urges readers to understand Huyền’s sexual “perversions” later in life as the direct effects of her repression conditioned by her improper sex education and adults’ stigmatization of the topic of sex. As a child, deeply curious about her mother’s pregnancy, Huyền asks how babies are born, to which her aunt answers “through the armpits,” only before her father aggressively disapproves of her question and orders her to go away. Without proper sex education, and fueled by the burning lust typical of adolescence, she is left to explore her sexuality via other means: physically, through masturbation; and theoretically, through a book on the “science” of sex. The irony is that the adults themselves — responsible for the intense shaming and stigmatization that conditions such repression — freely indulge in bodily and material pleasures, often in plain sight in front of their children, and often in morally corrupt ways, as in the case of Huyền’s own father, who engages in adultery.

But it is not just the lack of sex education that is to blame. For Phụng, it is also westernization and its culture of materialism. In one telling moment, Huyền remarks that, in some sense, her “corruption” began with “a pair of white trousers” — which at the time, was considered the hallmark of a “modern” woman’s look. According to Huyền, what began as an insignificant pair of white trousers opened the way for a slippery slope of increasingly western and liberal ways of socializing, all of which eventually resulted in debauchery, corruption, and prostitution. As Phụng summarizes his views succinctly:

The meeting of East and West on this strip of land has strongly influenced our material lives. What could be more absurd than having accepted the new lifestyle, which includes theatres, cinemas, modern clothes, dancing houses, perfumes, and waxes, which are conditions that make humanity more and more SEXUAL, but at the same time not recognising the need to propagate the issue of education about SEXUALITY, in order to teach future generations how to sex ethically, to sex honestly, and to sex in a way that will not cause harm to your race?

Here, it is worth noting that the title Making a Whore is a significant departure from the title that English-language scholarship had traditionally used, To Be a Whore. In Vietnamese, the verb làm can mean both making and to be. The change in the verb is significant in that it reflects Phụng’s general attitude towards the sexual corruption of late colonial society, as demonstrated above. For Phụng, a “whore” is not something that someone simply chooses to be, but rather “made” by factors larger than any one single individual.

Analytical failings

While Making a Whore certainly contains elements that were ahead of its time — such as, importantly, its refusal to depict prostitutes as simply flat-charactered victims, as many others during his time had — his novel also contains key analytical flaws that are worth highlighting.

The Vietnamese-language cover of a previous edition of Làm đĩ.

The first centers around “corruption,” a concept that organizes and structures the entire novel. But what does that word really entail? What specifically makes an act “corrupt”? Part of what is so difficult in trying to determine what Phụng means by “corruption,” or his theory of sexual morality, is that he seems to draw from a hodgepodge of various disparate influences. As Peter Zinoman notes, “Ideas drawn from Freud, modern sexology, and traditional and neo-traditional Sino-Vietnamese discourses about sex commingled in his thinking, making it difficult to attach a meaningful label to his approach to this issue.”

For instance, the “educational book” that Phụng reads in lieu of proper sex education relies on the theory of yin and yang to denounce masturbation as obstructing harmonious equilibrium. “Those who perform the act will think it is identical to copulation, but in fact, copulation between men and women requires the harmony of yin and yang to facilitate blood flow and prevent hygienic mishaps. In the case of masturbation, only yin or yang energy is present; therefore, blood flow remains obstructed.” What we thus have is a concept of “corruption” that seemingly resists a coherent framework. Is masturbation corrupt in the same way that debauchery is corrupt, or even in the way that prostitution is deemed corrupt?

But on some level, the amorphous quality of what is meant by “corruption” may be precisely the point. “Corruption” is perhaps best understood not as any analytically well-defined, objective category, but rather as an expression or reflection of Phụng’s own ideals for Vietnamese society. Ultimately, it is more useful to grasp the term not for what it means, but rather for its ideological function — that of policing sex and gender specifically under a kind of civilizational anxiety.

If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

The other major way in which Making a Whore is analytically confused is in its treatment of materialism. As discussed, Phụng directs much of the blame of Huyền’s said “corruption” — epitomized by her prostitution — to materialism, as a force of westernization. But here, Phụng fails to differentiate between the two distinct concepts of “materialism” and capitalism — the former of which should be understood as the cultural and ideological manifestation of the latter. Without revealing too much of the novel, while materialism does indeed lead Huyền to act in increasingly “corrupt” ways, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is not corruption via materialism per se, but rather economic necessity. In other words, what ultimately pushes Huyền into prostitution is the economic system of capitalism — which, through the brutal violence of colonialism, expropriated and dispossessed the population at large, foreclosing conditions for relatively self-sufficient subsistence.  Or more specifically, what is responsible is capitalism paired with an existing structure of patriarchy that severely curtailed women’s socioeconomic freedoms. If prostitution is “wrong,” it is not because it is somehow sexually “corrupt,” but because of its exploitative conditions under gendered capitalism. It is worth asking if Huyền would have still ended up a prostitute had she lived under a different socioeconomic system.

Making a Whore is analytically messy and full of tensions and contradictions. I outline this, however, not to dissuade readers from picking up the book, but because I think that what makes a book like Making a Whore such an engaging and fascinating read is precisely its multitude of tensions and contradictions, and the ways in which they reveal much about its own time. In this sense, the analytical flaws in the book are the direct product — which is to say, a critical perspective into — an extremely dynamic and formative time in Vietnam’s national history when deeply difficult and important questions were being debated and unfurled in real time: a time when gender norms were clashing intensely against notions of modernity, a time when the independence movement was fractured across nationalists and communists who disagreed on the subject of capitalism. If there is a reason to read Making a Whore, it is not for the answers it offers to the questions it raises, but rather for what it reveals about the very terrain or horizon in which such questions were being raised and debated.

In 2024, The New York Times published a list of the 25 most iconic pieces of furniture from the past century, selected by a panel of designers, artists, and curators from the world's leading museums. Unexpectedly, the Monobloc, a plastic chair found in almost every corner of Vietnam and across the globe, had somehow secured a seat.

When the news broke, Vietnamese news sources were quick to jump on the story. The resulting coverage mostly followed a comfortable, recurring motif: a humble object of the streets, long embedded into the fabric of local life, now finally validated by the international gatekeepers of taste! Journalists dutifully cataloged the chair's role in fostering Vietnam’s culinary and social gatherings, noting its constant presence at beer stalls, in family courtyards, and various scenes throughout the country.

Notably, the Monobloc was the only entry without a credited creator. Photo via The New York Times.

Yet, looking beyond the headlines, I found a barrage of conflicting interpretations regarding the chair's inclusion. While most of the designs were celebrated for their aesthetic innovation or the genius of their creators, the Monobloc was chosen for its absolute, relentless ubiquity. There have been millions, perhaps billions, of them produced and scattered across the world.

Sifting through internet forums, I noticed that global sentiment toward the Monobloc was also split into two opposing camps. In many countries, people despise it openly, describing it as an eyesore that clutters the landscape and an environmental blight. Yet elsewhere, particularly in Vietnam, the chair is spoken of with a certain fondness. Here, we quite like it for being cheap, practical, and always dependable.

The local press quickly capitalized on the Monobloc making the list. Photo via VTV24.

How can something so simple be both cherished and disdained? What exactly about it is so appealing to some and so offensive to others? Is it genuinely useful, or merely plastic waste masquerading as furniture? Out of all these descriptors, what is the true nature of the Monobloc?

To find an answer, we have to trace the chair back to its inception, even if its origins are just as murky as the way we view it today.

The Monobloc, as the name suggests, is cast from a single mass of plastic. It is typically made of polypropylene, a thermoplastic that yields to shape under high heat.

The chair first emerged in the aftermath of the World Wars, as nations lunged toward industrialization. At the time, plastic was hailed as the substance of the future because it was light, durable, and did not rely on traditional resources like wood or metal, which had become scarce during the war years.

Amid rapid breakthroughs in material science, designers began experimenting with plastic as a new frontier for mass-market furniture. The hope was to create products that were flexible, inexpensive, and more accessible to the general public.

From left to right, Panton Chair, Bofinger Chair, Universale Chair, Fauteuil 300. Photo via Vitra Design Museum.

This era witnessed many would-be precursors to the modern Monobloc. In 1967, Verner Panton introduced the Panton Chair, famous for its seamless, flowy curves. Over in Germany, Helmut Bätzner developed the Bofinger Chair, the first model molded from fiberglass-reinforced plastic. Around the same time in Italy, Joe Colombo launched the Universale Chair, which featured detachable legs to allow for adjustable heights.

This lineage grew even closer to the present in 1972, when French engineer Henry Massonnet introduced the Fauteuil 300. This model possessed the silhouette we recognize today: slim, equipped with armrests, and very stackable. 

But the real turning point was in 1983, when the French Grosfillex Group launched its Resin Garden Chair. This was designed for the mass market with exceptionally low production costs. Crucially, the patent was not copyrighted, allowing manufacturers worldwide to copy and modify it, priming the chair to become an international icon.

On a functional level, the Monobloc is the result of meticulous calculation. The backrest is perforated to drain rainwater for outdoor use. The frame, while thin, is surprisingly resilient, with a curved back designed to cradle the sitter. The legs are reinforced to handle heavy loads and spaced precisely so they can be stacked without warping.

Inside a chair factory. Photo via Works That Work.

According to Witold Rybczynski in his book Now I Sit Me Down, the entire production process takes less than two minutes. Plastic granules are mixed with pigments and additives before being melted at roughly 220°C. This molten mixture is then injected into a mold under immense pressure. Once cooled, the mold opens to reveal a chair ready for use.

The greatest expense in this production line is the mold itself. A single set can churn out millions of perfect copies, distinguished only by color. These molds often cost hundreds of thousands of dollars. For this reason, the Monobloc was always engineered with high-volume manufacturing in mind. A factory can only break even after selling hundreds of thousands of units. 

A beach in Naples, Italy. Photo by Brett Lloyd via Another Mag.

Pragmatic in both design and economics, the Monobloc possessed everything needed to take over the world. From France, it quickly swept through Europe and crossed the Atlantic to North America, populating gardens, cafes, beaches, and weekend picnics.

But this very popularity would soon turn it into a pariah in the western world. Critics, as quoted in Smithsonian Magazine, accused the Monobloc of being “in the worst possible taste” and “cheap, ugly and everywhere.” 

In cities like Zurich and Barcelona, local governments have gone so far as to banish the Monobloc from public spaces, treating it as a sort of urban clutter. To certain designers, the chair is the ultimate symbol of mindless consumerism and a grotesque aesthetic that strips a space of its character. And because it is so inexpensive, people often discard a broken chair rather than repair it, reinforcing its image as a disposable item and contributing to the plastic waste crisis.

Two chairs at the Dead Sea. Photo via Elle Decor.

Yet the journey of the Monobloc in the so-called “developing world” offers a starkly different perspective. Far from the contempt found in Europe, the documentary Monobloc by Hauke Wendler reveals a different reality. 

Trailer of the documentary Monobloc.

The first half of the film captures the complaints of Germans before moving to other countries to see how the chair is actually used. The further the director travels from his home, the more he discovers that the chair is welcomed and utilized in ingenious ways.

When he arrived in India, he met Harnek Singh, an employee at Supreme Industries, the country’s largest producer of plastic chairs. Singh explained that not long ago, many poor households in India did not even own a proper chair. The arrival of the Monobloc changed that. Cheap to make and easy to produce on a larger scale, it spread quickly across the country. Had even half that demand been met with wooden furniture instead, he said, the pressure on local vegetation would have been devastating.

From top to bottom, left to right: Monobloc chairs in Germany, Brazil, India, and Uganda. Photo via Monobloc documentary.

In Brazil, Wendler traveled to Recife, a coastal city where residents in impoverished neighborhoods rely heavily on waste picking for a living. At local recycling workshops, broken plastic chairs are collected, shredded, and melted down to be cast into entirely new objects. Far from being discarded as waste, these chairs serve as a vital raw material that fuels the local circular economy.

The story takes an even more resourceful turn in Uganda. There, the Monobloc serves as the primary frame for low-cost wheelchairs distributed by the organization Free Wheelchair Mission. By repurposing this chair, the group has slashed production costs to just a few dozen dollars per unit, a fraction of the price of a standard wheelchair. The simple assembly and readily available parts allowed the project to scale rapidly. By 2019, the organization had provided over 1.1 million Monobloc wheelchairs to people with disabilities across more than 90 countries, including Vietnam.

A Monobloc on a Vietnamese train car. Photo by Chris Hilton via Adventure.com.

A Monobloc wheelchair in Đà Nẵng. Photo via iotilverdensende.

