Literature, more than any other art form, allows people an intimate vantage point from which to witness the experiences, emotions, and thoughts of individuals drastically different from themselves. Books thus hold the unparalleled power to inspire, foster empathy, and expand one’s understanding of the human condition. 

Generational, racial, socio-economic, and political chasms can be reduced when one is granted access to a character's inner monologue and they “see” the world through different eyes. Strong female protagonists are essential as they allow men to better understand the challenges and strengths of all-too-often marginalized women, and present role models and comforting companionship for female readers.

In honor of Vietnamese Women’s Day, Saigoneer has selected five books written by Vietnamese authors that feature strong female protagonists. Each is a carefully crafted and entertaining work in its own right, but the brave and often-endearing women at their centers make compelling arguments for the value of female characters for readers from all backgrounds and demographics. 

1. Pearls of the Far East | Nguyễn Thị Minh Ngọc

Photo via Tiki. 

A young woman pretends to be the girlfriend of a soldier she knows to be dead while visiting his mother; a young woman seeks to re-establish her family’s successful fish sauce company as a way to connect with their legacy after they all flee the country; a young woman grows up in a roadside hourly hotel her mother runs while her teacher courts her; a young woman befriends a disabled boy who abruptly leaves only to reappear five years later: the scenarios presented in Pearls of the Far East force characters into difficult situations. Happenstances beyond their control, however, do not remove the their agency and their choices reveal the power women can have over their fates. 

Adapted into a feature film staring Trương Ngọc Ánh and a young Ngô Thanh Vân, this collection of stories provides a mosaic of unique experiences highlighting the diverse trajectories lives follow. Often bittersweet, the endings eschew fairy-tale resolutions and invite readers to ruminate on unresolved questions. Far from escapism, the emotionally wrought narratives reflect the challenges of elevating beyond one’s material conditions. 

2. An Insignificant Family | Dạ Ngân

Photo via Northwest University Press.

Compared to fighting a war, how difficult could love, motherhood and professional success be? An Insignificant Family by Dạ Ngân explores how women must cultivate self-reliance and fight for their personal happiness and the health and safety of their families. 

After serving in the Southern Liberation Army, Tiệp, a fictionalized version of the author, is left with two children, a loveless marriage, uncertain prospects in a sexist profession and the abject poverty plaguing the nation. While her crafty ability to cobble together a livelihood with the scraps and tatters of a re-building nation is admirable, the most powerful moments of the novel come when she boldly pursues a relationship that society shuns, politics condemns and material conditions consistently thwart. The love story between her and a married writer from the north that plays out across the length of the nation via years of letters, train rides, and clandestine meetings, is a raw portrayal of the sacrifices one must make to maximize the circumstances life has handed them. If you want proof that happiness can be won via gritty determination, cunning independence and unceasing adherence to one’s internal compass, An Insignificant Family is for you.

Read Saigoneer’s profile of Dạ Ngân here

3. Chinatown | Thuận

Photo via Tilted Axis Press.

When we think of heroism, we typically imagine war or moments of extreme physical danger, but what about the heroics needed to endure the mundane? Thuận’s Chinatown investigates the resilience required to navigate the commonplace challenges of single motherhood, loneliness, migration, occupational drudgery and boredom. 

In uncompromisingly repetitive prose, the unnamed narrator invites readers to experience her self-professed boring life filled with train rides to bureaucratic visa offices through shabby rural Parisian districts, bland sandwiches, cramped Hanoi apartments and petty office politics. By the time the novel circles back on itself, inching toward the very moment it began, readers will feel as if they have traveled a full route from 1980s Vietnam to present-day France with an individual who admits “I now knew enough to make people bored, and to understand that when people are bored they leave me alone.”  

Chinatown is a testament to the resilience needed to simply make it through another hour, day, week, year, life. Far from grand or glamorous, the life offered might mirror that of the reader, or someone the reader knows, or perhaps a random stranger sitting nearby on public transportation. Regardless, it should cause one to look with a bit more sympathy and admiration at the small struggles women constantly face and overcome. 

Read Saigoneer’s full review of Chinatown here 

4. Green Papayas | Nhung N. Tran-Davies

Long stories don’t always require a lot of words. This picture book by Nhung N. Tran-Davies contains only a few sparse, evocative scenes and memories to bring its main character, Oma, to life as she lives out her final days in the hospital experiencing dementia. The narrator recounts her mother’s life for her own children, stressing how much Oma endured, including foregoing an education or food for the sake of a family she no longer remembers.

Photos via Amazon.

While the writing is simple and effective, the illustrations by Gillian Newland elevate the emotion contained in each description and scene, from shelter constructed in the wilderness to cramped post-war factories. Dedicated to her children in honor of their bà ngoại, Nhung’s powerful work takes on a metaphysical double meaning about the necessity of passing along stories while memories of them remain.

5. Dust Child | Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai

Photo via Goodreads.

One of the three braided narratives featured in best-selling author Nguyễn Phan Quế Mai’s second novel Dust Child tells the story of Trang, a young woman from the countryside who moves to Saigon to work as a bargirl during the war with America. When she becomes pregnant with her American serviceman boyfriend’s child she must grapple with the choice of having a child not only during war, but also against the desire of her family and in defiance of societal norms. 

In beautifully poetic descriptions and moments of earnest self-reflection, Trang lays bare the consequences and opportunities of choosing motherhood. In some ways a coming-of-age tale, Trang's journey articulates the excruciating tightrope women must often walk between independence and filial responsibility while balancing their own desires and the expectations society thrusts upon them. Paradoxically, Trang's tenderness and innocence guide her through the process of replacing what is lost in the process of becoming an adult. It shouldn’t surprise readers that in addition to Trang's story, women in the book act as catalysts for forgiveness, healing and growth for not just individuals but nations. 

Read Saigoneer’s exploration of Dust Child’s locations with the author here

Bonus: Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers

Photo via Texas Tech University Press.

As a bonus entry, Saigoneer recommends Longings: Contemporary Fiction by Vietnamese Women Writers. This recently published collection of 22 stories by female authors traverses a wide range of topics, perspectives, and styles. The women at the center of the stories confront natural disasters, domestic abuse, disappointing love, war, patriarchy and dire economic conditions. Providing conflicting interpretations and philosophies about the world, the narrators combine to underscore how women constitute a diverse, non-homogeneous group that can hardly be reduced to a single day of celebration.

Read Saigoneer’s review of Longings here.

In Vietnamese cinema, the female figure has long been employed to deliver macro-level messages rather than just mundane narratives.

The period from 1975 to 1986 marked a major transition in the history of local cinema. According to Lịch sử Điện ảnh Việt Nam (The History of Vietnam Cinema) by playwright Nguyễn Thị Hồng Ngát, this era saw a shift from propaganda productions to more realist films and projects with mass appeal. After đổi mới, local filmmakers have created compelling characters in roles like grandmas, mothers, and sisters to symbolize the resilience and courage of Vietnamese people as they adapted to the nation’s economic, cultural, and social changes.

The ups and downs of a nascent cinematic industry

In 1986, Vietnam transformed from a planned economy to a market economy, bringing about numerous shifts in the lives of citizens. Cinema was one of the mass communication mediums that strikingly reflected these transformations. If the colonial decades gave rise to documentaries and shorts, cinema projects during the rise of socialism in northern Vietnam ushered in some novelty.

Still, the majority of films then were still revolving around war times, labor, and manufacturing, such as Vợ chồng A Phủ (1961), Chị Tư Hậu (1963), Vĩ tuyến 17 ngày và đêm (1972), Em bé Hà Nội (1974), etc. This period gave us a number of talented filmmakers, even though film productions were tightly regulated in both content and execution by the Department of Cinema.

Chị Tư Hậu (1963).

In the south, though there were war-themed movies, like Từ Sài Gòn đến Điện Biên Phủ (1970), the cinematic landscape comprised broader genres like comedies, including Tứ quái Sài Gòn (1973) and Năm vua hề về làng (1974); and romantic dramas like Chân trời tím (1971) and Sau giờ giới nghiêm (1972). In 1975, a range of subjects were featured in local films, even though the most popular titles were mostly war-related, like Mối tình đầu (1977), Mẹ vắng nhà (1979) and Cánh đồng hoang (1979).

Following đổi mới, the market economy resulted in a boom in commercial films, most notably the advent of “mì ăn liền” (instant noodles) projects. These low-stake, accessible, cheaply produced, and easy-to-watch flicks became considerably popular, leading to the rise of Vietnam’s first generation of movie stars like Lý Hùng, Thu Hà, Diễm Hương, and Việt Trinh. Towards the end of the 1990s, the genre lost its mass appeal as art house flicks and foreign collaborations arrived. Projects about Vietnam but helmed by foreign auteurs of Vietnamese descent — such as Trần Anh Hùng (The Scent of Green Papaya) and Tony Bùi (Three Seasons) — were recognized by international film festivals.

“A mother, a wife, a soldier”

The Nguyễn Dynasty, Vietnam’s last period under absolute monarchy, was significantly influenced by Confucianism in how it governed the country. The spread of Confucius teachings became less influential the more southward one moved. Australian historian Barbara Watson Andaya, whose research centers on women’s history in Southeast Asia, wrote that Vietnam during this era wasn’t just dominated by patriarchal beliefs, so matriarchal orders were still followed, and the role of the woman was still respected.

Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1963).

Films that came out before đổi mới often chose to elevate the role of women through their wartime contributions. In these cases, women were both brave fighters on the battlefield and dependable support behind the scenes. Standout characters included the mother and sister figures in Mẹ vắng nhà (1979), Em bé Hà Nội (1974) and Bao giờ cho đến tháng Mười (1984).

The majority of female characters featured in movies of this period were involved in the revolution, like those in Đến hẹn lại lên (dir. Trần Vũ, 1974) and Cánh đồng hoang (dir. Vương Hồng Sến, 1979). Many of these were well-received when sent to film festivals organized by the Soviet Union. Nonetheless, besides being celebrated for their war utility, motherhood and sisterhood, few female roles could escape their main use: to consolidate and promote wartime paradigms.

More resources but less mental freedom?

From đổi mới onwards, the role of Vietnamese women in film expanded from just revolutionary icons or reminders of a time of loss and trauma. They started taking on new purposes to reflect the hopes, personal ambitions and new image of the nation in a new age.

The economic reform in 1986 gave way to private enterprises. Women could return to markets to open stores, bringing about the development of street vendors and family businesses operated by female members of the household. Private companies and foreign-invested firms also helped increase gender equality in the workforce. There was a noticeable increase in the number of young women living in urban areas with a stable career. They were afforded more freedom in their choices of entertainment and socialization compared to the previous generation.

An artwork at the exhibition “Đổi Mới - The Journey of Dreams” as seen at the Vietnam Fine Arts Museum in 2016.

Nonetheless, in her article “Gender in Post-Doi Moi Vietnam: Women, desire, and change,” human geographer Lisa Drummond pointed out that even though the economic reform ushered in many changes in the life of Vietnamese women, it also accentuated gender issues that have long been present in the culture. Cultural gender norms and chauvinistic traits in the local society couldn’t be toppled in a day, even though they weren’t as ingrained as before.

During this period, the Vietnamese woman always felt she had to balance between traditional expectations and contemporary ambitions. She had to maneuver the family’s urge for a firstborn son in response to the state’s family planning policies, hide their sexual needs amid the morally oppressive climate of rural Vietnam, while harboring hopes for a better working environment and living condition in the new era of the market economy.

Private and reticent, but not losing their voice

These gender issues were depicted quite prominently in Cô gái trên sông (dir. Đặng Nhật Minh, 1987) and Mùi đu đủ xanh (dir. Trần Anh Hùng, 1993). How these cinematic works portrayed male-female dynamics and relationships between characters showed that gender norms were very clearly defined in our collective minds. As such, men are defined by powerful personae who are intelligent but irresponsible; while women are modest, reserved, faithful and selfless.