Taken together, these stories seem to suggest that people's relationship with the Monobloc mirrors the condition of their environment. Those in less privileged regions often see it as a precious commodity and a practical solution to their community's lack of resources. Rarely is it a concern whether a chair is cool-looking or what design philosophy it might represent.

Whereas in more affluent societies, familiarity breeds contempt. When basic needs are met, people have the freedom and the financial means to curate their identities through consumption. In such a context, the Monobloc is often dismissed as a mere byproduct of mass production. It fails to signal style or personal flair, standing in direct opposition to the ideals of individuality that many strive to project.

This article is by no means an indictment of the western framework, nor is it an absolute verdict on which perspective holds more weight. Rather, it is a mere observation of how our lived experiences can drastically shift our perception of an object that is otherwise deemed universal.

Encountering the Monobloc through these global accounts, I find myself returning to the same question posed at the beginning: what, exactly, is this chair at its core?

The only answer I can offer is a personal one.

As it turns out, as a Vietnamese, I find my idea of the chair at odds with many of the aforementioned notions. I’d even dispute the most mainstream argument that the Monobloc is inherently culture-less, for I can tell from miles away the difference between a white chair by the Sicilian sea and the bright, neon green variety in a local quán nhậu with the quasi-bitten-apple logo on its back, which wouldn’t have been able to exist anywhere in the west due to copyright law.

I’m also immensely grateful for the livelihood it has given me and my fellow countrymen, in many ways. In a small way, I’m grateful for the one singular chair my neighbor has left out on our shared front porch, which no one has bothered to steal, on which I regularly put on my socks before heading out or drop my groceries after breathlessly climbing two flights of stairs.

In the big way, I’m grateful that it has provided stable seating for beer-bellied uncles catching the evening breeze by the canal, blue-collar workers leaning back for a quick nap between shifts, and passengers squeezed into crowded Tết trains when extra plastic chairs line the corridor.

Photo via Flickr.

I’m inclined to be biased, of course, as some of the best meals and best times I've had happened on various incarnations of the Monobloc. So mostly, I’m just really grateful that Vietnam doesn’t yet have a discourse on its aesthetic or social merits, and that here, the Monobloc is simply, wonderfully, a fact of life.

It’s been hidden right there in the heart of Saigon for over half a decade. 

On one end, neverending, city-wide construction is muffled and ironically forgotten thanks to a veil of sử quân tử flowers concealing its outdoor patio.

On the other end, there’s an open door, one flight of stairs up from an unmarked parking garage guarded by an elderly man, who was confused as to why I woke him from his late morning slumber.

The autograph-covered door into the studio.

“I’m here for Richie,” I say.

“Ahh, Richie, OK, OK,” he nods, reluctantly, motioning me to park outside on the sidewalk.

It’s here on the corner of Pasteur Street and Lý Tự Trọng where one will discover the art studio, speakeasy, and playground known as The Studio Saigon.

It’s also here where one will find Richie Fawcett, sitting on his uncomfortable-by-design DJ equipment box, hunched over his drafting board with black fingerless gloves and a scalpel, tending to his latest rendition of Saigon’s ephemeral skyline. I appear in the doorway, and he stands up immediately to greet me with a smile and a handshake.

Richie Fawcett has spent the last decade creating artworks of Saigon.

I’ve arranged the meeting to talk to Fawcett about his latest book: HCMC Decacity Project, a decade-long art project capturing the changing face of Hồ Chí Minh City from 2013 to 2023.

Archiving history via city sketches

To understand what this book is all about, first, realize that Fawcett is now on his fourth life. Life #1: Student of Egyptian Archaeology specializing in underwater ancient shipwreck photography at UCL. Life #2: Photographer of underground techno night clubs in London and videographer of extreme sports on cruise ships around the world. Life #3: Bartender under former James Bond, Sir Roger Moore KBE in London, and alongside celebrity chef Tony Singh in Edinburgh. Later in 2011, after a year-long stint in Hong Kong, Fawcett traveled south from one Pearl of the Orient to another: Saigon. He had originally only planned to scale up the city’s bar and restaurant scene. Yet, as fate would have it, it was here where his fourth life began.

Remnants of Life #3 live in the space amongst Vietnamese knick-knacks.

Back in The Studio Saigon, the 50-year-old artist from Norfolk, UK is seated to my right on one of his two brown leather sofas in the back bar area, with his latest book open on his lap. Although the book progresses chronologically, our conversation does not.

This book begins and ends in the same spot with the scene that inspired him over a decade ago to start drawing in Vietnam: the view from the top floor window of the Fine Arts Museum across the Quách Thị Trang Roundabout facing Bến Thành Market. Back in 2012–2013 or “the early days” as Fawcett titles them in the book, he starts with a trio of sketches of the Notre Dame Cathedral using pencil on A5 paper — beginning in a similar fashion as his grandfather did using charcoal as a self-taught artist back in the 1930s.

In his studio, Richie shares the story of how this all started.

Call it clairvoyance, a sixth sense, insider information, or just a stroke of luck — he foresaw demolition and felt inspiration. Envisioning the river of time flooding Saigon, Fawcett dove right into the bottom only to resurface a decade later to share his findings. The 150 pages in between recurring plot points feature original drawings of streetscapes, cityscapes, local characters, and panoramic views all captured in the last ten years.

Pens and papers — an artist's best friends.

Paper? French. Hand-made. Daler and Rowney. Aquafine texture. Purchased at a local student art shop.

Ink? Chinese. Preferably watered down from jet black to light grey. Same used by scribes during the Lunar New Year — a period of rejuvenation for Fawcett where the cooler weather clears the city’s sky evoking magical feelings whilst drawing.

Pens? Japanese. Mitsubishi. Somewhere between 0.1 and 0.5. If a pen is wrapped in green tape, it’s fresh. If it’s wrapped in yellow, it ain’t.

Signature stamp at the bottom right corner of all his sketches? Bought by his wife, Duyên, three years in advance. Obsessed with by his son, Harry. “My son loves to stamp everything with different dates,” Fawcett says. The logo — which you can find throughout his studio — symbolizes the shape of the city’s first citadel from back in the 18^th century.

Putting the Saigon skyline on the map

It’s almost unheard of that someone prefers to walk everywhere in Saigon, but for Fawcett, the long walks between lunch and dinner services when he used to work as a bar manager years ago became his muse. Repeatedly strolling along the same streets and around the same districts over and over has granted him the ability to notice not only details of new buildings going up into the sky, but also of old faces on the streets.

A snapshot in the story of Saigon.

“The most honest way is to draw something,” Fawcett says. “When you write a diary, words can be left open to interpretation, but drawing a picture, it’s a snapshot and that's why I wanted to draw what I see accurately. It tells a story chronologically in the right order about what really is going on.”

Over time, his drawings went from using only pencil to pencil plus pen. Then, it went to solely pen and soon to smaller and smaller pen tips and bigger and bigger canvases that require 100-plus hours for a single drawing, such as the one in the Brasserie VietNam in New York City or the mural outside of the British Consulate on Lê Duẩn Boulevard. Fawcett tells me that it had 24/7 armed guard for nearly a year. Meanwhile, his largest piece is a five-meter-wide inverted and LED-backlit drawing at Anan Saigon on Tôn Thất Đạm Street. Chef and owner Peter Cuong Franklin has been a close friend and supporter of Fawcett since they met many years ago.

While the artworks in the book are coffee table-appropriate, some of Richie's pieces could span entire walls.

Peter Ryder, the CEO of Indochina Capital, selected Fawcett to be one of the resident artists of Wink Hotels, effectively putting his work on the window shades of every single room in the hotel chain. “It’s a great match, Richie and I, Wink and Richie, because Wink looks to reflect the modern day Vietnam and Richie and his drawings are very much putting on paper his interpretation of Vietnam,” Ryder said.

An appreciation for the little things

When researching the last ten years of Fawcett’s life and work, I kept looking for the turning point in his story. In the process of documenting a decade of “decay and dazzling disorder,” as he writes in the book, when did things flip?

At what inflection point did the trajectory of his life as a self-taught artist change? Was it two years into drawing when he grew confident enough to finally only use a pen instead of a pencil? Or was it the 2015–2016 period, when the volume of his work dramatically increased? Perhaps, it was in 2018, when he quit his salaried job, got married, and committed to being an artist full-time on his terms, resulting in a visible influx in private commissions?

Maybe, it was throughout the 2020–2021 COVID-19 lockdowns when the subject of his work became more experimental and included drawing other cities like London and Santorini, sketching the insides of a tornado, or crafting portraits of his son — something he only does for himself.

Smiling from above.

After meeting Fawcett, visiting his studio, and speaking with others in his circle, I realized I had been looking at this situation wrong all along: HCMC Decacity Project isn’t just a decade-long art project as the title suggests. This is a decade-long anthology, a retrospective collection of love stories pouring out of Fawcett.

It's falling in love with the rooftops of HCMC, where he first saw the full spectrum of its contrasting elements. Falling in love again and again with the Quách Thị Trang Roundabout, even when he saw the statue’s removal taking place on his way home from one night, forcing him to quickly sit down on the curb under the streetlight and capture the moment in real time. Falling in love with his wife Duyên way back when she would pick him up on her motorbike in the early mornings during Tết and take him to Bình Tây Market — a place, as Fawcett writes, if you can’t find what you’re looking for there, “chances are it doesn’t exist.”

A quick sketch of Tết on the street.

And finally, it’s Fawcett falling in love with being a dad where at his studio he has a workbench set up — just like his dad working as a gunsmith when he was a kid — that way his son can now sit right next to his dad and see him first hand create and do what he loves every day.

“That is,” Fawcett says, slowing down and pausing between words, “the exact childhood that I want my son to have.”

Towards tomorrow

Regardless, for him, time ticking away has always been a motivational driver to get out there and make the most of it.

What’s Fawcett up to now? Will there be a fifth life ahead, and what could it entail? Branching out into fashion, launching NFT collections on the blockchain, and marching on his literal artistic race against time to archive the evanescent nature in Saigon? Regardless, for him, time ticking away has always been a motivational driver to get out there and make the most of it. “There’s no time like the present!” he reminds me over WhatsApp.

As Fawcett sits back down on his DJ equipment box with its red citadel logo and “Keep Calm and Make a Sketch” motto etched below and scoots forward to the table nearby an easel with his son’s drawing, he finally shares his overarching philosophy for this book and future plans ahead. It’s simple. “Best plan, no plan,” he says with a smile.

This article was originally published in 2023.

Through installations and animated films, Quế traces the flow of water as they move through personal memories and collective histories, carrying generational trauma amidst urbanization, and even natural disaster.

Water exists everywhere: within our bodies, in rivers and oceans that surround us; it is often considered the essential source of life. Yet, when water is no longer calm and clear, and seeps into every single aspect of our existence, what kind of life remains now?

Originally from Đà Nẵng, artist and art producer Quế (Nguyễn Đức Hùng) once lived along the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè canal in Bình Thạnh district after he moved to Saigon for work. Observing and absorbing everything around him, he began to question how locals manage to sustain their life near the canal, which is well known for its severe pollution. His interest towards “water and what is found in water” led him to artistic practice of engaging with personal and collective memory and history, labor conditions and urbanization. Working across photography, moving images, animation and installation, his works have been developed and presented in art residencies such as Á Space (Hanoi), Leipzig International Art Program (Leipzig, Germany), A.Farm International Art Residency (Saigon), Artist-in-Residence Vietnam Network (Hanoi), and various exhibitions and screening events.

Portrait of Quế (Nguyễn Đức Hùng).

A fish tank, ‘Water permeates through the divine’ (2024), is filled halfway with water and glows in a darkened space. Developed during his residency at A.Farm International Art Residency (Saigon), the installation resembles what the artist describes as “a pixel of mud, water and anything that belongs to the river,” featuring mud collected from the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè canal. Inside the tank, particles slowly drift and separate under the aurora-like green light, where everything seems transparent and detached despite the polluted water. The work reveals a paradox of something beautiful, yet toxic — an isolated fish tank but without fish, where life cannot be sustained.

‘Water permeates through the divine,’ 2024. Glass tank, mud, water, and anything that belongs to the river, plexiglass, single-channel video.

In contrast, ‘Into purified water’ (2025) was developed as a part of his open studio during his residency at Leipzig International Art Program (Leipzig, Germany). This time, the water remains clear enough that one can view the video work of animated ants projected through the water against the wall, thanks to Germany’s trusted purified water system. Tracing the migration and labor histories of Vietnamese communities in Germany, combined with the artist’s observation on the rise of xenophobia and racism happening in Germany during his residency, a critical question emerges: at what cost would individuals or communities go in pursuit of “filtered” water in a distant promised land?

‘Into purified water,’ 2025. Single-channel video, glass tank, water. Running time: 3 mins 30 secs.

Quế’s interest in water goes beyond environmental conditions, turning towards the body as a site of inheritance. His experience living by the canal led him to question how children grow up in such environments, and why they fall ill easily, both physically and mentally. This returns to the artist’s personal upbringing, where he considers water in human bodies as a metaphor for transmission and inheritance: carrying life, memory, and familial memories. What is often understood as “heritage” passed down across generations, unfortunately, is inseparable from inherited traits and generational trauma.

‘Elles’ (2024) comprises a series of works that confronts one’s personal memories and inherited generational trauma. In a video installation, the artist himself lies still as the water drips steadily onto his head, until its weight intensifies and becomes unbearable over time. Resembling the image of his mother taking a siesta, the accumulating pressure and headache evokes physical and psychological pain that a woman goes through for many years. As the artist notes, “the stream of water is the violent impact of the man in the family,” and by placing himself in this position, he aims to “let the memory be implicitly voiced.” As the human body is largely composed of water, the materials in his works serve literally and metaphorically: as a carrier of traits passed from mother to child across generations and beyond, and as an imagined conduit where memory and trauma persists.

(Right) ‘Elles,’ 2024. Two-channel video installation, sound & scent installation.
(Left) ‘Elles,’ 2017 - 2022. Digital image.

Another highlight of Quế’s artistic practice is his animated films, in which he takes a deep dive into research on Vietnamese animation and propaganda posters. Instead of featuring human elements as main characters, he chooses a non-human approach: through the perspectives of mosquitoes and ants. While exploring the history of the house at No. 23 Châu Long Street (Hanoi), which survived through the Indochina wars, Quế attempted to interview locals living in the neighbourhood, but did not seem to get the answers he was looking for. At the same time, he found himself surrounded by mosquitoes near a canal. ‘Healthy diseases with water’ (2024) features a mosquito and the ghostly presence of a French monologue inside the house. One line in the film reads: “I forgot everything, the war made me the parent of so many children that I no longer remember, who don't even exist to see the sun.” It speaks to an extreme trauma and history that now seems almost nonexistent — something left unsaid, perhaps too overwhelming for one to fully comprehend.

Film stills of ‘Healthy diseases with water,’ 2024. Animated film. Duration: 7 minutes.

Meanwhile, ‘The ant and the rice grain’ (2026) takes direct reference from the original animated film of the same title Con kiến và hạt gạo by Nguyễn Thế Hội in 1976. The film follows a small ant on duty, reporting an approaching heavy storm to the colony, and ensuring that all others evacuate first before returning to the nest to carry his own rice grain. However, unlike the original version’s happy ending, the storm arrives and the flood sweeps away everything in its way. In the works’ description, Quế explained: “Throughout the process, my obsessions with water, storms and floods, hydroelectric dams, and dead bodies of ants floating in the kitchen sink and water containers at home emerged as reminders of the misfortunes endured by Vietnamese people.”

Film stills of ‘The ant and the rice grain,’ 2026. Animated film. Duration: 10 minutes.

Installation view of ‘Water, Ant, and Rice Grain’ (2026) in collaboration with Huế as part of the Solo Marathon 2025 program at Á Space (Hà Nội).

Mosquitoes are known as disease transmitters in stagnant water, and the mosquito “exploding” and collapsing at the end of the film signifies the helplessness and the weight of trauma carried throughout history. Meanwhile, ants are considered extremely hard-working even under dangerous conditions, yet they can be swept away by a forceful flow of water, in a situation where evacuation or migration remains impossible. The film recalls the disastrous 2025 Central and Northern Vietnam flood and how the situation was poorly handled, which took place at the same time Quế was making the work. Both films employ non-human elements of mosquitoes and ants as the main imagery, pointing to natural causes that are largely shaped by human-made factors. One film dwells on the forgotten histories of a house that survived through wars, the other one reflects on the vulnerable and collective struggles against environmental catastrophe today.

Open studio ‘Nature on the roof’ (2024) in Hà Nội, in collaboration with Saya Nguyễn. Organized by Artist-in-Residence Vietnam Network (AiRViNe).

Water embodies adaptability, resilience, and fluidity, and yet, it can be violent and carry everything in its path. In Quế’s works, what appears as personal and collective memories of generational trauma and urbanized living environment are deeply intertwined with bigger structural conditions shaped by inequality and social mobility: who gets to migrate and access “purified” water, and who is unfortunately left behind amidst disaster. No longer just “a source of life,” water links heritage, human well-being, and environmental instability together, revealing power dynamics along with slow violence, and questions how we can sustain our own vulnerable lives while navigating cultural norms and changing landscapes today.

Photos courtesy of Quế (Nguyễn Đức Hùng).

In an example of cruel irony, October 20 is when we celebrate annual Vietnam Women's Day, and also the anniversary of the passing of Mai Nga (commonly known as Nga Nhí), the lead singer of Gỗ Lim — a Hanoi-based female post-punk band that, albeit short-lived, struck a blow for women’s representation in rock and metal music in Vietnam in 2011 and 2012.

It was only until a few days after Nga Nhí's death in 2012 that I first started listening to Gỗ Lim’s music, despite having been a fan of the underground rock and metal music scene for quite awhile. Every rock concert I went to at the time consisted of crowds of men in black band T-shirts headbanging to similarly attired and gendered musicians.

My first impression of Gỗ Lim was on a YouTube thumbnail showing Nga Nhí in a pink tee on the stage of CAMA (Club for the Appreciation of Music and Art) Festival. It immediately disrupted my visual perception of the genre. I wish I had a more interesting story to tell about the first Gỗ Lim song I ever heard, but I'm sure it was the one that comes up first in YouTube's algorithm-driven search results, their most popular, ‘Các bạn đứng nghiêm.’ The song takes the perspective of a giám thị (school disciplinary master), throwing orders at students to make them stay in line, not to move, and not to laugh.  

‘Các bạn đứng nghiêm’ is a song at conflict with itself. The funky bassline, heavy guitar riffs, and drums instruct you to dance, while Nga's scream instructs you not to. The song struck a chord with any Vietnamese person who ever attended public school and likely had their own giám thị encounter. Its playful proposition produced laughter, which was at the heart of Gỗ Lim's subversive power.

Nga Nhí on the stage of CAMA Festival. Photo by Lizo Glennard.

The band originally formed as Golem, and had an alternative rock sound and identity. They performed covers of ‘Zombie’ and ‘Animal Instinct’ by The Cranberries, as well as some original songs.

Nga Nhí joined the band in 2011 and Golem become Gỗ Lim. The full lineup consisted of Nga Nhí on vocals, Trang Chuối and La Sim on guitar, Nghĩa Bờm on percussion, and Hà My on bass. They described themselves as “punk pussies and beard,” with the “beard” referring to the band's lone male Nghĩa, Nga’s brother. Their style evolved too: the sounds became heavier and edgier as influenced by punk rock and riot grrrl, while the lyrics became more casual and playful. Gỗ Lim’s only album, “Gái Làng” (Village Girl), was released in October 2015 as a tribute to Nga Nhí.

Describing their music in an interview, the band noted: “There are no restriction in terms of what topic goes into our songs, we talk about what we’ve seen and want to express: from school kids having to stay in line to girls doing their hair, even a cat, our favorite pet, being hungry, gets a song. Our music is open-minded, easy-going, oftentimes very grungy because we play what we like to play. We believe in the freedom of individual’s expression.”

Photos via Gỗ Lim's Facebook page.

Gỗ Lim’s performances expanded from local gigs in Hanoi music venues like Hanoi Rock City to international events. In March 2012, Gỗ Lim opened for MEN, a radical art project that featured JD Samson and Johanna Fateman, two legendary gender-smashing icons best known for their involvement with Le Tigre, one of the pioneer punk band of the riot grrrl movement. Later that year, they played CAMA Festival alongside Chinese indie sensation Carsick Cars, Japanese punk rock band Electric Eel Shock, and Philippines’s electronic rock pioneer Turbo Goth.

While the messages of many riot grrrl bands are in-your-face, straightforward and hard-hitting, Gỗ Lim’s lyrics take a more ambiguous, humorous, and playful approach, while still keeping the genre's defiant spirit intact. This quality reflects many feminist and queer scholars theories about the subversive potential of humor and serious play. Philosopher Judith Butler contended in her preface for Gender Trouble that “laughter in the face of serious categories is indispensable for feminism.” Playful acts serving a cause work as powerful tools to denaturalize norms, thus inviting alternatives and open-mindedness.

Take the first two sentences from ‘Các bạn đứng nghiêm’:

In the first sentence, two pairs of binary gái / trai (girl / boy), and phải / trái (right / left) are used. Then, in the second sentence, using spoonerism, gái / trai becomes trái / gai (left / spike), which is no longer a dichotomy, and when put beside em bé (kid), makes absolutely no sense. This toying with pairs directly questions the legitimacy of binary gender classifications.

Gỗ Lim's wrestling with stereotypical gender notions can also be spotted in ‘Người đàn bà làm đầu’ (The Woman Does Her Hair), which starts off with a list of nouns and adjectives depicting women's hairstyles. The lyrics' female figures have hairdos that are not traditionally seen as feminine such as húi cua (crew cut), dreadlocks, siêu hói (super bald), nát xơ (crushed and dry), uốn hôi (stinky). 

Dissecting Gỗ Lim’s lyrics is a fascinating exercise. The band blends extensive malapropisms, alliterations, and onomatopoeia with creative wordplay. The band often sprinkles in their own invented phrases as well. For example, the chorus of ‘Người đàn bà làm đầu' is a rapid-fire string of phrases formed by rearranging the titles five words. The result is phrases like người đàn bà làm tình (the woman make love), người làm tình đàn bà (those who make love to the woman), and người làm tình cụt đầu (others make love without their head).

Art enthusiasts might interpret Gỗ Lim's small acts of defiance against language as a nod to Dadaism. The anti-art art movement first started in 20^th century Europe, and one of its core premises was to abolish reason and logic to strike against the rationalizations of modern capitalist society. Dadaists opt for a nonsensical and irrational approach in their work; even the word “dada” itself means nothing. In the words of the poet Tristan Tzara, which excellently captures the heart of Gỗ Lim's music: “Freedom: Dada Dada Dada, a roaring of tense colors, and interlacing of opposites and of all contradictions, grotesques, inconsistencies: LIFE.”

This article was first published in 2018.

Islam is the fastest-growing religion in the world, yet Vietnamese Muslims represent as little as 0.1% of the country’s population. Most are ethnic Chăm, while a few are foreigners and a few converts. After traveling to Châu Đốc in An Giang Province, where the majority are located, I was mesmerized by the unique cultural mix this community represents.

I visited a few times during Ramadan, the ninth month of the Islamic calendar. Muslims around the world celebrate this holy month by praying during the night time and abstaining from eating, drinking, and sexual acts between sunrise and sunset. In 2019, Ramadan finishes on June 4, with Eid al-Fitr taking place on June 5. It is believed the Quran’s first verse was revealed during this period of the year.

At the end of Ramadan, the Chăm Muslims celebrate Eid al-Fitr, which translates literally as the “break-fast festival,” by wearing new clothes, visiting relatives and gathering food. Kids play with candles and new toys while young people stay up all night. Many also choose to get married during the festival.

In Châu Đốc, wedding celebrations go on for three days. People visit the family of the bride and groom to congratulate them, enjoy traditional green tea and eat snacks. On the final day, the groom goes together with his family and friends to the bride’s house for a celebration. It lasts for hours and culminates in the announcement that they are now husband and wife.

The following photos represent the daily life of the Chăm people during Ramadan, Eid al-Fitr:

Sunset over the Mekong River in Châu Đốc, where many families live in floating houses.

Family restaurants could be found around the village

A Việt-Muslim family.

Old people waiting for the sun to set before breaking their fast.

Kids and young men playing traditional games just before the sunset.

The backyard of a mosque where people get together to play games.

Men gathering together to break their fast.

Men and women gather to pray Taraweeh, an extra prayer that is usually only performed during the nights of the holy month of Ramadan.

The night is the only time when Muslims can eat and drink during the month of Ramadan so fried food and nước mía stalls open late.

Kids play with candles during the night.

Joining the bride or groom’s family to drink green tea and to congratulate them during the three-day wedding celebrations.

The bride and groom in their house finally announced as husband and wife.

This article was originally published on Urbanist Hanoi in 2019.

To say that Tết gathers together everything most beautiful in Vietnamese culture would not be an exaggeration. More than a threshold between the old year and the new, it is also a time when people feel they can return to, and relive, the traditional values that define them.

It is there in those year-end markets, where one searches for the familiar flavors of home. It is there in the square bánh chưng, shaped like the earth, and the cylindrical bánh tét, round like the sky. These are humble offerings, yet deeply reverent, placed before one’s ancestors. And on the afternoon of the 23^th day of the last lunar month, families erect cây nêu (tall bamboo pole) in front of their homes. A small wind chime hangs from it, trembling in the breeze as a quiet gesture meant to ward off misfortune.