Đặng Nhật Minh is amongst the directors who contributed the most to the growth of Vietnamese cinema. As an auteur, he expressed much sympathy for Vietnamese women. After it was released, Cô gái trên sông faced significant censure to the point of nearly getting banned from screening, as it was deemed to be too “tarnishing” to the image of the soldier.

Cô gái trên sông pushed to topple long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love.

A realist take on the war genre, Cô gái trên sông caused an uproar due to how it presented the revolutionist soldier as a player, and showed compassion for the main character, a sex worker. The synopsis revolves around Nguyệt, a prostitute living on a boat on the Hương River, and her quest to find a soldier whom she saved from enemy pursuit. When peace is achieved, she hopes to reunite with him, but her dream is shattered when that man, now a high-ranking official, completely brushes aside their connection.

In Cô gái trên sông, Nguyệt’s boldness proved the production’s push to dethrone long-established beliefs about women, how they love, and how they express that love. Besides, its portrayal of the revolutionary soldier as a heartbreaker and one from across the enemy line was faithful and provided a refreshing perspective for cinema at the time, especially when compared to the propaganda films of past centuries. Over the span of his career, even though the majority of Minh’s films were supported by the government, he found ways to edge by, expressing a strong personal voice and airing out his concerns for the country and its people.

Two of this works received support from the British and Japanese governments, respectively: Trở về (1994) and Thương nhớ đồng quê (1996). Both chronicle the journeys of women amid the nation’s cultural shifts in the market economy: urban women have access to spaces to unwind, socialize, and meet new people, enjoying a rich social life; while rural women lack opportunities to expand their social circles. Most of them were confined by strict moral codes and heavy expectations from society to fulfill their predestined roles as wives and mothers.

Mùi đu đủ xanh is a story about the passions and desires of women.

After 1986, Vietnam’s reopening to the world resulted in a number of cinematic works by foreign directors of Vietnamese descent being introduced to local watchers. Most notably, there was Mùi đu đủ xanh (1993), Trần Anh Hùng’s first-ever long feature. It became his most critically acclaimed work of the decade, clinching many international nominations and accolades.

Surrounding Trần Anh Hùng’s oeuvre, debates about “traditions” and “identities” seem never-ending. In Mùi đu đủ xanh, he portrayed an archetypal Vietnamese family, its time-honored customs, and palpable patriarchy via the role of the oldest son in the household. These family hierarchies were deeply entrenched in the minds of female characters, be it in the city or the countryside.

Trần Anh Hùng’s Mùi đu đủ xanh is a distinctively Asian love story — right beside the devotion of the woman lies the void of the man in the family. The plot follows Mùi, a young girl who moves to Saigon to be a live-in maid for a family of northern descent. Mùi, with her deep sensitivity, can detect the cracks and trauma in a seemingly harmonious household.

The mother and the grandma both have to endure the indifference and coldness of the family’s patriarchs. Their efforts and subtle sacrifices remain unsung. Even Mùi, when it comes to her own love journey, chooses to blend in the shadow, taking care of the one she loves from afar, as there’s already a fiance beside him, who’s superior to her in both appearance and poise.

The Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love.

In the movie, the Asian woman’s affection is juxtaposed with the passion of western expressions of love. It highlights how Mùi slowly overcomes the gender hurdles a rural woman often faces to step into the world of her crush, who was educated in the west and deeply influenced by its open lifestyle. In general, with the addition of diasporic films, especially those of Trần Anh Hùng, women in Vietnamese cinema after đổi mới became more multifaceted — at times, still modest, reserved, and obedient, but also strong-willed, progressive, and assertive when it comes to their own existence in the society.

The country shifts when women shift

In addition to highlighting gender issues of the Vietnamese society at the time, filmmakers also imbued their aspirations about the future of the country through women’s individual dreams. Two features that exemplified this trait were Lưỡi dao (dir. Lê Hoàng, 1995) and Ba mùa (dir. Tony Bùi, 1999).

Lưỡi dao came out during the apex of Lê Hoàng’s career, according to many critics. The film is set in 1975 in southern Vietnam, following the life of Nguyệt. After her family perishes during the war, Nguyệt comes to detest the revolutionary army. As her suspicion and fear abate through time, she discovers a shocking truth that forces her to choose between romance and honor. This character is a strong symbol of the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Nguyệt is a strong symbol for the efforts to heal wartime wounds, erasing decades of vengefulness that once plagued the nation.

Meanwhile, Ba mùa, a feature film by Vietnamese American director Tony Bùi, sets up a Vietnamese landscape that’s admittedly quite romanticized, but still carries the spirits of the era. Released three years after the sanctions on Vietnam were lifted, it tells the stories of different female characters living in Saigon during this opening of the economy.

Ba mùa delivers segments that are colorful and sensitive to the intersection of old and new, traditions and modernity. Each woman in the movie represents a different value. Lan, a sex worker, seeks a wealthy life, trying her best to not repeat her mother’s miserable fate; she represents career ambitions and the preservation of youth. An, who was hired to pick lotus blossoms, touches the heart of her leprosy-stricken employer with her singing; she represents Asian intangible values, much like the pristine lotus that she collects.

Lan and An both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution.

If Lan is modern, pragmatic, and quick to leave behind the traditional mindset, An is a traditional woman, symbolizing the dissection of the old orders. Even though they come from different castes of society and make different choices, they both strive for change, hopes, and the dream to continue living even after hurt and destitution — just like how Vietnam was trying step by step to overcome an embattled history and its consequences to turn a new leaf.

Decades after đổi mới, these cinematic works are still recognized by the public and critics as the golden age of Vietnamese cinematic history. Their creators deftly brought the female figure out of revolutionary cinema’s entrenched archetypes. They supported female characters’ rights to live with their own concerns, issues, and dreams, ultimately painting a picture of a growing Vietnam amid a new era’s attitudes, standards, and refreshing perspectives about women.

There is a certain timelessness to the song ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ by Như Quỳnh, especially in the visuals of its very first performance. For generations of Vietnamese listeners, ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ is an icon in the hall of fame of Vietnamese music, but as I have come to discover, the melody that Vietnamese know as ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ has lived a life much richer and more transcendent than it might appear.

In recent years, the music industry’s dynamics have shifted towards fandom and celebrityhood, giving performers more ownership over their music and forming a direct channel for them to communicate their artistry to fans. A song today is, more often than not, closely linked with its performing artist rather than its writer, because in many cases, they are the same person.

For much of Vietnam’s modern music timeline, however, the reverse was more common. Across the 1980s and 1990s, songs, first and foremost, were the creations of composers; and each song could have myriad versions performed by different singers, all vying for the earshot of listeners. My parents identify their favorite tracks by who wrote it, and would argue fervently over which vocalists had the best rendition. Composers were so revered for their artistry and personal style that at times their music could grow to become distinctive genres that are even alive and well today, such as nhạc Trịnh Công Sơn or nhạc Phạm Duy. It’s rather comical to think of a Ryan Tedder, Teddy Park, or Hứa Kim Tuyền anthology CD released today.

Như Quỳnh in the 1990s in her 20s. Photo via Nhạc Xưa.

One thing that my parents, and likely many listeners from their generation, would agree on, however, is nobody can sing ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ quite like Như Quỳnh. In an era of music when singers were often seen as mere technical executors rather than creators, the enduring impression that this particular version has etched onto our collective consciousness is a testament to Như Quỳnh’s star power, right from the song's very first debut performance.

A wintry love note not about winter

The title ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ could be loosely translated as ‘Winter Paramour.’ The song appeared for the first time in 1994 in the Christmas special of a variety music show by diaspora entertainment studio Asia. The rest of this festive set list naturally featured many Vietnamese versions of famous Noël songs, including ‘Last Christmas’ by Wham! and the Spanish-language classic ‘Feliz Navidad.’

The title ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ seems a little hyperbolic at first glance, because the Vietnamese winter is typically much less melodramatic than that of the western world. Apart from some northern provinces where the weather does get chilly towards the end of the year (but no snow), our tropical climate renders winter in the rest of Vietnam rather impotent, hardly romantic enough to inspire seasonal love songs. In reality, the lyrics that composer Anh Bằng wrote use winter as a metaphor for the chilly demeanor with which the love interest treats the male narrator in his reminiscence. “Đường vào tim em ôi băng giá / How icy is the road to your heart,” the man laments as the rainy weather takes him back to those days with her. “Trái tim em muôn đời lạnh lùng. Hỡi ôi trái tim mùa đông / Your heart is forever chilly. O wintry heart,” the song ends on a rather bittersweet note.

‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ by Như Quỳnh, 1994.

This story of male yearning and missed connection is only apparent if one pays attention to the lyrics, because the performance is anything but forlorn. Như Quỳnh walks out on an ivory stage embellished with Christmas trees and white balloons, and starts singing. The music is bouncy and festive, and the melancholy lyrics take on a rather playful and tongue-in-cheek quality, when delivered by Như Quỳnh, as she smiles and sways in place. The song becomes a self-aware assertion from the female perspective, thanks to the Vietnamese language’s flexible pronouns — it’s as if she’s coyly affirming “Yes, it’s not easy to win my affection, what about it?”

The 1980s outfit that has become iconic. Photo via Nhạc Xưa.

This was Như Quỳnh’s first stage performance since she moved abroad; she was 23 years old in the tape recording. Even though she had performed publicly before in Saigon and even won singing competitions, many still single out this performance as the defining moment in Quỳnh’s career. I attribute this to the song’s broad appeal, to viewers both male and female, young and old. Its lyrics are underscored by nostalgia, a key quality that resonates with Vietnamese communities abroad and older fans. Male listeners are obviously drawn to the ingénue image she put on for the live recording; perhaps she reminded them of a similar crush during their formative years. Female viewers, on the other hand, could connect with the confidence and self-assertion in the performance.

Như Quỳnh (left) in a press event for her liveshow Xuân Yêu Thương in 2023. Photo via Thanh Niên.

She’s fun, dresses well, and is literally glowing. The makeup and fashion are flattering, and the singing is naturalistic and not overly indulgent in vocal acrobatics. In the performance, Như Quỳnh wears a red peacoat, a beige pleated miniskirt, black tights and a black beret — a look that has become so iconic that she even recreated it for her comeback concert in Hanoi in 2018. While this ensemble evoked heavy 1980s influence and might look a little dated if seen during the 2010s, it appears surprisingly in place today, given the resurgence of appreciation for retro aesthetics in the 2020s across multiple cultural disciplines from music, cinema to fashion.

The melody that transcends languages

‘Rouge’ by Naomi Chiaki, 1977.

That memorable live stage might have been the first time many Vietnamese heard ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông,’ but few are aware that this melody actually originated from Japan under the name ルージュ (Rouge/Lipstick), written by singer-songwriter Miyuki Nakajima for veteran singer Naomi Chiaki. ‘Rouge’ was released as a single in 1977 for Chiaki’s album, but it underperformed compared to the rest of the tracks. If ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ sings of regret and unfulfilled relationships of a man, ‘Rouge’ is the reminiscence of a woman who left home in search of a long-lost lover and had to find temporary work as a bar hostess. Her lover is nowhere to be found, and she reflects on how the journey has changed her, yet her sakura-color lipstick remains the same.

‘Vulnerable Woman’ by Faye Wong, 1992.

Still, ‘Rouge’ doesn’t have a direct link to ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông,’ as a middle evolution stage was involved. If you were an enthusiastic follower of Hong Kong TVB soap operas in the early 1990s, you would find the tune familiar as it appeared in the series Đại Thời Đại (The Greed of Man), albeit as a whole different song by Faye Wong. Wong’s Cantonese version, titled ‘容易受傷的女人’ (Vulnerable Woman), was recorded in 1992 and included in the series as an interlude song. Musically, ‘Vulnerable Woman’ is a heart-wrenching ballad of a woman expressing insecurity in a rocky relationship, urging her lover to stay with her.

The cover of the Rouge album by Naomi Chiaki where the titular song appeared for the first time.

The compilation CD that includes ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông.’

‘Vulnerable Woman’ is one of the most successful tracks of Faye Wong's album Coming Home.