Whenever strips of red paper begin to appear along Hàng Mã Street, I find myself thinking of ông đồ who once wrote characters on dó paper. What does the person who comes to ask for a character truly seek, if not something beyond a few strokes of calligraphy? And what does the giver offer, if not something beyond a flourish of black ink?

Silk robes and scholar caps

In the Confucian civil service examination system, candidates who passed three rounds and earned the degree of Tú Tài, a licentiate-level qualification, were known as “ông đồ.” Many never entered official service. Those who advanced only through the lower examinations would continue preparing for higher rounds such as thi Hội (the metropolitan exam) and thi Đình (the palace exam). In the meantime, they often supported themselves by teaching, hence the name “thầy đồ,” literally "scholar-teacher,” or by writing on commission.

Ông đồ reading, 1915. Photo by Léon Busy.

In the book Traditional Vietnamese Customs, compiled by Toan Ánh, a passage reads: “Elementary learning had no state-run schools, yet in every village there were a few ông đồ who taught children. Books were handwritten, as printed books were very expensive. Every ông đồ kept a small library, and students copied their lessons from the master’s books…”

Being recognized as an ông đồ required more than just wearing a traditional robe and knowing how to write. The title was reserved for those who possessed both literary skill and wisdom. Even if they had not achieved high academic honors, they maintained their integrity, lived honestly, and followed tradition. This was because, in earlier times, education was seen as a way to learn not only how to read and write but also how to be a person of virtue. The scholar was a symbol of intellect and character in society. People revered them not just for their elegant brushwork but for their clear conscience and steadfast values.

In the past, people sought out ông đồ when they needed “special scripts” (xin chữ) or someone literate to help with formal documents. This gave rise to the tradition of requesting and giving calligraphy. During festivals and especially at Tết, students and those devoted to study would ask for specific characters as a way of absorbing good fortune and intellectual blessing.

There was an unspoken etiquette to asking for a script. The petitioner would bring a modest offering such as betel and areca, tea, or tobacco, and come to the scholar’s home. The scholar, in turn, had to be solemn and respectful, giving his art only to those who truly valued the written word, rather than those merely pretending to be cultured.

Ông đồ on the street of Hanoi, 1913–1917. Photo by Léon Busy.

Characters were written in calligraphic form and rendered on many styles on sheets of red paper. Red, in eastern belief, is the color of luck and auspicious beginnings. The writer would let mood and instinct guide the brush, shaping letters into forms that were sometimes striking, sometimes unexpected. Each character that emerged beneath the scholar’s hand was more than a work of calligraphic art. It carried temperament, personality, feeling, and the distinct creative imprint of the individual who wrote it.

A word worth a thousand in gold

The old saying “nhất tự thiên kim,” meaning “one character [is] worth a thousand gold pieces,” is associated with Lü Buwei, as recorded in Sima Qian’s Records of the Grand Historian. The powerful Chinese chancellor once hung his book at the capital gate and offered a reward of gold to anyone who could add or remove a single character. His authority was so immense that no one dared step forward to revise it. Over time, the phrase became a classical allusion to writing of exceptional value.

Beyond its physical form, the written character is a means by which humanity preserves memory, opens understanding, and connects across time. That is why words are likened to gold. Dr. Cung Khắc Lược, a veteran calligrapher, explains: “Thought, emotion, and the inner life are always expressed through language, through vocabulary, through text. A single character written on a page, a word from the heart and mind offered to another, is worth a thousand gold pieces. It surpasses material wealth.”

Ông đồ stationed in front of Hương Pagoda, Hanoi, 1995. Photo via Flickr user lonqueta.

Over the years, the practice of asking for characters has grown more widespread, becoming a cherished custom each time Tết returns. From the mountains to the delta, regardless of wealth or status, anyone who comes with sincerity may ask for a character.

Each brushstroke carries a particular wish or intention. One might request Cát Tường (auspiciousness) or Như Ý (fulfillment) to pray for peace within the family. Others ask for Phát, Lộc (prosperity, fortune), or Tài (excellence) in hopes that their work will prosper and unfold smoothly. Young people often request for Chí (resolve) or Đắc (achievement) as a way to steady themselves in the face of hardship.

The ritual is no longer bound by the formalities of the past. The giver need not be an elderly scholar in traditional robes with silvered hair and beard. There are now modern calligraphers, western-trained writers, and women who are taking up the brush.

The art, too, has moved beyond black ink on red paper. Characters are carved or brushed onto wood, stone, bamboo, silk, or brocade. Seal script, clerical script, regular script, cursive, running script, every form has its place. Along city streets and in temple courtyards, people queue patiently for characters that unfurl across the page like phoenixes in flight and dragons in motion, a beautiful custom that feels inseparable from the first days of the new year.

Modern calligraphic masters come from all walks of life. Photo by Alberto Prieto.

Dedicated “scholar streets” have also emerged to honor this traditional custom. In the north, the Temple of Literature is widely regarded as a symbolic “village of examination candidates.” In the south, the practice of asking for calligraphic characters dates back to the 17^th century, when the Nguyễn lords expanded southward to develop new territories, followed by waves of migrants from the north and central regions. It was not until the late 17^th century, however, when Chinese communities began settling and cultivating the areas around Biên Hòa and Đồng Nai, that the custom truly flourished. The long coexistence of different cultures has, in subtle ways, shaped the distinctive character of this southern tradition.

Today, more than half of the calligraphy masters are students of classical Sino-Vietnamese studies or simply lovers of the art. Those who come to request characters span every age group, social background, and profession. This is not a fleeting trend. I see it as an act of cultural transmission. Whatever changes in form or setting, the essence of the custom remains intact. The person holding the brush pours care and craft into every stroke. The one who asks comes with respect for learning and for the traditions that have shaped it.

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

[Top image by Léon Busy.]

Melodic synth-lines and steady electronic drums. Today, the signature sounds of new wave music feel perhaps a bit old and outdated. During its high point during the 1980s, however, new wave was hailed as music of the future.

Vietnamese new wave, or new wave for short, is a genre of music that can be best described as Vietnamese American eurodisco. Characterized by a blend of synth pop and disco beats, the music most often covers famous eurodisco hits from abroad. In fact, the term new wave had originally been a bit of a misnomer. The name stuck around when eurodisco music, especially in its burgeoning phases, was miscategorized under the label of UK New Wave in record shops across Little Saigon.

As Elizabeth Ai describes in her book New Wave: Rebellion and Reinvention in the Vietnamese Diaspora that accompanied the release of her documentary film, new wave “electrified” a whole generation of Vietnamese American teenagers during the 1980s. Specifically, new wave was revered by the so-called “1.5 generation,” referring to the generation of Vietnamese American refugees who were born in Vietnam but grew up and came of age in the US. For the 1.5 generation — lost trying to navigate a new life between America and Vietnam, neither to which they felt like they wholly belonged — new wave offered a new way of life. It was a way of rebelling and reinventing against and of expectations and identity categories of what it meant to be Vietnamese, Americans, refugees: seeking refuge from war, yes, but also from the refugee experience itself.

New wave embodies the broad-minded, quixotic, and highly individualistic spirits that guided youths from the 1980s.

Unfortunately, the popularity of new wave is now largely subdued. But those who experienced new wave during its height seem to be unable to forget the excitement, fervor, and zeal that it incited within the Vietnamese diaspora.

About the film

The documentary New Wave is directed by Elizabeth Ai, a Chinese Vietnamese American Emmy-winning producer and filmmaker. It was originally released in 2024, and has so far only been available for watching through screenings. Good news for us, starting late spring of this year, the documentary will be available for the public. Ai’s team recommended following socials for details to be released in the near future.

Interestingly, while the film project began in 2018, initially with research and outreach work and eventually moving onto filmwork, with the COVID-19 pandemic, filming unexpectedly came to an abrupt halt. While filming was on hiatus, Ai’s team started an Instagram page to crowdsource archival material. Saigoneer featured the project during this phase back in 2022, read our previous article here. Now, the instagram page has been taken over with promotional content for the film, but the montage of crowdsourced photos, depicting Vietnamese American youth during the 1980s and their stories, still remains available for public view.

The poster of New Wave the documentary.

As it should be obvious by now, new wave and its history is the central topic of Ai’s film: the origins of the music, the story of its rise in popularity amongst the Vietnamese diaspora, the ascent of its poster child Lynda Trang Đài into stardom, as well as its punk subculture scene: edgy clothes, electric hair, and late night dancing and partying. In describing her childhood memories of her aunts and uncles listening to new wave music, Ai captured the subculture of new wave succinctly.

New Wave’s story is no simple periodization of the music. Instead, the film intimately follows and weaves together the lives of a few central figures to paint a lively and dynamic picture of the inner life of new wave. There is, for one, Ian Nguyen, better known as DJ BPM, a prominent new wave DJ who, as a teenager, against the disappointment of his strict father, fell in love with new wave both for its futuristic sound and its new possibilities for “cool.” Then there is Lynda Trang Đài, dubbed by some as the “Vietnamese Madonna,” who pioneered new wave and became massively popular and idolized through her appearances in Paris by Night covering popular eurodisco hits. And finally, there is Elizabeth Ai herself; as well as her aunt Myra, who took care of Ai growing up in the absence of her mother, who was too busy hustling to provide for the family. For viewers both familiar with new wave and entirely new to it, the film’s intimate documentation of the inner lives of insiders of the world of new wave is deeply captivating. Together, their lives come to form a vibrant mosaic image of the world that is new wave.

Lynda Trang Đài was a key figure in the new wave movement.

That said, compared to Ian and Lynda whose lives have long revolved around new wave, Ai’s connection to new wave is arguably far sparser, anchored primarily in childhood memories of listening to the music blasting in her teenage aunt Myra’s car. Why, then, is Ai’s personal story and history figured so prominently in the film? Ai herself could not anticipate her intimate link to the narrative when she first embarked on her project: “Initially envisioned as a documentary focused on the 1980s new wave scene, the project deepened as I explored stories and archives, which unexpectedly reopened old wounds and broadened the emotional scope of the film.” She elaborates:

In perhaps the most memorable sequence of the film, realizing she can no longer avoid confronting the painful fact of her mother’s absence during her childhood, Ai finally reaches out to reconnect with her mother, with whom she has long had no contact out of anger and resentment. And in finally confronting her mother, Ai realizes that she has misunderstood much of her own mother, that she had not known much of what caused her mother to act the way she did. Thus, what began as a film about a music genre ends up transforming into something much more intimate and personal.

A confession

Admittedly, I had never heard of new wave before watching Ai’s documentary. And given my lack of personal connection with the topic, I anticipated that my enjoyment of the film would be limited. Beyond such expectations, however, the film was a real joy to watch — in large part due to the personal aspects of the film that transcended the narrow scope of new wave, no doubt, but also, because the film left me with much to think about.

What exactly? Perplexingly enough, a quote, written in a substantially different context from New Wave, by Ta-Nehisi Coates in his book The Message. “We have a right to our imagined traditions, to our imagined places, and those traditions and places are most powerful when we confess that they are imagined.”

Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Ai.

At one point in the film, Ian Nguyen describes his adolescent immersion in new wave, “the music was innocent, but the scene we were in was not.” The scene was not innocent in that it harbored alcohol, drugs, sex. The music was not, in that it didn’t — after all, the music was just music. It is certainly a compelling and intriguing characterization of the dichotomy of new wave, but I also think that it is one we can further complicate.

Consider, for instance, the film’s portrayal of Lynda Trang Đài. For many in the 1.5 generation, Lynda was an icon of glamor, freedom, and possibility, exemplified when Ai’s aunt Myra remarks, “She was everything I wanted to become.”

But if Lynda embodied perfection for many, the film also reveals the many ways in which Lynda’s personal life is in fact far from perfect. We see, for instance, the ways in which Lynda struggles to juggle multiple jobs (including running a sandwich shop) to financially support her extended family — all of which, at one point, causes her to miss her son’s graduation ceremony.

The irony is difficult to ignore. The star who promised escape for so many children from the dysfunction of overworked parents is herself trapped in a similar cycle. I mention all of this not to taint Lynda Trang Đài, but rather, in light of all of this, to raise the question: what, then, could innocence mean for new wave music when the craze over new wave had so often been inseparable from the craze over Lynda Trang Đài?

Vietnamese New Wave found its start in VHS and cassette tapes containing covers of trendy English-language songs of the time.

The film’s brilliance lies in this: far from simply romanticizing new wave, the film humanizes the phenomenon, from its past to its present, from its devout followers to its poster child, laying bare all its messiness and complexities. The larger picture is far from perfect, but we feel love for it all the more because of that. If there is anything innocent about new wave, it is this care for it.