The TV drama turned out to be widely successful, achieving top ratings in Hong Kong that year and spreading to neighboring countries. ‘Vulnerable Woman’ went on to win Song of the Year soon after, and spawned a smorgasbord of covers across Asia in many languages — including Vietnamese, in the form of ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông.’ Singaporean band Tokyo Square released an English-language version, ‘That Is Love.’ Burmese singer Aye Chan May recorded a version called ‘တစ်စစီကျိုးပဲ့နေတယ်’ (Broken Apart). It shape-shifted in Turkey as dance track ‘8.15 Vapuru’ by Yonca Evcimik. There are also numerous other versions in Vietnamese, Mandarin Chinese, Thai, Khmer and Khmu. The melody might stay largely unchanged, but it's fascinating to witness how it reinvent itself in completely different genres: the Turkish version is the most different with an Ace of Base-esque reggae influence, while the Singaporean rendition remains faithful to Faye Wong's instrumentation. Regardless of how similar or transformed the arrangements are, the lyrics are almost always different. 

‘Broken Apart’ by Aye Chan May, 1996.

These translations might seem random, but they fit right in with the prevailing cultural trends at the time, where Asian singers were localizing their favorite foreign songs left and right. Japan looked to the west for cover inspirations, resulting in fascinating artefacts like Hideki Saijo’s rendition of ‘Careless Whispers.’ Hong Kong, on the other hand, went through a Japanese Wave in the 1980s and 1990s, giving rise to a hits like ‘尋愛’ (Searching for Love) by Anita Mui, a cover of ‘Plastic Love’ by Mariya Takeuchi. Vietnam was enamoured by Cantonese media, especially music and TVB dramas, in the 1990s, so songs by Andy Lau, Shirley Kwan, and of course, Faye Wong, were making their way into the cultural landscape of Vietnam en masse. Sometimes, the adaptation cascade does a funny thing, resulting in the cross-cultural evolution of ‘Người Tình Mùa Đông’ from ‘Vulnerable Woman’ from ‘Rouge.’ If someone tells me now that ‘Rogue’ was a cover of something else, I swear I will lose my mind.

If one day, the grains of rice that you frequently put in your mouth suddenly start to move, talk, and give you a rundown on how they were created on the field, would you believe it? This seemingly absurd scenario is exactly what happened to Minh, a little boy who's the main character of Con ăn hết rồi!, a children's book by author Đỗ Nguyệt Hà and illustrator Lê Phương Quỳnh, also known as Buffy.

The book, released both in Vietnamese as Con ăn hết rồi! (I've finished my food!) and in English as Minh and the Magic Grains of Rice, discusses a topic that stays close to Hà's heart. She was born and raised in Thái Bình, a province in northern Vietnam, and has always wanted to write a story based on her background and interests in rural Vietnam and the environment. A workshop supported by Room to Read, a non-profit organization that distributes children’s storybooks in Hồ Chí Minh City, allowed her and Buffy to do realize that dream. The result was Magic Grains, a charming children's storybook using inspirations from Vietnamese folklore to deliver a meaningful story and educate kids on the issues surrounding food waste.

The English-language book cover.

The Vietnamese-language book cover.

In the story, Minh, the protagonist, refuses to finish his rice bowl and thus deeply offends the magic rice grains, prompting them to take him on an adventure to learn about how rice is made and how it should be appreciated. Some details in the book are connected to Vietnam's folk belief that rice was given to humans by the gods in heaven. In addition, this book makes an effort to maintain cultural authenticity by including many Vietnamese elements, such as proverbs that play a crucial role in detailing the process of making rice. According to Quỳnh, the creators fought to keep them in the book’s English edition: “Readers from American culture don’t know and understand much about Vietnamese proverbs. It took us a whole year to convince the publishing house to keep them, because they are the core of our story.”

The magical grains of rice lead Minh on a journey to discover the values of rice. Image via Chronicle Books.

During the process of creating Con ăn hết rồi!, Buffy worked side-by-side with Hà to develop the storyline as well as its illustrations. Receiving support and feedback from other artists in the workshop, they went through rounds of adjustments to fine-tune the character designs. For example, the concept behind the “Ông Trời” (King of Heaven) character went from human-like to being portrayed through natural elements like trees and clouds.

Still, Buffy's creative journey with this book wasn’t one without struggles. Minh’s transformation scene from his world to the magic rice grains’ dream world was one of the most challenging to draw: “Unlike in movies, where the transition between worlds can be easily portrayed through character movements, only a few frames in the book can be used to illustrate it.” It took her several attempts to finalize this scene because she needed to make the transition as straightforward as possible, while still fully depicting the main character's journey to the dream world and back to the main world. Fortunately, it all paid off in the end, as many drawings in the book turned out beautiful, conveying the exact message Buffy wanted to tell: positivity and happiness for the audience through her fun, whimsical, and colorful art style.

The concept behind the Minh character.

The concept art of the magical rice grains.

Con ăn hết rồi! was Buffy’s first book illustration project, and to her, it was vastly different from drawing one or two standalone pictures, which involves drawing whatever she has in mind without having to create a first sketch. Producing an entire illustrated book, however, required her to go through various steps, such as creating first sketches, designing characters, visualizing the world and the background, identifying how a certain amount of content in the book can be illustrated, creating a storyboard for the books’ illustrations, and so on.

The creators make a point to include Vietnamese proverbs in the book.

Buffy shared that this book helped her learn a great deal about the creation of picture storybooks and their diversity in terms of themes, approaches, and content across different nations, in addition to enabling her to publish her own book. The process also strengthened her love for making picture books. Many scenes in Con ăn hết rồi! hold special meanings for her as well. One of which is the scenes where the rice field transforms through different season: “I love depicting something through various perspectives, different times like that. I think it was an enjoyable experience.”

Lucky envelops by Buffy.

As the book materialized, so did Buffy’s realization that illustration could be more than just a profession — it's the thread that has interwoven with her life since childhood. Growing up, she found making friends difficult, so drawing became her way of entertaining herself when the world felt too distant, and this hobby later grew into a burning passion. “I felt like I had a certain sense of peace whenever I drew,” she recalls. “So I thought ‘oh, maybe I should pursue this career path.’” Through many ups and downs, she realized that talent alone wouldn't be enough to succeed in this industry; persistence and hard work are crucial, as one cannot expect to produce beautiful artworks on the first try. It takes many attempts and much effort to achieve it. Her true joy, however, lies in the process of creation itself. “It was that journey of creating, that emotion when you get to make something with your hands by yourself…I feel like those are the happiness of making art.”

Book cover artwork by Buffy.

Everything Buffy learned throughout her journey with art was distilled into Con ăn hết rồi!. It's a story about appreciating small things in life, which perfectly reflects the way Buffy sees drawing and creativity. For her, they have always been both a refuge and a revelation, flourishing quietly and consistently with passion, patience, and care. “It’s like the universe saying that I can only do this, I can only draw for the rest of my life,” she said. Perhaps that, too, is its own kind of magic: the joy of creating, line by line, grain by grain.

Illustrations courtesy of Buffy. To see more of her works, visit her Instagram account @f.buffy.

The several dozen family altars that formed a hodgepodge pile had each been abandoned in graveyards. For many, this would make them extremely inauspicious. But to artist Nguyễn Quốc Dân, they are perfect for making art.

Cemeteries provide the renowned artist with much of the material he needs for his particular style of art, dubbed Tái Sinh-ism, or Taisinism in English. This was evident when Saigoneer visited his 2,000-square-meter home and workshop in Hội An. Empty bottles, jugs, jars, nets, blankets, bags, electronic casings, pipes, tubes, wires, fabrics, flooring, decor, and decorations: The castoffs of capitalism run amok populate the property. 

We had been ushered inside after the rambunctious pack of friendly dogs was pushed away from the gate guarding the inconspicuous frontage on the outskirts of town. Dân, immediately identifiable by his beard and long hair, was busy overseeing a new construction project on the site, so Huỳnh Huy stepped in. During a planned bicycle trip across Southeast Asia, beginning in his hometown of Bến Tre, Huy stopped at the Recycling Workshop whose mission and philosophy enticed him to stay for more than a year. He has the scars on his hands to prove his dedication to the art and was the perfect person to explain Tái Sinh-sim to us.

Before showing us around the workshop, Huy shared the ideal place for one of Dân’s pieces to be displayed by way of a question: “What is the most secure building in the world?” Unable to provide the correct answer, he responded: “The UN building. Imagine the world’s leaders sitting around one of these statues.” 

Denim jeans shaped and glued into the form of seated Buddha; a television case melted into the warped visage of a helmet or military mask; a hotel duvet contorted and secured in the shape of a cloaked figure: picturing these works beside the world’s most powerful leaders reveals both Dân’s ambitions for his art and the importance of the message he aims to convey. The cavernous metal space that Huy led us through was built according to Dân’s specifications and only completed after several construction teams called it impossible. Large circular doors at the front and back can be swung open and closed to cast crescent moon shadows. 

While Huy pointed out various statues, often asking us to guess what they were made from, Dân appeared to show off the building’s most astounding element. A sunken floor in the middle of the room contains a living tree, while the roof directly above it features a large skylight. Dân has devised some unseen system so that water on the roof can pour in, perfectly mimicking a moderate rainstorm. Dân commenced the downpour, removed his pants, and began making frantic music on the various metal drums, plastic bottles, and discarded surfaces beside the tree. Possessed with an insatiable energy, his solo seemed to stretch on indefinitely while Huy explained how the surrounding art pieces were made.

Many of the works are created by applying “intense heat” to items reclaimed from trash piles and landfills. Time is precious as the melted compounds harden rapidly, so Dân and his team must work quickly to create the intended shapes, often with the support of mannequins and other garbage serving as molds. The process is dangerous, and Huy claims one of the people who helps make them has damaged his fingertips to the point he can now grip burning material. Meanwhile, the team frequently forgoes the face masks useful for protecting against toxic fumes because they are simply too hot to wear. But according to Dân, an artist must be willing to suffer for the work as much as the soul of the material has suffered.

“How much do you think this bottle costs when full, and how much when empty?” Huy asked while lifting a familiar detergent bottle. The answer: VND35,000 full, VND15,000 empty, and then a fee to have it disposed of. The value of items society perceives as worthless trash, compared to what we are paying for, was our entry point into the philosophy of Tái Sinh-ism. This “Rebirth-sim” is not recycling, which aims to give a second life to materials that are of a lower financial value, while up-cycling is the same idea, with a slight reconfiguring of economics. In contrast, Tái Sinh-ism is a complete transformation that elevates items to works of art that cannot be reduced to monetary value, regardless of auction prices or sales receipts. The materials’ lifespans are not extended, but stretched towards eternity with an aim of ensuring they never return to a landfill. 

Landfills play a central role in Tái Sinh-ism. Dân spent his childhood scouring trash with his mother, the pittance offered by salvaged garbage providing for their basic needs. He continues to visit these landfills, albeit with a different mindset. Cemeteries also provide much of his material because unscrupulous individuals looking to dump items illegally appreciate the seclusion and taboo that surround them. Many of the mannequins that Dân uses for his molds and for a towering statue of mannequins were found in cemeteries, for example. And as Dân’s reputation has spread, “trash finds us,” Huy said, noting how supporters will often arrive with various scraps.

Dân resting in a landfill. Photo via Nguyễn Quốc Dân's Instagram page.

While Dân’s work and lifestyle may sound wacky, he is not the art world outsider he may sound to be. His creative talents were recognized at a young age, and he received generous assistance to study at the HCMC University of Fine Arts, where he studied and practiced more conventional contemporary styles. Understanding the foundations, traditions, and aims of these works, while amassing trash materials in his rented Saigon room, led him to an artistic epiphany. Dân believes that all art must address the questions of the day. The questions that elicited cubism and modernism, for example, have been addressed by many practitioners over the past decades, while the question of what to do with the mind-boggling amount of trash our species churns out remains unaddressed. Tái Sinh-ism is his response to that question.