To return to Coates: “We have a right to our imagined traditions, to our imagined places, and those traditions and places are most powerful when we confess that they are imagined.” New Wave reminds me of these words because, in a way, the film feels like a confession of such imagining. “My truth was just a story I created to protect myself,” says Ai, reflecting upon the narrative she has constructed for herself to fill in her mother’s ellipses.

The same can be said of new wave more generally, too. If new wave subculture was driven by “rebellion and reinvention,” as goes the subtitle of Ai’s book, surely such reinvention also constituted a kind of imagining and reimagining. And New Wave shows us that, indeed, such imagining is most powerful when confessed because it is there, in that confession, that we can be most honest without letting go of the selves we’ve built.

Every year, as the pages from my block calendar peel off, bringing me towards another Vietnamese New Year, my mind once again fills with nostalgia about an old Tết. Tết in my memory begins with my childhood in a small house nestled under a coconut grove on the outskirts of Bạc Liêu in the Mekong Delta. Those were days of hardship, yet my parents worked hard so that Tết could bloom magnificently for all of us.

Born into the Year of the Buffalo (1973), I grew up during a time when poverty was common among Vietnamese people. Those who survived the war struggled to make ends meet. Everyone I knew didn’t have much to eat all year round, and children had to do all types of odd jobs to help put food on the table. Like all my friends, for the entire year I looked forward to Tết because it was the only time when we could eat good food and receive a new set of clothes, and even some lucky money.

A time to shed old leaves and apply new paint

In my memory, Tết preparations started months before the lunar year’s end. In September, my father tended our pond to make sure that our fish would be ready for Tết. We planted chilies, onions, cabbages and leafy vegetables, which my mother and I would bring to the market to sell in order to buy the many necessities for our celebrations: pork, dried green peas, sticky rice, dried shrimp, fruit, firecrackers, and offerings for the ancestors’ altar. If we were lucky, there would be enough money left for my parents to buy each of us — their three children — a new set of clothing.

A few weeks before Tết came, my father studied the weather patterns, talked to his friends and decided on the day to pluck the leaves of our apricot tree, mai. I watched in amazement as the barren tree started to sprout countless green buds which grew fuller and fuller as Tết drew nearer. My father monitored the watering and fertilizing of his tree every day to ensure they bloomed at the exact right time. As was true of the peach flowers we used to have in the north, if our mai blossoms bloomed brilliantly during the first day of Tết, our family would be blessed for that entire new year. 

Regardless of how poor we were, Tết was the time to look and feel good, so every year, about two weeks before it arrived, we scrubbed and painted our house. My brothers and I moved our wooden and bamboo furniture out to the front yard and gave it a good wash, splashing water at each other while we worked. We then crawled into our most tattered clothes and covered our walls with a white paint we mixed ourselves using limestone powder and water. We laughed and joked while we worked, feeling happy as the gleaming white spread under our hands.

A family in Sa Đéc in the Mekong Delta with rows of apricot trees that are stripped off old leaves. Photo by Andy Ip.

After the house was scrubbed and cleaned, I spent hours helping my mother prepare a special pickled dish using onions and scallions we bought at the market. They had to be fresh, still attached to their leaves and roots. More importantly, they had to be bite-size. Bringing them home, we washed any dirt and mud away, then soaked them overnight in water diluted with ash I collected from our cooking stove (we cooked mostly with rice straw or tree branches during those days). The ashy water helped tame the onions and scallions so that the next morning they no longer made my eyes weep when I peeled off their outer layers to reveal their glistening whiteness. Sitting side-by-side with my mother in our front yard, I talked to her about our plans for the New Year, about the food we would cook, and whom my parents had chosen to be the first person to step into our house on the first day of Tết.

Many hours of squatting on low stools to prepare our pickled dish always made our backs sore, but as we spread the peeled onions and scallions out on thin tin trays to dry them in the sun, we felt happy to watch the white alliums grin back at us. They looked like flowers that had sprung up from the earth, like the purest type of beauty. While waiting for them to dry, I gathered small twigs to start a fire in our kitchen while my mother measured and mixed vinegar, sugar and salt into a pot.

Once it cooled, we poured the pickling liquid over our onions and scallions, which we had arranged artistically into glass jars. From time to time, I would help my mother carry these jars out to the sun, to make sure that our pickled onions and scallions would "ripen" in time for Tết. They always made the perfect side dish, to be savored with dried shrimp, sticky rice cakes, and boiled or stewed meat; their fragrant sour-sweetness melting in our mouths.

The week before Tết was the busiest, but also the happiest. One of the most exciting events was to drain our pond to harvest our fish. We had no motorized pump back then, only a bamboo bucket we connected to two strong ropes and took turns swinging to get the water out of the pond. Our hands would grow tired and hours passed before we saw fish jumping up and down, trying to escape the increasingly shallow water. Our pond was not large, but large enough to reveal different secrets each year. Besides the tilapia fish my father farmed, we also often found mullet, catfish and perch.

For quite a few years, I was not allowed to go into the drained pond to catch fish with my two elder brothers. Standing on the pond’s bank, I burned with jealousy as I watched my brothers jump around in the mud; their faces blackened, their teeth gleaming in the sunlight as they cheered and laughed. Each time a fish was captured they would scream with excitement, lift it high into the air while it wiggled madly, and then throw it on the floor.

My job was to scoop the jumping fish into a bamboo basket and release it into a large tin bucket filled with water. Sensing that I was unhappy, my parents would tell me that catching fish with your bare hands was not a task for a small girl like me. Of course, they were right. My brothers’ hands were often injured. One year, a catfish pierced its sharp thorn into my brother’s finger. He ran into the house and when I found him half an hour later, he was under his bed, clutching his hand to his chest, crying like a baby. I laughed at him so hard, but a few months later, I too was stung by a catfish’s thorn. The pain pierced into my bones, so hot, deep and searing, that I could not help but crawl under our bed and bawl like a newborn as well.

Candied coconut by any other name

Tết would not be fully ready without mứt dừa, a type of candied coconut ribbon. As someone with "monkey genes" who could climb well, I was tasked with the responsibility of picking several fresh coconuts from our trees. Our small garden was filled with fruit trees, and my favorite were the coconut trees that spread their protective arms over our house, singing us lullabies by rustling their green leaves against our tin roof. These coconut trees bore plenty of fruit all year round. I quickly got up to the top of a tree, leaned my body against the biggest leaf and selected the coconuts which gleamed with several golden stripes on their dark green skin. The flesh of these coconuts would be perfect: not too thin and not too crunchy. Hanging on to the tree with one hand, my other hand would swing a sharp knife to chop the chosen coconuts from their stems. They made happy thumping noise as they kissed the ground.

Just like catching fish for Tết, preparing candied coconut ribbons was a joyous family event. My father and brothers chopped and then peeled away the thick outer layers of the coconuts. We then drilled holes through the hard shells, tilting the fragrant juice into a large bowl. Later, my mother would reward each of us with a glass of delicious coconut water. The rest we would be put aside to make thịt kho trứng — pork and eggs stewed in coconut juice — an essential Tết dish that's common in the Mekong Delta.

Braised pork and bittergourd soup are two popular Tết dishes. Illustration by KAA Illustration via Behance.

Making candied coconut ribbons was fun, but it was also a test of our skills and patience. After separating the white coconut flesh from its hard shell, we peeled the brown, inner-skin away, then shaved the coconut flesh into thin, long ribbons that we dipped into hot water. After draining them, we mixed them with white sugar. Our neighbors often added food coloring to make red, pink and even green coconut ribbons, but we preferred ours to be white and natural.

After a few hours, when the sugar had completely dissolved into the ribbons, I would make a low fire in the kitchen for my mother to cook the coconut ribbons in a large frying pan. To help the sugar crystallize, she occasionally stirred the ribbons with a long pair of chopsticks, giving them an equal amount of heat while not breaking them. My job was to keep the fire very low, so as not to burn my favorite Tết dish. It was the most delicious job as I only needed to put out my tongue to taste the sweetness of Tết in the air. About an hour later, we would have a basket full of long, curly coconut ribbons, crystallized in their fragrance.

The craft behind bánh chưng

As the mai tree’s golden flowers started to bloom, a breeze would sweep across nearby rice fields and waft to my nose, whispering that Tết was about to knock on our door. With this aroma in the air, we made traditional sticky rice cakes, or bánh chưng. Bánh chưng is a must-have for northern Vietnamese during Tết. My parents, who had uprooted themselves from the north and planted themselves into the soil of southern Vietnam during the late 1970s, embraced their northern heritage by making bánh chưng every year while our southern neighbors prepared bánh tết.

Both of these sticky rice cakes use the same ingredients, including sticky rice, dried green peas and pork. However, bánh chưng is wrapped with lá dong (phrynium leaves), which grow abundantly in the north, while bánh tết is wrapped with lá chuối (banana leaves) which you can find anywhere in the south. In addition, bánh chưng is square and thick, while bánh tết is long and round. Lastly, while bánh tết can have a “sweet” version (made with sweetened bananas), bánh chưng only has a savory version that includes pork and green peas.

The night before the important day of making our bánh chưng, I helped my mother soak dried green peas overnight to remove their skin. We also soaked sticky rice and separated good grains from the brown and yellowish ones. My brothers squatted in the yard as they helped my father split bamboo stalks into thin, flat strings. These strings would be used to tie the leaves around our cakes. My mother explained that bánh chưng needed to be boiled for hours, so plastic or nylon strings would not be healthy.

Once these tasks were complete, my father would ask me to help him cut down lá dong leaves from our garden. When we moved south, he searched all over for dong plants, which were hard to find and harder to grow in the tropical climate. With these plants growing in our garden, we felt we had brought with us a part of our ancestors’ village. We cut the precious leaves from their stems, piled them up gently, and brought them to our yard to wash away any dirt and insects. We took care so that no leaf was torn. Softening them under the sun or over hot coal, we set them aside.

On a large working area, my mother spread out a clean, large straw mat. Onto the center of the mat we placed the dong leaves, bamboo strings, bowls of the drained sticky rice, dried green peas and marinated pork. As we had no fridge, my mother had to wake up at five that morning to go to the local market to buy the best pork available. It needed to be fresh, with a precise balance of lean meat and fat. Bringing it home, my mother washed and cut the pork into large pieces, then marinated it with freshly ground pepper, fish sauce and salt.

One of the extraordinary things about my father is that except for boiled or fried eggs, he can’t cook, yet is a master at making bánh chưng. While my mother, brothers and I struggled to form our bánh chưng into square shapes, using wooden molds to guide us, all my father needed was his bare hands.

He started by arranging several lá dong leaves on to the mat and placing a layer of sticky rice, green peas and marinated pork on top, which he then covered with another layer of green peas and sticky rice. Covering his artwork with several more lá dong leaves, he folded the four sides, tugging the leaves into each other so that they made a perfect square. He then tied the square cake with the bamboo strings he had made with my brothers.

Tranh Khúc Village in Hanoi is known for their special bánh chưng.

My father explained that the strings had to give space for the rice and dried green peas to expand when they cooked. Yet they had to be tight enough for the rice not to spill out. He said that in northern Vietnam, where the weather was cold around Tết and families didn’t have refrigerators, bánh chưng would be released immediately into deep wells after they were cooked. Resins from the lá dong leaves, once meeting the cold water, would form a thick protective layer over the cakes. The wells would act as refrigerators, keeping the cakes fresh for weeks.

My father was so famous for his bánh chưng-making skills that many of our relatives and friends often asked us to make bánh chưng for them. While there was a lot of work involved, we did not mind since it would be more economical to make and boil over 30 bánh chưng at one time, sufficient for seven families and for the entire duration of Tết.

After we were done with wrapping the bánh chưng, my mother took out a gigantic pot that she had borrowed from our rich neighbor. The pot was large and expensive, thus in our whole neighborhood, there was only one family who could afford it. Families took turns borrowing the pot to boil their bánh chưng and bánh tết. The owner was happy to lend it because although we were financially poor, we were rich with generosity towards each other.

For the boiling of bánh chưng, my brothers dug a hole in a corner of our garden and my father started a fire with the biggest logs he could find. It takes up to 10 hours for the bánh chưng to cook, and therefore, this was the only time all year that my brothers and I were allowed to stay up all night to look after the fire. We huddled against each other in the dark, telling scary ghost stories that made us giggle and huddle even closer to each other. In the early morning, we scooped out the small bánh chưng, which we wrapped ourselves, and had them for breakfast. They tasted delicious, even though they looked shameful compared to my father’s perfectly square cakes.

The last night of the year

My father knew a lot about bánh chưng because he is the eldest son of my grandparents. He also knows a lot about the rituals of worshiping ancestors because Vietnamese ancestors are believed to "follow" the eldest son from north to south. On the last day of the old year, my father carefully cleaned the family altar and arranged a special display, which included an incense bowl, a pair of bánh chưng, fresh flowers, a bottle of homemade rice liquor, and fruits of many colors. My mother and I cooked special Tết dishes, such as boiled chicken, glass noodle soup, steamed fish, stewed pork and eggs, fried vegetables, and orange gấc sticky rice.

We offered our food to our ancestors around 5pm on the family altar, and after allowing our ancestors to "eat" this sumptuous meal for several hours, we gathered and enjoyed the best food of the year. The cutting of my father’s bánh chưng was a ceremony by itself; after untying the bamboo strings and peeling away the outer leaves, we arranged the strings across the cake’s green surface. Turning the cake upside down, we held the two ends of each string, pulling them towards each other, thus cutting the bánh chưng into square or triangle pieces. The taste of my father’s bánh chưng still remains in my mouth today; fragrant and savory. It tasted perfect, together with the pickled onions and scallions which my mother and I had prepared.

After cleaning up, I would clutch my mother’s hand as we walked to a nearby pagoda. Holding burning incense in front of my chest, my eyes closed, I would pray to Buddha to bless me with lots of lucky money that year. As I was never given any pocket money during the rest of the year, Tết was my only chance to gather savings, which I kept in a clay pig on my bookshelf. If I had enough lucky money, I would be able to buy a new book.

Returning home from the pagoda, I would see that my brothers had hung our firecrackers on our front door, anxiously waiting for the time to set them on fire. I wish I had joined them then, because firecrackers would be banned a few years later, hence the disappearance of this long and special tradition. But at that time, I helped my mother as she hurried to set up a tray of offerings, laden with fruit, flowers, liquor and incense. I carried the tray with her to our front yard and lit the incense. Watching how long my mother prayed to heaven, I sensed how important this ceremony was to her and to our family. I felt that all the gods were coming to join us, and my ancestors were also present.

Chúc mừng năm mới

Finally, the New Year approached with the faint sounds of firecrackers from far away, then moving closer and louder towards us. My two brothers would fight for the right to ignite the firecrackers, while I stood, frozen in fear, my hands over my ears.

We woke up very early the next morning, with yellow mai flowers brightening our living room. Smoldering incense filled my senses, and my happiness soared. Firecracker remnants rested like a blanket of pink and red on our front yard. We were not allowed to sweep anything away during the entire first day of the New Year, so as not to chase our luck away. I admired this red and pink carpet all day as it was twirled up by a dancing wind or rested peacefully under the gold, yellow and white chrysanthemum and mai flowers.

I put on my new set of clothes for Tết that I had wanted all year long, while my brothers burned left-over firecrackers in our front yard. When my parents were ready, they called us into the house, handing each of us a red envelope containing our lucky money. We would bow our heads, wishing them health, luck, success and happiness, before busting out of the house, waving the red envelopes on our hands.

But we were not allowed to go into any neighbor’s home unless we were specially invited. One's luck for the whole year depended on the fortune and character of the first person to enter one's home on the first day of the New Year. My father often chose a senior neighbor whose children were successful and who had a gentle and cheerful personality. The neighbor would often come before 7am on the first day of Tết, bringing my parents lots of good wishes and a red envelope for me, since I was the youngest member of the family.

During Tết, families in Saigon gather at flower markets to pose for photos, buy new plants for their home, or just simply to soak in the festive ambiance.

Around noon our house would be filled with greetings from relatives and neighbors. Everyone visited the house of everyone else in the neighborhood. We served our visitors green tea and candied coconut ribbons. Our family members took turns visiting the houses of relatives and friends, making sure that someone was always home to greet and take care of unexpected visitors. Snacks and food were served around the clock.

All the food my mother and I had spent many hours preparing came in handy; even though we were discouraged by traditions from cooking during the first day of the New Year, we could always serve our guests a good meal with our bánh chưng, stewed pork in coconut, as well as pickled onions and scallions. When the cooking resumed on the second or third day of Tết, we would make sweet and sour soup with our fresh fish, and serve our guests the ripest vegetables from our garden. From our home flowed an endless river of chatter and laughter, while I would occasionally sneak into my parents’ bedroom to count how much lucky money I had received. 

Thinking back, I realize that my parents were very strict in raising me and hardly ever showed their emotions during our daily lives. It was only during Tết that I saw their tender sides. Tết also allowed me to be a bit naughty and not be scolded or punished, and it allowed me the rare privilege of accompanying my parents whenever they visited their friends.

Many Tếts have gone by, though my memories from one particular Tết remain vivid. My mother had taken me to visit one of her good friends who lived on the other side of the rice fields from us. I remember the vast rice fields spreading their green arms out towards the horizon as we walked. The sun was setting, tilting light onto my mother’s long, black hair. Flocks of white cranes rose up, dotting the blue sky with their flapping wings. We walked among the singing of rice plants and the perfume of a spring that embraced us from all directions. I wished then that I could go on like that forever and ever beside my mother.

These days most Vietnamese families, including my own, no longer celebrate Tết the traditional ways due to all the demands of modern life. Still, regardless of how busy we are, we set aside time to enjoy Tết with our loved ones. Families are united for Tết, and friends who may not see each other for the rest of the year will meet and enjoy a meal together. Perhaps Tết is important for all Vietnamese because it reminds us of how happiness can derive from our cultural heritage, and how wonderful it is to stop running after our material desires, at least for a few days, and enjoy what we already have.

This article was originally published in 2020.

Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai is the internationally best-selling author of The Mountains Sing and Dust Child. She has received many literary awards in Việt Nam and internationally, including the Lannan Literary Awards Fellowship for a work of exceptional quality and for its contribution to peace and reconciliation.  A version of this article was originally published in Vietnam Heritage.

A once-damaged national treasure remains on view as if nothing had happened, while other works are displayed with little context — what does this tell us about how art museums preserve Vietnam's cultural heritage and shape our art history narratives today?

A few weeks before the Tết holiday, the Hồ Chí Minh City Fine Arts Museum feels much more lively than usual, as it does every year. From the entrance and spiral staircases of the almost 100-year-old heritage building, young local visitors pose in áo dài for new year photoshoots, while foreign visitors pose in nearly every corner. Only a few pause to look closely at the artworks scattered across different rooms of the main building, which house a collection of modern artworks by mostly southern artists before and after 1975.

Washing a lacquer masterpiece with dish soap

Passing the central hall with sculpture on the second floor, visitors turn left into a dim corridor that leads to one of the museum’s national treasures: the renowned 1989 lacquer masterpiece ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens) attached on a wall in its own separate air-conditioned room dedicated to maestro painter Nguyễn Gia Trí (1908–1993).

Nguyễn Gia Trí (1908–1993). Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens), 1989. Lacquer on board. 200 x 540 cm. Collection of Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

Opposite to the masterpiece, the late painter’s tools and materials are displayed behind glass, alongside some pencil and watercolor sketches. Yet, no context is provided to explain the significance of the materials and techniques of this masterpiece. In the painting itself, twenty women dressed in their own traditional outfits and áo dài across the country’s three regions gather to celebrate the spring festival at a temple, surrounded by nature and a lively atmosphere of peaceful time. Signature red lacquer dominates the composition; eggshell inlay and gilded gold are integral to the whole painting’s surface. Nguyễn Gia Trí spent nearly 20 years completing the work with the assistance of his students: from 1969 when the country was still in the midst of war, to 1989, during the country’s transition through the Đổi Mới (Reformation) period.

Nguyễn Gia Trí’s personal items and painting tools at Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

The first impression from most visitors entering the room was amazement. Someone paused and asked: “Nguyễn Gia Trí… you mean, the old D2 street?” before proceeding to pose for photos from different angles. Other visitors, especially foreigners, walked back and forth in front of the work, squinting at the wall text, only to find a few lines of artwork description and the artist’s biography. Despite initial admiration, some began to express slight confusion while sensing that something was off about the national treasure. In certain areas, layers of black lacquer appeared worn, the gilded gold darkened or worn out, and the eggshell inlay looked fragmented, disrupting the fluidity of the details. Importantly, despite the dominant lively red tones, some colors in the details had undeniably faded.

“This painting must have been damaged once before. Look at this layer of paint over there. It’s already worn out, and the colors are so dark and pale now,” a Vietnamese visitor said to his group of friends after carefully viewing the artwork. The masterpiece remains on the wall, celebrating spring as prayer for the country to endure war and move towards reunification. Yet, a sense of quiet conflicted feeling emerges. Something feels off, and no one seems to know, or remember, the damage that had changed the work permanently.

Details of Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc (Central, Southern and Northern Spring Gardens) at Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum.

‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ made major news headlines in early 2019, after it was found to have suffered major damage after being taken off for cleaning in December 2018. It was later revealed that the damage had been treated with sandpaper, bột chu (a polishing powder) and even… dish soap — perhaps the last material that one would expect in artwork conservation. The incident sparked outrage among the art community and authorities, with many online articles calling out the carelessness and lack of accountability, and an urgent demand for the national treasure to be repaired with special care.

According to painter Nguyễn Xuân Việt, one of Nguyễn Gia Trí’s few students who understands the master painter’s techniques well, the reinforcement work could only restore about 80% of the painting. The damage done to the materials on the surface, however, cannot fully be reversed. In other words, while the painting survives materially, the original spirit has been lost. Nearly seven years later, now in 2026, the partially repaired work has returned to public view, as if nothing had happened. Visitors are left with no choice but to accept this reality of an artwork that has once been damaged, with little acknowledgement of what was lost, with minimal context beyond the familiar narratives of national pride and historical symbolism.

Visitors pose with artworks.

Beyond one damaged painting

Leaving the room for the artwork and heading back through the corridor, one would notice the contrast is quite intriguing: while 20 female figures celebrate spring within the ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ masterpiece, young visitors rush to take their pre-Tết photoshoot with camera equipment, tripods, and even reflector boards filling the balconies and spiral staircases. Some film TikTok videos along the balconies, some even fall asleep on the benches, while foreign visitors navigate through the crowd, trying to understand the paintings with little context.

Perhaps, the national treasure lost its soul due to the damage caused by a lack of accountability, just as the museum’s function also seems to be fading. Much of the collection has become a secondary background to most visitors, shaped by an incohesive narrative and absence of context that discourages deeper engagements, or even minimal attention, towards the artworks and their historical significance. While it is rather unfortunate that most guests only connect with the venue on a surface level, one could attribute this visitor behavior both to individual apathy towards the arts and the current conditions of a national-level institution, where conservation has been treated lightly, and artworks are bound to a one-sided narrative without sufficient explanation.

The museum interior and Tết photoshoots.

This raised further questions about the state of other artworks in the museum: limited government funding for acquisition, conservation and daily operations; the high temperatures and humidity of Vietnam's climate; and architectural and spatial challenges. This does not take into account the fact that the plot where the museum sits is at risk of sinking due to the construction of a high-rise next door.

At this moment, the concern is no longer solely about why and how an artwork was damaged. It projects a bigger picture about the current state of cultural heritage preservation in Vietnam, as well as the key players' struggle to foster awareness and create meaningful narratives that accurately represent Vietnam’s art history and cultural heritage in Saigon, as it’s difficult to move beyond the nostalgic “time capsule” of the turbulent past amidst changing times. This feels especially urgent in the age of cultural tourism and social media, when the demand for art consumption among the younger generations is increasing, alongside the growing number of tourists visiting the country.

The looming construction project next door once caused the collapse of the museum's northern gate due to subsidence.

A state-owned art museum serves the role of researching, preserving, and presenting artworks that reflect a nation’s cultural heritage and collective memory, reflecting the development of techniques, aesthetics, and art education — more than just holding what remains and survives from the past. In post-colonial and independent Vietnam, museums have played a central role in nation-building narrative, through a constructed national (art) history that features revolutionary artists. Still, the decisions that shape these narratives are not within the public’s control, but with institutions and authorities. What remains in our control, however, is how we acknowledge and respond to the limitations in how our culture and history art is treated and presented, how we engage critically with art history, and continue shaping our own narratives in the present and future, beyond the museum walls and across different platforms.

Supporting our local art museum does not simply mean purchasing a one-day ticket to briefly view the works, then move on with photo ops. It also means showing up with awareness: asking why our institutions and art ecosystem still remain underdeveloped, whether we are truly comfortable with how the narratives are framed, and how we appreciate our history and the masterpieces left behind by those before us. The costly lesson of a damaged national treasure, perhaps one among others yet unnoticed, reveals structural issues that remain unresolved. Still, the growing interest in traditions, art, and culture suggests that there is still hope for public engagement and discourse.