Dân’s experience in navigating the art world, to say nothing of his charisma, has surely helped him achieve a level of success. Quantified by social media followers, news coverage, or public shows, including a recent VCCA exhibition in Hanoi, he can be considered a well-known artist. This notoriety allows him to proselytize for Tái Sinh-ism, with curious locals and foreigners making a pilgrimage to his studio when in Hội An. Meanwhile, he provides classes and workshops for children to help them nurture their creative spirits while instilling at a young age a revolutionary approach to garbage. 

Nguyễn Quốc Dân's exhibition at the VCCA. Photo via Hanoi Times.

You don’t need to be a full-throated convert to Tái Sinh-ism to take a trip to Dân’s workshop. He will welcome anyone, and if you go in with an open mind, you are likely to depart with a new way of thinking that will return any time you see a pile of trash on the street or left over after a museum gallery opening. At the very least, you will appreciate the genuine kindness and humble eccentricity of Dân and his marvelous works of art.

Light Out and Modern Vietnamese Stories, 1930–1954 offers the contemporary reader an honest glimpse of a period in Vietnam history characterized by corruption, exploitation, dehumanization, poverty, and starvation. The Vietnamese texts, both a novella and accompanying short stories, not only delineate the immediate influence of French colonization on the sociopolitical functions of Vietnam, an enterprise solely designed for its economic potential, but also expose the extending impact on the quotidian lives of proletarians, particularly the peasantry.

The 18 complementary short stories in Light Out and Modern Vietnamese Stories, 1930–1954, carefully selected by the translators Quan Manh Ha and Paul Christiansen, do not highlight a single common theme addressed in the novella Light Out by Ngô Tất Tố; rather, each story explores its own social issue, and, as a whole, the collection paints a complete picture of the historical period with a variety of perspectives. However educational the book may be, by no means is it a pleasant read, as the dominating pessimism, gloomy picture, and blunt and unembellished language reinvigorate a tragic and tumultuous period in Vietnamese history.

A brutal look into the misery of the peasantry under French colonization

As the centerpiece of the book, ‘Light Out’ (Tắt đèn) serves as the predominant text, extensively outlining the Vietnamese experience during colonial Vietnam under the French. Though beginning with a glimpse of farm workers’ quotidian life, the pastoral scene is suddenly disrupted by a conflict instigated by their masters’ unpaid poll taxes. Immediately, the novella addresses an issue permeating colonial Vietnam: the exorbitant taxes levied on the Vietnamese peasantry by the French, while denouncing the economic and local political corruption and labor exploitation experienced by titled workers.

In Light Out, this is evident when the aforementioned plowmen receive undue punishments on behalf of their masters’ negligence with tax payments, or when the village mayor who, in the midst of a vehement argument, admits to fraud implemented through tax collection. Such corruption is extended in Nguyễn Công Hoan’s included ‘Carrion Eaters’ (Thịt người chết) by the coroner, who abuses his position to seek a disproportionate bribe from Mr. Cứu. Through their uncensored depictions of the foundational corruption in the system governing villages, many stories expose the systematic poverty imposed on the peasantry and delineate the oppression that impedes any means of escape or social advancement: simply, one is born a peasant and dies as a miserable peasant.

“Famine and hunger are so prevalent in both the novella and the short stories that starvation becomes the norm — and even banal. Perhaps even more terrifying is the thought that these scenes reflect the actual social situation during colonial Vietnam; they are but a glimpse of historical reality.”

With a cycle of poverty, the peasantry are inevitably thrust into destitution, where hunger becomes a regularly endured hardship. This state is a salient issue sustained throughout the book, from Dần’s tantrums and Mrs. Dậu’s struggle to produce milk for Tỉu in Light Out to the beggar’s resolve to eat from a dog’s bowl in Nguyễn Công Hoan’s ‘The Teeth of an Upper-Class Family’s Dog’ (Răng con chó nhà tư sản) or Mai’s immodest sacrifice impelled by desperation in Thạch Lam’s ‘Hunger’ (Đói). The living conditions of peasantry are aptly characterized as a state of constant privation, and the writers deliver the brutal reality directly without euphemistic expressions nor beautifying the situation. One can only shudder at the gut-wrenching scene of starved villagers littering the street market that Kim Lân so matter-of-factly depicts in ‘Common-Law Wife’ (Vợ nhặt). In fact, famine and hunger are so prevalent in both the novella and the short stories that starvation becomes the norm — and even banal. Perhaps even more terrifying is the thought that these scenes reflect the actual social situation during colonial Vietnam; they are but a glimpse of historical reality. 

Ironically, the only suffering depicted in all stories is strictly that of humans, particularly the proletarians, and especially the peasantry. Never is the reader’s sympathy invoked through the hardship of an animal on the brink of starvation. In fact, the death of any animal, for that matter, is simply absent from all stories in the book, except for the brief mention of the death of Mr. Hoàng’s German shepherd in Nam Cao’s ‘The Eyes’ (Đôi mắt), which is ascribed to the consumption of hazardous waste rather than starvation. The living conditions of animals are presented in a manner that generally supersede those of the peasantry.

In ‘Light Out,’ while the Dậu family endures punitive consequences for unpaid taxes, the mother dog earns no whipping for she has no monetary responsibility, and when Mrs. Dậu visits Deputy Quế’s house, she observes in the courtyard pigeons, sows, and chickens living an undisturbed and luxurious lifestyle, one that drastically contrasts the penury conditions of the Dậu family. In ‘The Teeth of an Upper-Class Family’s Dog,’ while Lu, the Braque d’Auvergne, is regularly fed by its owner, the beggar is in critical condition due to hunger. Such intentional juxtaposition addresses the demeaning aspect of the severity of the peasantry’s living condition, for it presents savage creatures as objects of envy. The severity is only intensified by the recurring presence of the rooster in ‘Light Out,’ who is neither worried of financial burdens nor interrupted amidst the submission of his glorious crow. The symbolic presence of the rooster denotes that even the rooster leads a better life than any peasant.   

Portrait of Ngô Tất Tố as featured in the early 1940s in Nhà Văn Hiện Đại. Image via Wikimedia.

The perils of forced westernization

As delineated, many of the stories explore the implications of French colonialism and its immediate impact on the general functions of local villages and the lives of villagers, though they prompt a rather simple question: where are the French? Rather than directly addressing or portraying a French figure, many stories portray the overbearing presence of the French through depictions of foreign influence on the daily operations of business and life, such as the use of the western counting method, calendar, and clock, or the western clothes among the colonial landowners and other bourgeoisie. Such prevalence of western influence forms a dichotomy between the old ways (i.e., folk customs and traditional methods upheld by Vietnam before French colonization) and the new ways (i.e., imported western traditions and methods), a division which advances the debate of what old ways to maintain and what new ways to adopt.

Yet, with the rapid westernization imposed on Vietnam by its dominating French colonizer, the Vietnamese public was forced to adopt the unfamiliar new ways with no compromise. This manner of westernization and its immediate consequences are heavily criticized in Light Out, as any implementation of the new way is always accompanied with errors and confusion: for instance, the western counting method, rather than the traditional oriental method, leads to numerous recalculations for the mayor or the sestern calendar, as opposed to the lunar calendar, which results in an additional financial burden that confuses Mrs. Dậu and even the Mandarin.

“In essence, the narratives call for a progressive re-examination of the state of cultural representation, both for the old and new, rather than an outright rejection of westernization.”

Vũ Trọng Phụng also plays on this absurdity in his ‘From Theory to Practice’ (Từ lý thuyết đến thực hành) by bluntly beginning the short story with “He was Westernized,” only to then satirically proceed with refutations of the fact that expose the hypocrisy practiced by the man. In each case, however, it is not the new way per se that is directly criticized but the underlying issue of user error caused by unfamiliarity with the new ways or the inability to completely abandon preference for certain old ways. Thus, in essence, the narratives call for a progressive re-examination of the state of cultural representation, both for the old and new, rather than an outright rejection of westernization.

With such saturation of suffering, this book becomes the voice on behalf of an illiterate population subject to anti-humanitarian actions and policies, invoking not only sentiments of sympathy and justice but also a spirit of revolution and reform. Further enlarging the literary significance of the book is the copious representation of early 20^th-century Vietnamese authors paired with a nuanced translation that delivers to the reader the Vietnamese writers’ perspectives on the colonial period of Vietnam in an accessible form. This book is a substantial contribution to the limited selection of translated Vietnamese literature that may only be described as a triumph in literary history.

Deep beneath the ocean surface, colorful ceramic fragments have been scattered and stacked upon one another for centuries. Some remain whole, others broken, many still covered with corals and ocean dust. Once precious commodities, these pieces have become time capsules, carried into the Vietnamese waters by ships that never reached their destinations. What stories might these centuries-old ceramic artifacts hold about Vietnam’s connection with surrounding kingdoms?

Map: Six ancient ships excavated in Vietnamese waters. Image via Vietnam National Museum of History.

In the 1990s, at least six shipwrecks were found and excavated in Vietnamese territorial waters — from both the Gulf of Thailand and the East Sea — through efforts by Vietnamese and international archaeologists and authorities. Hundreds of thousands of artifacts from each shipwreck were discovered, studied, preserved, and now held in different major museum collections in Vietnam as well as abroad. Today, a permanent collection of “Asian ceramics,” found from shipwrecks dating from the 9^th century until the 18^th centuries, are now on display at the Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Installation view of permanent collection ‘Asian ceramics’ at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

One of the first factors that captures a viewer’s attention in a ceramic piece, perhaps, is its colors and patterns. We begin tracing the details: who or what is depicted, where this piece might have come from, or what purpose it once served. Such questions lead us to imagine the lives of those who could afford and own these expensive-looking objects, perhaps belonging only to wealthy families or individuals in the past. 

Yet, more than just old commodities or museum displays, these shipwrecked ceramics tell us a bigger story of Vietnam in the centuries-old maritime trade, long before the arrival of the first Europeans. They revealed Vietnam’s connections with neighboring kingdoms and positioned the country within the East and Southeast Asian trade routes and beyond, offering a broader perspective of Vietnam as a part of both art history and global trade history.

Installation view of permanent collection ‘Asian ceramics’ at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Beginning with artifacts from Vietnam itself, a collection of high-quality Chu Đậu ceramics was found from the 15^th-century Chàm island shipwreck in Quảng Nam. It includes an estimated total of 240,000 artifacts, including ceramics of foreign origins, excavated over three years from 1997 to 2000. Chàm Island (Cù Lao Chàm), which belongs to Hội An, occupied a significant position along the Southeast Asian trade routes. Originally produced in Hải Dương, Chu Đậu ceramics flourished in the 15^th century and are renowned for their fine lines and decorative motifs of flora, animals, landscapes, and folk-inspired themes. The pieces found in the Chàm island shipwreck were primarily blue-and-white wares: housewares, containers, utensils for eating and drinking, and items used for religious ceremonies. Designed specifically for the overseas market, the ceramic pieces highlight both the kingdom’s development of export ceramics and participation in international trade.

Plates. Polychrome-glazed stoneware. Chu Đậu ceramics. Vietnam, 15th century.

Details of Chu Đậu ceramics. Vietnam, 15th century.

An important collection from the shipwreck features “Chăm pottery,” as described by the museum text: glazed ceramic crafted by the Chăm people or using Chăm techniques within the Champa kingdom (present-day Central Vietnam), dating from 2^nd to 17^th centuries. These objects seem to have been overlooked in Chăm history, compared to the more prominent religious statues in museum collections. The artifacts on display include brown-glazed, green-glazed stoneware dishes, bowls, and ewers. Highlights on display is a large dish decorated with Chăm script along its edges, alongside large jars with floral motifs.

Plate. “Cham pottery”. Vietnam, 15th century.

“Cham pottery” from the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Champa’s pottery production and maritime trade have flourished since the 10^th century, maintaining strong networks with the Philippines and other Southeast Asian kingdoms. Although production declined significantly due to the fall of Vijaya state and the invasion by the northern kingdom of Đại Việt in 1471 (during the Later Lê dynasty), the Champa kingdom played a significant role as a destination and waypoint by merchant boats from surrounding kingdoms in Southeast Asia and beyond, even serving as intermediaries between Đại Việt and the Malay Archipelago within the Muslim trade networks.