Hidden within the wall text in front of ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc,’ a line from Nguyễn Gia Trí in 1979 reads: “Sáng tác ví như một bát nước, ta đổ tràn đầy, rồi những gì còn lại, ta giữ và phát triển / Painting and creating can be compared with the brim-full bowl of water, one retains all that remains and develops it.” 

What remains after the damage and partial restoration is not the physical artwork itself, but the responsibility of those involved, and how we remember, question, and preserve what is left.

Recognized as a national treasure in 2013, ‘Vườn Xuân Trung Nam Bắc’ is now on view in the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Fine Arts Museum. More information about the masterpiece and museum admission can be found on this website.

Indie đàn tranh artist Brian Bùi has just released Đêm Giao Thừa, an EP containing energetic covers of three classic Tết songs and an original track that pays homage to styles from the 1960s and 1970s.

Layering elements of bolero, psychedelic cumbia, samba rock, and cha-cha-chá, the 13-minute extended play blends nostalgic sounds and rhythms with fresh perspective to create a new feeling for the season. “While the EP draws from the past, I also experimented with guitar effects on the đàn tranh and introduced South American genres that hadn’t yet been popularized in Vietnam during that era. Đêm Giao Thừa celebrates the start of a new year, as well as a new direction for my music that represents who I am in this moment,” he explained on the project's page. 

Video via Brian Bùi's YouTube.

Brian switched from the violin to the đàn tranh as part of his exploration of traditional music, a way to connect with his cultural heritage. He studied the đàn tranh with Vân-Ánh “Vanessa” Võ while pursuing a degree in music composition at the University of the Pacific and later with NSƯT Nguyễn Thị Hải Phượng as part of the Master of Arts degree he is currently pursuing at Berklee Online. 

Photo by Chiron Dương.

Đêm Giao Thừa is is currently available on all major streaming apps, and he is touring in support of it in the United States through March.

My favorite candy used to be Hershey’s Kisses. Wrapped in colorful, sparkling foil, these little nubs of decadence made me feel special as a child, not just because of their sugary sweetness, but also because, for much of Vietnam’s contemporary history, you could only enjoy them if you have relatives abroad.

The last war that plagued Vietnam severely fragmented the country in more ways than one, broke up families and eventually resulted in Vietnamese becoming one of the largest diasporic communities in many western societies, known as Việt Kiều in the Vietnamese language. As a kid, I couldn’t fully grasp the complexities behind the term, I just knew that my aunt was one, and she often gave me Hershey’s Kisses when she came to stay with us, so her visits were always a highly anticipated occasion of my formative years.

The first evening on the day she landed, after a family meal, we would gather around the big suitcase as she gave out carefully labelled bags of presents for each person. Over the years, her visits have blurred into one amorphous blob in my memory, so I struggle to remember what I received. I remember the diverse range of Kisses colors, but mostly what remains ingrained in my mind is the fragrance of her luggage — it is a distinctive yet malleable aroma, or even amalgam of aromas that’s hard to put into words, a mystifying mùi Việt Kiều.

Hershey's Kisses once felt like an exclusive treat for Vietnamese kids with relatives abroad. Photo via Tasting Table.

Mùi Việt Kiều, in my memory, was neither a perfume nor from any recognizable artificial smell genres like floral, herb, or fruit. It wasn’t detergent- or food-forward, it just was. As an adult, I’ve forgotten about it, until a few weeks ago, a curious TikTok video popped up on my feed, advertising a bottle of laundry essential oil with “authentic hương Việt Kiều.” It was astonishing because, for the longest time, I’ve always assumed I was alone in noticing its existence, but someone out there has not only identified it but also commercialized it?

I’ve shared my observations with friends and colleagues, and while everybody confirmed they too have sensed mùi Việt Kiều, no one can pinpoint what it is exactly, apart from vague claims like “I’ll know it when I smell it.” The comment section beneath the laundry oil video was much more illuminating and helpful; someone claims it’s the smell of Irish Spring soaps, while others are sure that it comes from Bounce dryer sheets and Aquafresh toothpaste. Energized by possibilities, I made the next best decision: obtain every suggested item in the theories and did smell tests.

The dubious fragrance as advertised on Shopee.

This is the point where I have to admit that there’s no closure at the end of this journey. None of them smells as good as my aunt’s luggage, even though at various points over the years, it too was filled with Irish Spring and Aquafresh. It is entirely possible that they have recently changed their scenting formulae or that my childhood memories have gotten too murky, but perhaps, the most likely scenario is that there’s no definitive mùi Việt Kiều. Each luggage during each visit smelled ever slightly different depending on what it encompassed: a little bit of Hershey, a whiff of Ocean Spray dry cranberries, a touch of Kirkland multivitamins, etc — all piecing together a little smellscape of America that appeared so exotic and quasi-mythological to little me.

Today, globalization, cultural exchange and advancements in logistics have all but dismantled the myth of American products in Vietnam. How I could very easily procure all the scented items for my smell tests from local shops and online platforms is a testament to this shifting dynamic. Hershey is now readily available, but Vietnam’s progress has also given rise to a plethora of local chocolates so excellent I haven’t touched Kisses since. When we didn’t have much, every little thing was so special and treasured.

The most memorable (and tasty) source of mùi Việt Nam. Photo by Hoàng Vũ via Thanh Niên.

Back in the day, as my aunt’s visits inched to a close, her empty suitcase would gradually fill up again — this time chock-full of distinctively Vietnam items to stock up her pantry and to be given out as gifts on the other shore: dried shrimps, coffee beans, lacquer combs, silk áo dài, Thái Nguyên tea, lotus hearts, and a sizable and eclectic collection of various mắm. Sometimes I wonder about that moment, when, after flying halfway across the globe, she would arrive at home and unzip that suitcase. Does it give out a distinctive smell, too? A mystifying mùi Việt Nam that’s hard to put into words.

I have never bought a lịch bloc, or tear-off calendar, for personal use, because every new year, I'm bound to be gifted a brand-new one. In Vietnam, a calendar is often something one purchases as a present for others.

The tear-off calendar has been a typical item in local households for centuries. There were even records of Nguyễn-Dynasty authorities overseeing the production of new calendars to give out during Tết. The act of ripping off a page from the calendar block is so historically relevant that it even gives rise to the crude slang phrase “bóc lịch,” loosely translated as “calendar ripping,” referring to jail time.

Brightly colored calendars sold alongside Tết decorations at a store in District 5.

In recent years, it's reported that all calendar sales have been on the decline because new calendar designs are repetitive and boring; people routinely receive them as free promotional gifts; and since the time and date are readily available on smartphones, tear-off calendars have become somewhat obsolete. The iconic Tết staple is no exception to this drop in popularity.

When it comes to Tết gifts, many prefer to receive aesthetically pleasing items like gift baskets, which can be displayed at home, making rooms feel fresh and new. Calendars, in contrast, simply offer mundane images few remember to tear off. 

Lịch bloc comes in many sizes for every home.

But I feel that we might take calendars for granted because beyond their stated function of time-keeping, they affect our lives in subtle ways. My mother often uses the pages to write checklists for her morning market trips. My family occasionally uses them for food wrapping or as just a placemat to discard fish bones during family meals.

This page will often end up on the dining table as a fishbone holder, or in the trash after a doodle session is finished.

My most vivid memory with calendars, however, dates back to when I was five. I loved drawing and couldn’t fight the urge to scribble everywhere, especially on the wall. My parents had to put a stop to it before I ruined the house. So they gave me spare calendar pages to doodle on and thus tearing a new page off the bloc became an exciting routine.

Lịch bloc may eventually lose its main function, but their spare papers and their offering of marginal conveniences will remain a part of our lives. Even though they may not be as significant as other Tết gifts, they have one advantage over fancy, expensive presents: when Tết is over, decorations are taken down, snacks from gift baskets are all eaten, and we all go back to our normal lives, but there will always be a calendar on your wall for another 300-some days, with all of its Tết visuals, maintaining a touch of festive energy remains in your house throughout the rest of the year.

“I miss that. When I was young, on the motorbike with my friends, it was like ’hey, you have 15 minutes?’ and we just met up [...], had some street food and did literally nothing; just street watching. It was fun,” Chan-Nhu Le shared with Saigoneer about the inspiration for her illustrations.

Saigoneer was first drawn to Chan-Nhu Le’s work because of its playful depiction of daily life in Vietnam, but she spoke to us from California, where she emigrated at age 23. The artwork allows her to return to happy moments and memories here, where she was born and raised, as well as share the country’s culture abroad. Meanwhile, the term she used, “fun,” to describe her teenage experiences could certainly apply to her style as a whole, thanks to its employment of vibrant colors, jovial scenes, and lighthearted commotion.

Born and raised in Huế, Chan-Nhu Le has connections with numerous regions in the country: her father is in Hanoi, while she worked for a time in Saigon. Such familiarity with different cities allows her to blend and borrow elements from regional cultures into composites that aim to speak to Vietnam as a whole, particularly when seen by those outside of the nation. Her illustration for Tết, for example, features Bia Saigon, Hanoi and Huda as well as southern fruits and northern flowers.

Chan-Nhu has taken a circuitous route to art, having started a career in social work upon graduation. Motivated by a desire to get to know people and help them, she was quickly disenchanted by bureaucracy and the constant stresses related to securing funding. Recognizing an opportunity, she enrolled in art school in the US, beginning on a photography track. In one of her classes, however, she saw the work of Hong Kong illustrator Victo Ngai. “What kind of art is it?” she remembers wondering. ”It's exactly what I wanted to do, and I switched majors the next day.”

Studying art formally allowed Chan-Nhu Le to focus on her aims and stylistic preferences. “I know exactly what I want to do with illustration, but when I switched to illustration…  I didn't have the skill set to kind of make it happen.” Through study, practice, and by evaluating her past works, she is now better able to create work she describes as “straightforward” and “able to tell a story.”

Citing Julia Rothman, a New York Times illustrator with an expansive portfolio that includes editorial work for the New Yorker and Washington Post, Chan-Nhu aspires to work with a story or conceptual message. And while her illustrations often appear as if they were based on a specific photograph, she says that even though she may use numerous photographs as sources for a composite, the scenes inherently involve memory and imagination. For example, her wedding illustration has many elements Saigoneer readers will recognize: a group of wobbly dancers with drinks and a microphone, a child looking up at a crowd of adults, a couple pouring onto a pyramid of glasses, etc. And yet, if you look closely and recognize how many people are singing at once, you'll realize it's a work of fantasy.

Her large works rely on specific, precise details to contribute to larger moods and feelings, while her works of singular figures or objects invite recognition of the familiar. Many of them also come from memories, such as the sight of a policeman on the back of a Grab Bike, or a fish vendor who had chastised Chan-Nhu for not wearing enough clothing in the harsh sunlight. “Chopping fish and getting mad at me for not wearing enough protection for my skin is hilarious and just so random, but that is so Vietnam — chaotic and so random.”

Since attaining her art degree, Chan-Nhu Le has explored different means of utilizing her skills while meeting the real-world needs of rent and food. To get a sense of what it would be like to work as a full-time illustrator in Vietnam, in 2017, she moved to Saigon and took a position at a publication producing timely cartoons in response to soft news stories. While a good experience, she admitted that it wasn’t a good fit, and she didn’t care enough about the content she was tasked with creating.

While in Saigon, she offered free drawing classes at Vin-Space Art Studio, which encouraged her to pursue a career in education upon returning to the US. Following the cumbersome licensing process to become a public school art teacher in California, she is now in her fourth year at a middle school, where she is tasked with introducing children to a wide array of art styles, mediums, histories, and ideas. While enjoying the job, she noted how physically and emotionally draining it can be. The job leaves her less time and energy to pursue her own artwork.

While in Vietnam, Chan-Nhu Le connected with like-minded Vietnamese creatives, including the folks behind Collective Memory and OH QUAO, which are amongst the shops that sell her work here. Other connections simply contribute to her digital network of support and encouragement that spans borders and languages. She makes regular return visits to Vietnam to visit family, and the trips provide more inspiration for her future projects. Meanwhile, she dreams of having editorial work in a prestigious publication like the New York Times, or gracing a Uniqlo shirt. And in the meantime, her artwork promises to delight those who see it online or in a shop and experience the comforts of recognition and appreciation for the precious moments of doing “literally nothing.”

“Điển is like a flower; there is no question of growing or not growing.”

It’s the same with Lê Triều Điển and creating art, according to his fellow painter and friend of many years, Tri Ròm.

“My paintings are like scar tissue,” Điển says when pressed for the best feedback he’s ever received about his paintings. “You might look at them and see rubbish, but they heal pain,” he adds before likening them to the lotus flowers that emerge from the muck in his delta homeland.