Details of “Cham pottery” from the permanent collection of Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History.

Off the southwest coast, towards the Gulf of Thailand, the maritime trade with the Ayutthaya Kingdom (present-day Thailand) is evident in the Hòn Dầm Island shipwreck in Kiên Giang in the 15^th century. A large quantity of Thai ceramics, including celadon stoneware and brown-glazed pieces, was produced by kilns in Sawankhalok and Sukhothai. On display are celadon stoneware of patterned dishes, elephant-shaped lamp stands, as well as an elephant figurine with soldiers, partially attached with coral remains. In addition, iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware includes Kinnari and elephant-shaped ewers, covered jars with patterns, and bowls decorated with lotus and chrysanthemum motifs, with petals spreading elegantly across the surfaces.

Bowls. Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Covered jar. Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

 Kinnari-shaped ewer (left) and Elephant-shaped ewer (right). Iron-brown and white-glazed stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Elephant-shaped lamp stand (left) and War elephant figurine (right). Celadon stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Details of a stemmed dish. Celadon stoneware. Thailand, 15th century.

Continuing along the timeline, the largest quantity of 18^th-century Chinese porcelain was found from the Cà Mau shipwreck, dating to the Yongzheng reign (1723–1735) of the Qing Dynasty and excavated between 1998 and 1999. Most of the pieces were blue-and-white and multi-color wares produced at Jingdezhen kilns in Jiangxi and many from Guangdong. Their decorations commonly depict Chinese landscapes and human figures, and the assemblage includes plates, bowls, teapots, tea cups, kendi, snuff bottles, etc.

Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

In addition, many pieces feature European motifs. A notable example is a plate decorated along the edge with sea wave patterns, with images of two men and another man walking with a buffalo. According to Nguyễn Đình Chiến’s article “Đồ gốm sứ trong các con tàu đắm ở vùng biển Việt Nam” (Ceramics from the shipwrecks off the coast of Vietnam), the plate depicts a landscape of a fisherman village in Deshima — an artificial island served as a Dutch trading post in Nagasaki, Japan in the early mid mid-17th century — showing a sand hill, with a lighthouse, a church, and houses by the fishing boats appearing behind. This indicates that similar wares, including milk bottles and wine jugs, were made to fill the demand from the European market at the time.

Plate. Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

One standout piece from this shipwreck is an artifact composed of stacked Chinese blue-and-white tea cups, referred to by the museum as the 18^th-century “Sea sculpture.” Despite its small size, it embodies both fragility and endurance, surviving against the underwater pressure and through layers of time. Its mass of wrecked and broken remains fused together. The positioning of the cups suggests how such wares may have been packed within containers during their journey across the sea. Although the ship’s routes and destinations remain unknown, the shipwreck’s location in Cà Mau waters suggests that it may have been heading south from China towards the Malay Archipelago, before continuing across the oceans to other continents.

‘Sea sculpture.’ Chinese blue-and-white porcelain. Qing China, Yongzheng era (1723–1735).

Despite the tragic fate of these ships and the commodities they carried, their remains serve as significant evidence for archeologists and historians studying Vietnam’s maritime trade since the dynastic periods, which is often overlooked nowadays in the overall history. Ceramic artifacts, once part of the expensive global products, carry aesthetic values, traces of life across continents. Shipwrecked ceramics offer an alternative lens of understanding interconnectedness between art and other socio-political dynamics and trade histories. They move beyond land-centric narratives and highlight Vietnam’s strategic location between East and Southeast Asia within the global trade, even amid social and political upheavals, and the rise and fall of kingdoms.

The permanent collection “Asian Ceramics” is on view at Ho Chi Minh City Museum of History. More information can be found on the museum’s official website.

If given the opportunity, what would each of Vietnam's provinces select as a mascot?

Saigoneer has pondered this question before and discussed the fact Vietnam doesn't have an active mascot tradition similar to Japan's. While this is not yet a reality, art agency Monstio has just given vision to our dream in the form of a mascot stamp collection project that assigns a unique character to each of the pre-merger provinces. To attract attention to their brand identity and project label work, the team has released the Mát-xờ-cốt 63 project on their Facebook page.

Based on the team's research and exploration, each mascot nods to a well-known element of the province. Inspiration comes from culinary items, such as Cà Mau's crabs, Bình Thuận's dragonfruit and Bắc Giang's lychee as well as architectural images including Kon Tum's ethnic minority homes and Kiếp Bạc Temple in Hải Dương. Referenced cultural activities include Đờn ca tài tử in Bạc Liêu and Bình Định's unique martial arts. Some of the province mascots are illustrated via their natural features, flora and fauna including Cao Bằng waterfalls, Lào Cai's famed mountain peak, Bình Dương's cherished sao trees and Đồng Tháp's lotus. A few historical events are also referenced, such as military victories in Điện Biên and Quảng Trị.

While not available as actual stamps, they are a beautiful digital collection that allows us to reflect on the vibrant diversity of the nation. Moreover, in their cataloguing of many now-merged provinces, they represent a time capsule of sort that can engender nostalgia as we become accustomed to new boundaries and names.

Have a full look at the collection below:

Cellophane lanterns, the nostalgic anchors of our past full-moon festivals, are still alive thanks to the nimble fingers of craftspeople at the Phú Bình lantern “village” in Saigon.

Just take a stroll in the neighborhood of Phú Bình on Lạc Long Quân Street of District 11’s Ward 5 these days, you’ll feel a palpable sense of anticipation for mid-autumn celebration.

Phú Bình Lantern Village is the most vibrant during the Trung Thu season. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I can’t take my eyes off the houses here which are enveloped from floor to ceiling with finished lanterns of all shapes, designs, and sizes. This tiny artisan village evokes in me a wistful feeling about the mid-autumns of my childhood, when our old customs were safeguarded like a treasure amid the city.

Lanterns on sale. Photo by Cao Nhân.

According to the lantern makers I meet here, around the 1950s, thousands of people from Bác Cổ Village in Nam Định Province migrated here to make a living, carrying with them their ancestors’ signature craft. This historic artisan village has been making traditional lanterns since then.

Cellophane lanterns are Phú Bình's specialty product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

In their heydays, around the 1970s–1990s, the bustling scene at this lantern-making community was once the talk of the town, as there were hundreds of families in the trade, producing enough to supply across the southern region and even export orders.

Over time, due to changing demographics and the advent of battery-operated lanterns, few of those hundreds of families have maintained their trade. Today, artisan families mostly produce for wholesale orders instead of retail as before. Each handmade lantern costs around VND30,000 to a few hundred dong, though more elaborate designs can cost even more.

New competition from battery-operated lantern toys has made it harder to sell traditional lanterns. Photo by Cao Nhân.

I’m mesmerized by the swift fingers of the artisans as they weave bamboo strips, make the frames, paste on the cellophane, and deliver the brushstrokes of colorful paints. The lantern makers tell me that it is not too hard an art, but it’s time-consuming and involves many steps.

Lanterns are made from bamboo, colored cellophane, and powdered paint. Photos via Tạp chí Du lịch Tp. HCM.

To form an aesthetically pleasing and durable lantern, it’s important to prepare all the components properly. The bamboo strips must be from old bamboo trees that are freshly cut to retain their tensile strength and prevent termite damage. The cellophane must be glued on smoothly so the painted patterns appear clean. Each step of the way requires high levels of detail from the artisans to produce final products that are neat and visually striking.

The frame for a star-shaped lantern and the finished product. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Phượng, a lantern producer I come across here, shares with me: “Anyone who’s been doing this for long enough will tell you that this is not difficult work, but you just need to be meticulous and precise in every step. For me, I’m most happy to see my family create something together, bringing to life pretty lanterns and playing our part in preserving a beautiful facet of our culture.”

Lanterns are decorated with powdered paints. Photo by Cao Nhân.

As I sit there marveling at the completed lanterns, my fingertips caressing the sleek surface of the red cellophane, I can’t help thinking about that time when my grandpa helped me make a giant star lantern for a competition at school, and how I had so much fun assisting him in cutting the cellophane, drawing the design, etc. I both miss and feel for this art form, and I wonder how long it will persist, and whether the children of future years will be able to marvel at those vivid shades of red and yellow like I am right now.

A star lantern. Photo by Cao Nhân.

That is perhaps the same concern I share with the people here who've been marking lanterns for decades. Of course, to keep the passion going, Phú Bình’s lantern makers have created new designs to follow the market’s taste and trends, like lanterns that are shaped like dragons, crabs, and rabbits.

Apart from brick-and-mortar retail, the artisan households here have started listing their products on e-commerce platforms and social media channels to reach more young consumers and promote the image of a traditional craft village.

Artisan Nguyễn Trọng Bình. Photo via Tạp chí Du lịch TP. HCM.

Nguyễn Trọng Bình, a third-generation member of Phú Bình, tells me: “This year, the number of orders has increased significantly compared to past years. This made us incredibly happy. Since March, right after the Lunar New Year, I’ve already started working. In any other year, it would have taken until May or June for the first orders to arrive.”

A batch of lanterns ready for shipping. Photo by Cao Nhân.

Nguyễn Thị Tươi, another lantern maker, shares with me: “My family’s lantern business has been around for over 20 years. We are lucky to be well-loved by many so we can still maintain our trade until now. Our younger generation is trying to promote our brand more so more and more people will know about traditional mid-autumn lanterns.”

It makes me happy to hear about these positive developments in the livelihood of the lantern makers here, because as long as the craft exists, the village remains. Just like they’ve always done, over decades, the craftspeople here will continue to breathe life into thousands of lanterns every year, keeping the lights on so that everyone’s childhood is filled with the colors of Trung Thu.

Sometimes, just surviving is remarkable.

The short documentary, Lẽ Sống, looks closely at what it takes to make a simple, honest living in the Mekong Delta and posits that the resilience and sacrifices of the region's women foster hope for society's future.

Lẽ Sống focuses on the daily lives of two women in Vĩnh Long Province: Nhã, a single mother who provides for her daughter by running a phở restaurant; and Thuý, a businesswoman who sells fish in the local market. Both invite the filmmakers to their homes and places of work, where they offer matter-of-fact descriptions of their daily routines, past struggles, motivations, and aspirations for their families.

The details Nhã and Thuý share about shrewd business practices, admiration for education and family, endurance in the face of poverty, and communal kindness resonate because the views represent those of many women in the Mekong Delta, and Vietnam generally. Certainly, we all have friends, neighbors, relatives or simply familiar faces in our neighborhood who have similar experiences. But it's not often we encounter such open and well-edited portraits. The 14 minutes we spend with the two women affords viewers a chance to understand better the commonplace actions that aren't often dwelt upon but reveal a strength worth celebrating. 

The film is the passion project of Huy Phạm and Mike Abela, made for no money beyond the daily logistics budget. The pair of California-based friends have done similar projects in the past, including 2015 looks at a hột vịt lộn vendor in Saigon and the a woman who sells bún riêu in Cần Thơ's floating market. When sharing their latest work with Saigoneer, Huy noted: “Mike and I used to sit in his apartment watching Anthony Bourdain and wishing we could go to Vietnam and do something like that. We enjoy the culture and the people so much.”

It was an ordinary Saturday summer afternoon in the late 2000s, and I was sitting in my mom’s office while waiting for her to finish her work, watching YouTube on one of the computers in the room. It wasn't just any video for kids, but a scene where a wolf downs a whole pack of cigarettes at once and blows the smoke into a locked telephone booth to try to suffocate a hare inside. That seemingly absurd scenario came from none other than Hãy Đợi Đấy!, one of my favorite cartoon shows.

Ну, погоди!, known in Vietnam as Hãy Đợi Đấy!, was a staple in many Vietnamese childhoods alongside other iconic children's media such as Tom and Jerry or Phineas and Ferb. It was one of the first series I watched once I became aware of cartoons’ existence, and unlike other Disney or Cartoon Network series, I could thoroughly enjoy it without having to understand the language, even though it was a Russian cartoon.

The earliest concept of the two main characters in Happy Merry-Go-Round.