A flower emerging from mud is an apt metaphor for Điển’s life and career as a whole. He was born in the Mekong Delta in 1944, and the past eight decades have involved the poverty, sacrifice, war and trauma that are sadly common to his generation, as detailed in his powerful autobiography The Journey of Alluvium. Yet, like a lotus refusing to wilt during a drought and blooming spectacularly when the rains return, Điển has triumphed to become an important, successful artist.

Luxury cars were filling with people who had just finished lavish breakfasts behind myself, Tri, Điển, and his daughter-in-law at the restaurant of the homestay in Can Tho we’d stayed at the night before. The street leading in along the Hau River was lined with imposing new mansions looming behind gaudy gates and I commented to Điển about how different the area must look from when he was stationed in Can Tho during the American War, when the river was “patrolled up and down by warships and patrol boats day and night” and the surrounding area was full of “coconut orchards with topless tree trunks, paddy fields devastated by clearing chemicals.”

Yes, he said, the area was very different from when locals here went out in the middle of the night to catch mice and snakes and frogs to sell at the “ghost markets;” but “go into one of those houses and look at their walls, they have no real art.” This is as damning a description as Điển can levy, because to him art, in addition to family and community, is the most important part of life.

Điển is refreshingly unimpressed with money, sometimes to the frustration of people attempting to sell his paintings. His friends casually mention the great numbers of paintings that were sent overseas for various sales or collections that he never saw again or received payment for, and there is even discussion of a zoo in Denmark that plagiarized his plans for a giant panda enclosure.

At one point during our weekend together, a gallery owner who was with us brought up plans for an exhibition in Hanoi to sell his paintings. Điển simply lit a cigarette, threw up his hands and walked away while telling the man to talk to the woman who manages those matters for him. Asked point-blank what he thinks of the business side of art, he says one needs to understand it but ultimately, “as an artist, you make art, you do your best. Everything else? Leave it to other people.”

“Emotions as Transparent as Water from its Source”

The one constant throughout Điển’s life has been creation. At the age of 12, he moved to Saigon for a formal art education. While he didn’t enjoy the rigid coursework and sterile approach to painting, living in the city introduced him to a variety of other artists, writers and creatives whose philosophies and lifestyles proved fundamental for how he would approach the world and his place in it.

Điển was able to avoid frontline conflict during the war by producing technical drawings and later studying aviation mechanics. During the war, he drifted between Da Nang, Can Tho, Vinh Long and Saigon, surrounding himself with a great variety of passionate individuals to discuss literature, poetry, music, and painting while producing literary journals and hosting small art exhibitions at cafes and bars. He lived, he says, as a bụi đời (dust of life), a vagabond. With little more than a chair that could unfold into a comfortable enough bed, he moved from here to there on a whim with frequent trips to visit his family.

During those years, painting was a sort of therapy for him. “I felt that I was painting for myself, for my own soul that was suffering the pain of my war-torn country. I painted my dreams and hopes of a peaceful future, and I painted children’s pleasure and laughter on a happy field. I painted temples in ruin but young buds rising from burnt tree stumps could be seen.”

Yet he did not paint according to the styles he had been taught in school, nor did he follow any specific trends. Rather, he followed his instinct and spontaneous inspiration, never arriving at a blank canvas with a plan or idea, simply letting the lines and colors flow as they must. “I gradually eliminated all the craftsmanship, got rid of technical performance and returned to the nature of my innocence like a child drawing as simply as those ancient people leaving their paintings on cave walls, with emotions as transparent as water from its source flowing over gravel and stones to reach the plains,” he says.

He continues with this approach today. His often very large paintings have a raw boldness typified by strong lines and arrows that seem to rush across the canvas like waters surging across a floodplain. Given his biography, one can imagine scenes of delta floodplains, rice fields and humble countryside homes. There are also elements of sign language, Khmer and Oc Eo cultures and Theravada Buddhism. Điển can be evasive regarding what an actual painting is of, preferring viewers to take from the scenes what they will. This tendency to not explain every element of his work does not suggest a lack of artistic clarity, however.

While many of his paintings tend to be abstract and expressionist and contain elements of cubism, there are moments of literal specificity. His home is filled with his paintings and drawings: something hangs on nearly every inch of open wall and stacks of papers and canvases sit on nearly every available surface. During a recent visit to his home, he flipped through several dozen drawings and occasionally paused to point something out: a buffalo, a horse, a boat, a xích lô, his wife when she is writing a poem, his wife when she is angry at him, a self-portrait. He doesn’t offer why he painted those things, nor do I think to ask. It would be like asking a cloud why it was dropping rain. Yet he is quick to note where he finds inspiration: everywhere. His natural surroundings, cave paintings, architecture, and most importantly, his family and friends.

You have to know the rules before you break them is a common adage in art, often used in reference to how Picasso learned to paint in the traditional style of his day before moving on to the ground-breaking works he became famous for. Thus I asked Điển if he thought his conventional art education was necessary to make way for his abstract style. He shakes his head no, and says he is self-taught, before offering up this story:

This confidence in his own artistic vision, playful wit and connection to depicting his homeland resonates through his hundreds of works.

“I don’t have a teaching method, I have a living method,” he says when asked what he says to younger artists that seek him. Truly, he may not offer specific theories on balancing colors or controlling white space, but one watching him surely receives a lesson in how to live as an artist. To that point, I should have known better to ask him how he prefers to work: in silence or with music? In the morning or at night? At home or a studio? After a few glasses of wine or sober? The answer was simply “Yes.”

This adaptive nature applies to the mediums he uses. In addition to the conventional canvas and inks, paper with watercolor or pen, and ceramics, Điển can create art out of just about anything. For example, when he once took great delight in flipping over one painting on his wall to reveal it was in fact the cardboard lid of a bánh trung thu box. Similarly, painted chair cushions dangle from his staircase railings and x-ray paper covered in images dangles from the ceiling.

Witnessing Điển work provides further insight into his philosophy. When Saigoneer visited to take photographs for this story, we were greeted with fresh fruit, snacks and beer. Before any discussion of photographs we hoped to take, he thanked us for visiting and said he wanted us each to go home with one of his paintings. When we asked if we could take a short video of him at work, he noted that because it was my birthday he would draw a portrait of me. With concentrated ease he filled the paper with divisive lines, pausing momentarily to ponder the space before grabbing a new color; the piece came together like the effortless blooming of a complex flower.

Work Before Play

Creating art can be a lonely, tireless task especially if one dabbles in genres that are not embraced by mainstream artists, but being an artist is not. I got a first-hand glimpse of the importance Điển places on community during the first lunch we shared. At the end of the meal, he lifted his beer glass and turned slowly to everyone at the table and one by one: “You: I want to see your next painting. You: I want to read your next poem. You: show me the next painting you make. And you: I cannot wait to have another meal together again.”

Điển’s genuine and motivating words that day came as no surprise based on the way he described his life and journey. Beginning with the many teachers he studied with and the peers he surrounded himself with, his book is filled with references to painters, sculptors, singers, and writers with whom he sat in cramped cafes and bars, sharing ideas and exchanging work. He details countless literary journals that rose and fell and exhibitions for soon-to-be-defunct groups and organizations. They are not attempts at name-dropping, but rather reflective of the way he sees community as an integral part of creativity and the galvanizing effect it can have on a person’s life.

Considering this past, I was unsurprised to learn that our main activity on the day we arrived in Vinh Long would be to meet with his group of friends at one of their terracotta kilns. We gathered in the spacious living room which was filled with paintings, sculptures and ceramics. The owner pointed at the paintings explaining who had painted each: a friend, a child, himself. New books were exchanged as we sat drinking coffee, eating snacks. I naively asked Điển if this was what it was like back in the day when he spent time with the same group of friends. He laughed and said, “No, all we did then was work, work, work.”

Indeed, while Điển may have achieved a level of financial comfort now, leaner decades were filled with a great variety of arduous tasks to make ends meet. While subsisting on little more than boiled potatoes and sorghum supplemented with boiled pig bones, Điển earned a paycheck painting vehicle license plates and state propaganda posters, weeding paddy fields, harvesting water spinach, selling simple cakes, and delivering newspapers. And of course, in the spacious factory beside the house we were sitting in, he crafted terra cotta statues.

The lifting of the embargo with America and the generally improved economy has reverberated across society as exemplified by the terracotta factory. Before its owner settled into semi-retirement and tapered down production, he employed upwards of 1,000 people. Điển, too, has enjoyed more financial comfort in recent years. After decades of group and solo exhibitions, since 2005 he has enjoyed an amount of commercial success. His work has been featured in the prestigious Galerie Dumonteil in Paris, attracted the attention of renowned international art collectors, and been in numerous shows and galleries here in Vietnam.

“Fifty Years in Prison”

There once was a struggling painter who began coming home to find his clothes and house cleaned and food prepared. This went on for quite some time and he never could figure out who was doing it. But one day he noticed a female figure in one of his paintings and became suspicious. He hid and waited after pretending to leave for the day. When he burst back into his house, he surprised the woman who had indeed emerged from the painting. He caught her and the two married. His life improved instantly and he was not only happy but also began to experience great fame and financial success. Unfortunately, this led to him drinking too much and losing his passion for art. Unable to rescue him from his alcoholism or re-ignite his love of painting his wife left him.

Điển originally offered this story, an altered version of a story by Đoàn Thị Điểm, to warn of the risks of fame and success. Adding, that while he is financially comfortable now, he is far too old to fall into any of the dangers that accompany them. Besides, is he famous? If you ask him, he doesn’t know nor care.

But then I pressed him if the characters in the story shared any similarities with him and his wife, Hồng Lĩnh. Sure, he agreed, her presence in his life has been instrumental. While it’s true that she manages many domestic tasks and shouldered a great deal of work during the poor years, working in a library as well as taking on odd jobs to help ensure he had resources needed to paint, that undersells her role in his life. He may jokingly say that they have been sentenced to each other for half a century, but he is utterly sincere when advising “When you get married, you must treat your wife like a goddess.”

Lĩnh is a gifted poet, sculpture, and painter herself and learned of Điển via his artwork more than 50 years ago. Seeing his work before she’d ever met, she explained to me, was what first won her over. At their wedding, a friend joked: “This couple might have their future in poverty. One artist usually leads his life in misery, they both are artists, so their misery maybe double.”

That prediction, thankfully never came to pass. Rather, the financial struggles they shared may have brought them closer together as people and as artists. When their eldest son was admitted to Saigon, they moved to the city and worked side-by-side to create paintings and sculptures with the hope they could sell them to restaurants and hotels. Their work continues to stand side by side, though now it is in galleries and exhibitions. And of course, lining the walls of their home.

One is not likely to get their work confused, however. While Điển prefers thick, angular lines, she opts for more curves and gentle restraint, though the most exemplifying difference is her frequent use of Vietnamese, English and French texts by herself and others, layered on top of the work. Lĩnh may be a quieter presence in rooms punctuated by Điển’s staccato chuckle, but her art and life is just as deserving of an article. Hopefully, that happens in the future, but in the meantime, no story about Điển could possibly be told without her inclusion.

Equally important as their work hung on the walls in their home is what is scribbled around it. Between paintings and photographs are the squiggled doodles of one of their grandchildren. By contrast, they help articulate how Điển’s seemingly simple strokes are the result of artistic rigor and practice combined with youthful exuberance. But more importantly, they serve as a metaphor for how his work is intrinsically tied to his family and the inspiration it provides, his belief that any surface can be a canvas, and that artistic impulses should never be ignored, but rather praised and promoted.

This article was originally published in 2021.

Động Tag Live Session, Cổ Động’s series of live recordings aiming to highlight Vietnam’s up-and-coming musicians, is returning with a second season.

Động Tag first premiered back in 2023 with 11 episodes, each featuring one artist or group at a different location. Some of the more whimsical impromptu stages include Giấy Gấp performing on the bank of the Saigon River with the Ba Son Bridge hulking in the background, or Vũ Thanh Vân singing her heart out inside an ornamental fish shop.

A recap of Động Tag Season 1.

According to Cổ Động, the live session series was established to give lesser-known and new local musical acts to reach a bigger audience through their own musicianship. With high production value and recording quality, these live sessions will appeal to both listeners and artists, who can enjoy the music in a stripped-down, intimate way.

Season 2's featured line-up.

Season 2 of Động Tag has returned since last December, this time bringing along nine musicians back to the same stage — including familiar names like Nhạc Của Trang, Datmaniac, and Minh Đinh.

The season was co-produced by Cổ Động, BLAZE, PhimGoods, 326 Concepts, and Kontribute over four days. Have a taste of Động Tag Season 2 in a few snippets below:

EP01: Nhạc Của Trang

EP06: Chillies

Media courtesy of Cổ Động.