The official series title card.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! was created for Soyuzmultfilm, a well-known animation studio in Moscow, by three prominent Soviet writers, Aleksandr Kurlyandsky, Felix Kandel, and Arkady Khait. It premiered in 1969 as a two-minute pilot featured in another animated anthology series named Happy Merry-Go-Round. It became a stand-alone cartoon show thanks to the public’s positive reception, with 16 episodes aired between the 1960s and the 1980s. Contrary to the Soviet-produced animated features at that time, which either contained adult-oriented themes or heavily educational messages for children, this series followed a slapstick comedy formula and a simple, repetitive storyline, starting with a Wolf chasing a Hare, the Hare managing to outsmart the Wolf, and the Wolf yelling in agony, “Ну, кролик, погоди!” (Hey, rabbit, just you wait!) at the end of every episode.

The Wolf's smoking habit has raised concerns amongst parents.

The cartoon sparked some controversies surrounding how the Wolf was depicted as smoking a lot for a children's show, and some were concerned that the violence might be harmful to children. Nonetheless, Hãy Đợi Đấy! still reached immense levels of popularity, both domestically and internationally, becoming a cultural symbol in the Soviet Union and Russia.

Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ on VTV was the first place where Hãy Đợi Đấy! appeared.

Hãy Đợi Đấy! came to Vietnam for the first time through the show Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, an anthology program for children on national television that featured cartoons from different countries. Due to the lack of television content made for Vietnamese children during the 1970s and 1980s, the cartoon instantly became a sensation. Indeed, the scene of children in the neighborhood huddling together in front of a black-and-white TV, waiting for Hãy Đợi Đấy!’s familiar opening title card and song was a core memory for many. Many moments from the show were also deeply ingrained; notably the Wolf’s hilarious sprite with the memorable pink flower-printed boxer, the Hare’s laugh whenever it successfully evades the Wolf’s attack, or the Wolf screaming, “Nu, Pogodi!” at the end.

The samovar, a Russian tea-making utensil.

The fox's depiction is inspired by famous Russian singer Alla Pugachyova.

A scene from the special episode celebrating the Summer Olympics in Moscow.

While watching Hãy Đợi Đấy!, the audience may notice many Soviet/Russian cultural references sprinkled throughout the series. Some of those references include the samovar, a utensil frequently used in the Soviet Union/Russia to make tea; the Fox singer from episode 15 being a caricature of Alla Pugachyova, a famous Russian singer; episode 16 paying homage to the well-known European fairy tales among Slavic communities; an entire episode celebrating the 1980 Summer Olympics in Moscow; traditional clothes or dances; and many, many more.

The series on a stamp.

After the normalization of diplomatic relations between Vietnam and other countries like China and the US in the early and mid-1990s, many new goods were imported into Vietnam, including a lot more children's media from other cultures. From Disney movies to Chinese-speaking cartoon series with Vietnamese dubbing, Hãy Đợi Đấy! slowly lost its relevance in the Vietnamese market as its simplistic and crude style of animation could no longer compete against the glamorous animated features from big studios. Additionally, the death of Anatoli Papanov, the Wolf’s voice actor, was a blow to the show, and the two episodes created in 1993 using Papanov’s voice archives were a critical failure, resulting in Hãy Đợi Đấy! fading out of the spotlight. Nevertheless, for Vietnamese who followed the cartoon first when it was aired on Những Bông Hoa Nhỏ, Hãy Đợi Đấy! was a key childhood landmark. Its cultural influence in Vietnam is shown by the way “Nu, Pogodi!” became a household catchphrase for many Vietnamese people from Gen X, even though they do not know the language.

Boarding a boat.

On the Ferris Wheel.

Today, when I look at Hãy Đợi Đấy!, I do not see just the Wolf and the Hare’s endless chase and banter, but a bridge across time and cultural background. For people in my mom’s generation, there was the rare, childlike joy of watching something child-friendly in black and white. For me, there was a world of wonder that I immersed myself in every Saturday afternoon. It became more than mere entertainment, but a reminder of how stories and culture can transcend physical boundaries. I wonder if the writers and director of Hãy Đợi Đấy! knew the profound impact their creation had on members of an international audience, like me. 

Fragments of history, whether through imagery or text, often feel distant in time, yet so familiar when encountered visually. Combat sketches, postage stamps, and typography from propaganda posters invite viewers to ask: how do they speak to today’s generation, living half a century after the war, and what do they reveal about our collective memory of Vietnam today?

Known for its extensive collection of wartime propaganda art, Dogma Collection has launched Collection+, a new initiative that invites members of the arts community to engage with its archive alongside their own collection. For the debut exhibition, running until November 2, 2025, combat sketches, postage stamps and typographic materials are selected and presented by Thanh Uy Art Gallery (Hanoi), Bưu Hoa (Saigon) and Lưu Chữ (Saigon). The collaboration doesn’t simply put historical materials on view, but repositions these fragments from the past in a contemporary setting, holding a dialogue with today’s viewers. In doing so, the past that seems far away is now reframed through the familiarity of Vietnamese collective memory, reminding viewers how deeply wartime visual culture continues to shape the present.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

The combat sketches, presented by Hanoi-based Thanh Uy Art Gallery, open the exhibition by offering viewers a glimpse of life on and off the battlefield. Gallery founder Đức Thanh Uy selected works created between 1960 and 1972 — the most intense period of the American War in Vietnam — highlighting women as central figures in the long revolution towards independence. Scenes of militia women and guerrillas marching, guarding the sea, or practicing their aim appear alongside depictions of daily activities and bonding moments, emphasizing a strong sense of community and collectivity. Seen today, the sketches are regarded as precious artworks that reveal a more humane and intimate side of wartime life, while also confronting viewers with the difficulty of imagining what it meant to live under constant threat of war.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Bưu Hoa, a virtual archive dedicated to Vietnam’s lost postage stamps established by art director and illustrator Đức Lương (Luongdoo) in 2017, presents its first in-person exhibition in collaboration with Dogma’s collection, featuring stamps produced between 1958 and 1967. The display highlights the significance of postage stamps in Vietnam’s historical and political context since the era of the Democratic Republic of Vietnam. The most striking aspect is the meticulously hand-painted detail, depicting animals, plants, battlefields, industrial development, and the diverse communities of Vietnam. Despite their small scale and original communication purpose, these stamps carry immense historical and political weight, and their imagery conveys a sense of “richness” — of natural resources, cultural values, and collective achievements — affirming national identity even in times of war, scarcity, and the long process of nation-building.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

If paintings and stamps offer certain visual imagery of life, typography in propaganda and daily use captures viewers’ attention differently, evoking emotions and shaping perceptions through the written Vietnamese language. For this exhibition, Saigon-based independent graphic design collective Lưu Chữ selected propaganda posters according to their color palettes, compositions, iconography, and typography. As the exhibition text notes, their interest lies in how messages are conveyed through style and form. The display brings together photographs of typefaces from present-day street slogans and banners, archival newspaper print, lettering sketches, resistance-era propaganda posters, and a video documenting the production process, accompanied by publications on Vietnamese propaganda art for those seeking deeper knowledge. With bright, colorful palettes and bold, condensed letterforms, the works show how propaganda once functioned as a call to action that lifted collective spirits. What appears nostalgic or purely aesthetic to contemporary viewers today carried a sense of urgency and immediacy for previous generations.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Sketches, stamps, and typography — the three main elements of the exhibition — were originally created for visual documentation and communication, and perhaps even as acts of survival, with their creators uncertain if the paintings would endure through the war, or the postage stamps would reach their destinations. Although the war already ended 50 years ago, these materials feel surprisingly familiar to our current generation, even though we have never lived through wartime or post-war periods. Perhaps, it is our daily exposure to state media and street propaganda that makes them feel immediate. They reflect cultural values and show how our aesthetics have evolved, shaping the collective memory and national identity we inhabit today. It is more than just about preserving the past, as they mirror our present, and reflect on where we come from and how far we have come as a nation.

Installation view of “Collection+” at Dogma Collection.

Photos courtesy of Mắt Bét and Dogma Collection.

“Collection+” is now on view at Dogma Collection until November 2, 2025. More information on the exhibition and opening hours can be found on this Facebook page.

There’s a particular sequence of sounds that many, if not all, of us would remember by heart: two rings of the phone, a high-pitched female voice saying “Can I help you?”, some dog barks, and then “Ai ai ai, I’m your little butterfly.”

This is what would play if you pressed on the buttons of any toy phones produced in the 1990s and 2000s, likely made in China and distributed to all casual toy shops around the world. These phones come in a vast array of appearances and brandings depending on whatever cultural products that were popular to youngsters at the time of production, from Batman phones to Barbie phones to Pokémon phones. They, however, would all play this sound clip. The other sounds are generic enough, but what in the world is that song?

Not knowing English as a child, I only realized a few years ago that those lyrics were in English, and until recently, I would assume that it was a Chinese song with random English words thrown in. It was, in fact, the chorus of ‘Butterfly,’ a song by Swedish bubblegum dance duo Smile.dk.

An Asian wave was sweeping past the western cultural landscapes of the late 1990s and defined much of the Y2K era. It wasn’t discerning enough to take informed inspirations from specific nations, but more a vague mishmash of Oriental tropes: chopsticks in hairstyles, cheongsam-esque shirts, bamboo patterns, typefaces that ripped off katakana characters, etc. 

Smile.dk made a career out of these proto-weeaboo appropriations, releasing songs like ‘Doki Doki’ and ‘Moshi Moshi.’ ‘Butterfly’ itself references samurai and includes zither-like instrumentation on a techno backdrop. The music video, however, is like a fever dream awash in Y2K futurism, crude 3D animatronics, white women wearing dreadlocks, and flat-textured butterflies. It’s a lot.

The song likely made the cross into Asian consciousness from November 1998 when it was licensed by Konami’s Dance Dance Revolution, an arcade game involving players stomping on dance pads, in Japan. The game and ‘Butterfly’ quickly gained popularity in Asia, so much so that Smile.dk became the first foreign act to perform on South Korea’s SBS Inkigayo in 1999. While the song was known in China, it’s still unclear how it came to be selected for toy phone production.

On the technical side, a single company in China probably manufactured all the sound chips with the sound sequence written, and most toy companies assembled plastic phones using these ready-made chips. Could it have been thanks to a Dance Dance Revolution fan who happened to have the decision-making power in the sound ship company? Either way, because of the phone sample, Smile.dk has since gained a cult following and become a global meme amongst those in the know. Cheap Chinese toy phones are now referred to as “butterfly phones” and the band even toured China in 2016.

Photo via Flickr user morecoffeeplease.

When does a piece of functional design become art and vice versa? Gazing long enough at a hook on the wall, noticing its graceful curves, bright colors, and simple flourishes in shape, will have you unsure where the border between the two lies, or if there even is one.

Where Design and Art Converge

Austere metal hooks, hooks that called to mind ancient money, a hook that resembled an accordion, and a few that invited more intimate readings: the hooks came in all shapes, sizes, colors, and mediums, all of which asked viewers to reconsider what a simple object could say or hold. Stepping into the front room of Gallery Medium on the opening night of Three Weeks of Design (3WOD), shattered Saigoneer’s conceptual understanding of a hook. We could stare at each like a work of art, or hang our coats on them. 

As part of 3WOD’s desire to engender pride and elevate expectations for domestic creatives, this year’s focus on “The Culture of Design” included a competition aimed at empowering local artists and designers. More than 200 submissions came from professional designers, independent artists, and self-taught creatives who offered their take on the humble hook which were udged across five categories:  Best Design, Best Concept, Best Fabrication, Best Sustainable Practice, and People’s Favourite. The entrants on display not only revealed the city’s design expertise but also fostered conversations surrounding important art and design principles, serving as an educational opportunity. 

The sense of wonder and appreciation fostered by the hooks continued through the rooms that contained 3WOD’s ceramics and furniture exhibitions. There, we were thrilled by pottery that resembled a stack of Saigon’s iconic plastic stools and a piece of furniture that featured the sharp angles and edges of a cut diamond. Others reflected more global aesthetic influences, such as Modernist, Art Deco and Oriental designs. This conscious assemblage of distinctly Vietnamese and international approaches, many by local brands and designers such as Oho Studios, NOM, Laita, and Exutoire as well as international names, revealed how Vietnamese talent deserves to be considered on par with any in the world. Attendees to 3WOD came away from the month-long event with the understanding that they can look to local designers when beautifying their living spaces, confident in both the quality and the originality of their creative practices.

In total, the event featured work from over 40 designers, 15 ceramic artists, and local and international furniture brands. Citing renowned international events, such as Art Basel, Milan Design Week, and NYCxDESIGN, Gallery Medium’s founder, designer Coca Huynh, explained that “art and design have now merged and complement each other wonderfully instead of being two separate entities.” The event showcased the synchronicity between these fields while highlighting Vietnam’s talent and uplifting young, local designers. 

Gallery Medium Speaks for a Larger Community

Since its founding last year, Gallery Medium has sought to be a nurturing site of creativity. The welcoming villa space that conjures feelings of visiting a private home is committed to exploring local and global art and design traditions that uphold, evolve, and subvert norms and expectations. True to its name, exhibitions have included paintings, photography, sculptures, installations, research-based practices, and design objects. The shows invite attendees to join the dialogues about identity, inheritance, expression, and purpose that surround and uphold the works. 

Gallery Medium’s embrace of a diverse range of expressions is understood via a few recent exhibitions. Arlette Quỳnh-Anh Trần, for example, offered questions and speculations about the convergences of sci-fi, technology, and political identity via assemblages of animation, 3D design, historical archives, and architecture in her recent Gallery Medium exhibition, “iii. x_Unrealized Utopia.” Contrasting these experimental and oftentimes challenging works were those of painter Huỳnh Công Nhớ. His exhibition this past June fused filmmaking experiences and a religious background in the form of soothing, daily life scenes rendered in acrylics. Meanwhile, just before Tết, “Thẩm / Thấu, Thưởng” opened to introduce guests to 50 ceramic works by Nguyễn Quốc Huy, Trần Nam Tước and HuongColor. Organized in collaboration with VietnamColor, it investigated how traditional and folk materials can be re-imagined in contemporary forms.

While seemingly unrelated in subject matter, medium, aesthetics or influences, these and other Gallery Medium exhibitions are united in their efforts to spotlight and platform local creatives and designers while serving the broader community. Practitioners, enthusiasts, collectors, and students benefit from spaces like Gallery Medium and events like 3WOD that foster dialogues around specific pieces as well as global legacies, trends, and traditions in the art and design world. Those who attend an event can leave inspired by the work being created around them and optimistic about the collective creative energy bubbling up throughout the city. 

I had little to no expectation when I started watching No Crying at the Dinner Table, especially since the topic of generational distance in Vietnam has been discussed time and time again by many other media, including Bố Già and Nhà Bà Nữ, both feature films by Trấn Thành.

As a Vietnamese who has experienced emotional silence in my own family, I was concerned that the film wouldn’t do it justice due to its simplistic formula, where, aside from the silent daily-life scenes, nearly all scenes with dialogue are filmed at a dinner table. However, my initial skepticism was dispelled after I actually watched the documentary and saw how raw the portrayal of unspoken grief, trauma, and emotional vulnerability was.

No Crying at the Dinner Table is a 16-minute documentary directed by Carol Nguyen, a Vietnamese-Canadian filmmaker whose filmography often focuses on family, emotional silence, and cultural identity. Most of her films are well-received by the public and critically acclaimed, with No Crying receiving the “Jury Prize for Short Documentary” at South by Southwest, as well as becoming one of the official selections to be screened at the Toronto International Film Festival (TIFF) in 2019.

In the film, the main actors are also the director's real-life family.

The film comprises a series of interviews she conducted alone with her father, mother, and sister about their past and their relationship with other family members. Each of the individuals recalls harrowing memories about their loved ones: her mother expresses regret about not being able to be affectionate with her parents before they passed away, her father opens up about his pain of losing his brother to suicide, and her sister shares her lingering sadness about their grandparents’ passing, as well as her distant relationship with her parents. Aside from the interviews, several individual scenes of the family members doing mundane tasks, such as taking a bath or preparing dinner, are shown on screen, and the three only sit together in the final scene.

Behind the shoot at the titular dinner table.

What intrigued me even before I started watching the movie was its title, specifically how it perfectly alluded to one of this documentary’s most omnipresent themes, as stated by Carol Nguyen herself when discussing the movie on her website: the handling of grief. It can be expressed in many different ways, yet crying remains one of the most common manifestations. Meanwhile, the dinner table, where family members gather, is an ideal place for them to share different emotions, including grief. Nevertheless, No Crying highlights the emotional silence within the family that has built up over time and kept the family members absent from each other’s pain.

Grief itself is a peculiar feeling, a mixture of sadness and regret, existing in between the what-have-been-dones and what-could-have-beens; it can stay within us for a long time. Throughout No Crying, grief is explored through all three family members’ stories about their dead loved ones. Each of their stories, though different in context and content, has a similar sense of guilt and regret, a feeling that they could have done something, anything, for their loved ones before losing them forever. While the mother regrets not showing affection to her parents when they were still alive, the father summarizes his story with two words: “guilty forever.” The long-lasting weight of loss and grief is further emphasized in the sister’s story, where, even after years of her grandparents’ passing, she still cries whenever a random fragment of memory about them resurfaces in her mind, and she notes, “I guess you never stop mourning anyway…”

The father.

The sister.

The mother.

Not being able to share their grief with close ones because of generational distance is another level of pain that many families go through, which is observed in this short film. Distance and the unspoken pains this causes are especially evident in the film's non-interview scenes, where each family member, while carrying on with their daily tasks, hardly ever talks to each other. They keep their feelings to themselves, as if there is a huge wall that blocks their emotions and pain from being shown to one another. This distance is not only shown in scene, but its consequences are also underscored in the interviews, where both the mother and the father express regrets of not being closer to their loved ones before they passed or, more lightly, the sister’s early exposure to non-PG materials like the explicit sex scene in Titanic, partially due to her distance from her parents. Nguyen even notes that her family members’ grief and trauma hadn’t been communicated until the making of the documentary.

No Crying at the Dinner Table lived up to its title from the beginning to the middle, where all family members, when together, barely show their emotions on the dinner table. Yet, towards the end of the film, as they listen to each other’s individual interviews, the emotional barriers and distances between them gradually crumble when they hug each other in tears. This powerful moment, when they allow themselves to be vulnerable in front of others, to finally cry at the dinner table, dismantles the title's premise. Although the cycle of emotional distance in the director’s family is far from being fully broken, the documentary allows for a layer of understanding and empathy to develop in the family’s relationships, helping them be more comfortable talking about their hidden emotions and stories.

Carol Nguyen (sitting, second from left) and the crew behind the project.

Carol Nguyen not only tells a beautiful story about grief, generational trauma, and familial distance, but also creates a safe space for her own family to talk through their trauma and pain, thus kickstarting the journey to resolve their own inter-generational issues and wearing down the metaphorical wall between them in the end. Being part of this intimate family journey, even though only through our screens, undoubtedly made many of the film's audience members, including me, tear up. It made me rethink my relationship with my family, recognize their human fallibility, and try to view them through a more sympathetic lens, much like Nguyen’s family in the film. No Crying at the Dinner Table taught me that silence at the dinner table is never fully empty, but can mask a deep sense of grief, pain, isolation, and feelings left unsaid. I began to confront my silence after watching Nguyen’s family confront their own. Perhaps this could be a path that you can take, too, if you’re willing to give this simple yet nuanced documentary a try.

No Crying at the Dinner Table can be viewed in full on Vimeo. Watch the short film below.

Darkness fills the space and a flame fiercely burns on the large screen, while dim lights and floating fabric linger behind. Ngô Đình Bảo Châu transforms domestic and bodily forms into works that explore the interconnectedness between the human body and the surrounding environment within this evolving world — in between destruction and rebirth.

In this first-ever collaboration between Galerie Quynh and Gallery Medium, “projecting a thought” is a solo exhibition by Ngô Đình Bảo Châu and curated by Thái Hà, featuring a new body of work comprising video installation, sculptures, monumental fiber works and large-scale paintings. Taking place at TDX Ice Factory, the exhibition explores how the vastness of the world is reflected in the body, and how the body projects itself onto the world. The curatorial essay reads: “In an exhibition that wholly collapses the demarcations between the internal and external, the body emerges not as container but as assemblage, where ash, earth, and plant fibre co-constitute with human flesh a hybrid ecology, always in process, always in relation.”

Installation view of “projecting a thought” at TDX Ice Factory.

In ‘a burn’ (2024), a cardboard kitchen is set on fire. Spectators, whether through the camera lens or in person, can do nothing but witness its destruction. The flames slowly devour every block until the structure collapses into scattered embers under the pastel sky. The cardboard kitchen, originally created for Ngô Đình Bảo Châu’s solo exhibition “Towards Realist Socialization” at Galerie Quynh in 2020, was modeled after the Frankfurt Kitchen (1926) by Austrian architect Margarete Schütte-Lihotzky. Designed to reduce the burden of housework, it was celebrated as a symbol of progress. Yet beneath the guise of a “labor of love,” it reinforced women’s confinement to unpaid domestic labour and exploitation. The flames in the video may not express direct frustration towards the unfairness, but they carry a sense of liberation. Here, destruction feels necessary: what remains in the ruins gestures toward the possibility of renewal, even rebirth.

“a burn”, 2024. Video installation with sound. Duration: Until the last sunbeam retreats into silence.

Building on the exploration of destruction and renewal, ‘and the ashes become fireflies’ (2025) continues the dialogue between the debris and the world. The ruins of the burned kitchen are gathered and placed into motorized lightboxes set upon cracked soil. In this darkness, the ashes have not reached the end of their life but are given new vitality: fragments kept in constant motion by currents of air. Rather than remaining as ruins of the past, the artist revives them in the present — bright against the dark, still moving, still alive. They can always be reconstructed, remaining inseparable from the world.

‘and the ashes become fireflies,’ 2025. Ash collected from the burning of ‘Everything falls down, the flames go up – Twin Kitchens’ (cardboard box), glass, mica, LED light strip, PC cooling fan, foam beads, red clay, and electrical components. Dimensions variable.

If flames and ashes liberated bodies and all matters back into the earth with rebirth, then ‘organs of the infinite’ (2019) releases the body from its earlier tensions and allows it to reclaim itself. The work evokes a world of moss spread across fabric-skins, as though the cellular growth within our bodies — organs multiplying and clustering — has been projected onto vast textile surfaces. Made with trúc chỉ and materials such as paper pulp, silk, cornsilk, duckweed, and bamboo, the fabric-skins hang from the ceiling, floating and ascending freely. Light filters through their thin and vulnerable layers, transforming the fabric into skin and cells that are, according to the exhibition text, “no longer a protective barrier but a permeable, receptive one.”

‘organs of the infinite,’ in collaboration with Việt Nam Trúc Chỉ Art, 2019. Trucchigraphy on silk dimensions variable.

Moving from darkness into the light behind the curtains, a series of hyperbolic paintings gives viewers the sense of looking at the world through a telescope. Elements of the body and surrounding landscapes — both internal and external — gradually emerge as one moves through the space. Fragments merge: flames become buds of white flowers, ashes turn into petals or raindrops, the black sun absorbs everything, eyes and strands of DNA appear. Surreal imagery with distorted forms dominate the paintings and the viewer’s gaze, creating a dreamlike experience.

‘the eye that grows roots,’ 2025. Oil on canvas. 200 × 150 cm.

‘the stillness folds,’ 2025. Oil on canvas. 280 × 200 cm.

Time keeps passing, yet humans and our bodies remain, subject to decay and the possibility of rebirth. To experience the large-scale oil paintings, viewers can either walk around, slowly immersing themselves in the “universe” within the body and its perceptions, or remain at ‘eye of the moment’ (2025), a sculpture positioned at the center of the space surrounded by the paintings, to stay present and grounded.

(In the middle) ‘eye of the moment,’ 2025. HDF and polyurethane paint approx. Dimensions: 45 × Ø 600 cm.

There exists a powerful energy within the softness and fluidity of the works, yet, at the same time, it erupts fiercely like a flame, then calms into the dim glow of fireflies in the dark. The world is then magnified through cells on fabric-skin, then becomes surreal as the inner life existing within a human body merges with nature. From the decay and rebirth emerging in darkness, light gradually appears, and viewers find themselves in this vibrant “universe” interconnected within the body, the earth, and its elements. The body, as a living medium expressing its own perception, imagination and consciousness of what lies within and beyond, becomes a projection of the world — and the world, in turn, is a projection of the body itself.

Installation view of “projecting a thought” at TDX Ice Factory.

Photos courtesy of Galerie Quynh and Gallery Medium.

“Projecting a thought” by Ngô Đình Bảo Châu is now on view at TDX Ice Factory until September 10, 2025. More information on the exhibition and opening hours can be found on this Facebook page.

What are our memories made of?

If we were to imagine them in physical form, childhood memories might resemble the sturdy heart of aged timber or solid stone. Firm and enduring, they are the very core of who we are. Romantic affairs, on the other hand, feel more like soft skeins of yarn, comforting when they keep us warm, but will unravel just as easily if we let go.

What about the everyday, adult ones? What shapes do they take? Thin and brittle, they often slip away unnoticed. Yet, as fleeting as they are, these everyday memories form the quiet backdrop of our lives.

Life is delicate, like rice paper.

For Jamie, the designer behind strangevisuals, these little fragments are quintessential. They carry their own weight and deserve to be kept on materials as distinctive as the moments themselves.

At its heart, strangevisuals is Jamie’s personal archive of memories, expressed through postcards made from dó paper and rice paper. Each postcard features photographs she captures on a whim — snippets of daily routines or scenes from her travels. Through them, viewers may find themselves wandering a produce market, befriending stray cats and dogs, or squinting at quirky details of an old building.

Postcards made out of dó paper and rice paper.

The idea first took root when Jamie watched a documentary about dó paper. In it, the filmmaker lamented that this craft was no longer “in fashion,” too slow and labor-intensive to keep pace with mass production. But Jamie was struck by its meticulousness and layered depth, a quality that mirrored her own perception of the world — to appreciate the beauty of the quotidian means slowing down and watching closely to see that even the most mundane contains multitudes.

Dó paper became Jamie's material of slowness.

“I like to keep my memories on a medium […] of the right size to fit in the palm of my hand,” she explained. By coincidence, the standard postcard size, 15 x 10 cm, turned out to be the perfect fit. She also liked the word postcard itself, as to her, post suggested something that comes afterward, which felt perfectly in tune with the project’s spirit of tucking memories away to revisit later.

The front bears a photograph while the back leaves space for a note.

Jamie explained that many printers initially refused to collaborate because her chosen materials were incompatible with mass-production processes designed for plain white paper. So, drawing on her design background, she put her own printer to work and tinkered until she developed a usable method: “At the time, I didn’t know if I could pull it off, or if anyone would even buy them. If the plan fell apart, I would have been so upset. Luckily, it didn’t.”

After experimenting with dó paper, Jamie’s curiosity led her to rice paper. One evening over bún đậu, she thought to herself, why not try this?

The many rice sheets that Jamie put through trials.

Different kinds of materials revealed different qualities: dó paper absorbs ink deeply, making images soft and dreamlike, while rice paper’s glossy surface sharpens details, giving a film-esque aesthetic. One material acts like a mirror to the past, the other opens a window toward the future.

Each texture tells a story differently.

Strange materials cause strange mix-ups. A parcel of rice-paper postcards once stalled at customs. “Is it food?” they asked. Jamie had to sign a waiver promising it wasn’t edible. “Please don’t eat those prints,” she quipped. “They’ll just make you sick.”

Handle with care, and do not eat.

Unlike some other postcards, those of strangevisuals aren’t intended to commemorate anything special. Viewers can feel the spontaneity in every frame and sometimes pause to wonder: “Why photograph this?” or “Is there a hidden message here?” Jamie insists she simply lifts the camera and clicks without overthinking, “as a gesture of gratitude to the moment itself.” Whether the image is visually impressive or carries any meaning isn’t the point. What matters is that particular moment will never return. Soon, the afternoon sunray will change its path across the leaves. The cat will move into another languid pose. Beauty lies in impermanence, and that’s what strangevisuals exists for.

Jamie hopes strangevisuals will bring her to different lands and cultures, where she can continue collecting and experimenting with new materials, recording the world in its own peculiar rhythm. When asked if she could send a postcard to her younger self, she said: “I’d pick one where I’m laughing like an idiot and write nothing. Past Jamie, present Jamie, and future Jamie, we would all agree that life is wonderful.”

Chợ Lớn on dó paper.

Hà Nội on rice paper from Tây Ninh.

Phú Yên on dó paper.

Photos courtesy of strangevisuals.

Parallels by Vũ Đình Giang shocked me. While I refrain from spoiling its plot, allow me to share my experience when reading this novel, as translated by Khải Q. Nguyễn, to better explain how the book jolted me from expectations and why the experience provides a unique and valuable addition to the array of Vietnamese novels translated into English.

Parallels, originally published in Vietnamese in 2007 under the name Song Song, follows the lives of three homosexual men in an unnamed Vietnamese city. As established from the onset, it shifts focus between H, a relatively stable design firm employee; and G.g, his artist boyfriend, who seems disturbed from the beginning. A third character, Kan, who works with H, eventually enters to create a love triangle. Told via alternating perspectives interspersed with epistolary moments, the story flirts with surrealism before establishing reality as more frightening than any hallucination.

Cover of the Vietnamese original Song Song. Photo via Tiki.

Each of Parallels’ numbered chapters begins without establishing whose perspective is being offered, causing initial challenges in orienting oneself, particularly early in the book when reader tries to become acquainted with the characters and settings. Upon adjusting to this style, I could focus on what I believed to be a novel content to dwell on stylized depictions of the men’s mundane lives, augmented by articulations of emotional and psychological upheaval. About one-third of the way through, I sensed the book had settled into its final form where, absent a plot, the described moods, feelings, and ideas about art and life would constitute its gravity. The experience, I expected, would be a bit like how chapter 26 opens, with G.g opining: “People often complain that a year goes by too quickly. But for me, it often feels too long. Throughout the past year, there were no significant incidents or events. After work, I didn’t say goodbye to my colleagues; I just got on my motorcycle and left. After leaving any group of people, I immediately reverted to my original position, the position of an individual object. That rapid qualitative change was the result of a metaphysical needle being inserted into my body, draining the blood, and then pumping air in. I’d become an empty shell, a lifeless corpse, a hollow carcass. I’d be nothing but an empty nylon bag dragged along by the wind.”

An acrid strangeness fills the space where a plot could fit early in the book. H and G.g fritter away their time with bizarre games, including filling a basin with a putrid mixture of household goods and ingredients so as to drown the sun via its reflection. They paint mushroom caps so H’s co-workers think he is consuming poisonous fungi. They even discuss plans to murder an adopted puppy upon its first birthday while G.g repeatedly fantasizes about murder: “I didn’t feel guilty when I thought about killing him. I thought it was a beautiful idea, very poetic. Fly. Fly. Fly. I wanted to see how humans fly. I was waiting for a chance, and I would do it.”

Initially, I took these bouts of imagined violence as the angsty ramblings of poetic young adults, intoxicated by their macabre posturing. When G.g calls H in the middle of the night to announce that he is surrounded by wild wolves, H’s rational response assured me that there was a clear line between fantastic derangement and reality, and at least one of the characters knew which side we stood upon: “Do you think you’re lost in some wild forest? Listen to me, this is the city, and wolves can only come out of the Discovery Channel.”

However, soon the violence ramps up, and along with it, enough clarity to remove any uncertainties that could have cloaked terrific carnage in the surreal daydreams as had been suggested by a quote attributed to the puppy that comes before the first chapter: “Don’t rush to trust anyone, don’t try to find meaning in actions; maybe they’re simply a game, maybe it’s all the product of madness.” While I will leave it vague enough so as not to ruin a reading of it, the actions are in line with a grisly Hollywood movie that would need scenes trimmed before it could be screened at the local CGV.

Along with the violence, the novel’s approach to sexuality undergoes a radical shift in the second half of the book. At first, I was struck by how commonplace the homosexual lifestyles were presented, and found myself reflecting on how this reveals a normalizing of gay relationships in society. Love between men was referenced with the casual respect paid to any routine aspect of life. For example, early on H remarks off-handedly when describing G.g’s home: “So many times I’ve had to discard used condoms that G.g left under the bed, and I always had to have a tube of lubricant available, for G.g didn’t care.”

Somewhat rapidly, this changes, and the novel becomes filled with lurid details and graphic descriptions of BDSM. This particularly occurs as the characters share stories of their pasts, including Kan who recounts a lover who enjoyed being beaten:

“Kneeling, arms bent forwards at the elbows, he tilted his head upwards at an angle of about fifteen degrees. His thighs were wide apart. With that posture and his white, naked body, he looked like a frog with its skin peeled, patiently waiting for its prey.
The bait was the lashing of the whip.
The frog’s face deformed with each convulsion. Its mouth opened wide; its tongue was filled with foam, it groaned incessantly, and it soon reached the climax of its orgasm, sending a strong stream of semen onto the bed.”

While not interested in discerning morality, these depictions, which include a predatory relationship between a young, possibly underage man and a much older man who becomes his "adoptive father,” seem to relish in their potential to unsettle polite society.

Much like the transition from daydreamed violence to horrific bloodshed, this move from blasé depictions of sex lives to graphic retellings upended what I had assumed Parallels was at its core. These surprising shifts, I realized, are rather unique to Vietnamese literature translated into English. Many translated novels offer familiar narrative arcs that at least follow the rules they set out for themselves at the onset. While some such as Nguyễn Ngọc Tư's Water: A Chronicle, deviate from conventional storytelling techniques, plot structures and movements, relishing in intentional mystery and lack of closure, and others, including Thuận's Chinatown, refuse to meet reader’s expectations for tension and meaning, I have yet to read one that so flagrently upends the expectations it establishes.

Having finished the novel, I will return to the beginning, re-reading with awareness of where it ends and suspicion that the slippage of angst into mayhem should have been obvious, and I merely glossed over the hints. Or maybe I misunderstood the reality of the ending. And if either of these is true, it’s of little importance, because while the plot and its consequences, which are both legally profound and emotionally wrought, provided the tension that carried me through the book’s final half, it’s the unique style, voices, and heart-wrenching anecdotes that will remain with me. These are present from the very beginning.

In juicy, metaphor-rich prose, readers are gifted access to the complex interiors of complete individuals. It’s unclear which moments within these minds frightened me most; those when I heard echoes of myself, or recognized that the full spectrum of humanity contains individuals with diametrically opposing experiences and philosophies: “People thought I was simple, and a bit unstable. I didn’t give a fuck. Caring about what people thought was a waste of time. I had my own goals and principles. I lived for myself and because of myself; I did what was needed to meet what I aspired, demanded, worshipped. I knew I was selfish, but I was happy that way. I only cared about what I wanted, and I took up all its ramifications. Norms belonged to another paradigm that had nothing to do with me. I had my own universe, my own satellites, and I revolved around my own orbit.”

Under the shared heartbeat of “129BPM,” the dancers channeled their emotions through movement, navigating between individuality and collectivity both on and off stage. Extending beyond Vietnamese audiences, the piece has now been presented on an international platform at George Town Festival 2025 in Penang, Malaysia, marking a significant milestone for Vietnamese contemporary hip-hop performance on the international stage.

After two successful performance nights in Saigon and Hanoi, the performers of H2Q Dance Company brought “129BPM” — a contemporary hip-hop dance theater work — to George Town Festival 2025 (GTF 2025) in Penang, Malaysia. Originally titled as “129BPM: Động Phách Tách Kén” and co-produced with the Goethe-Institut Hồ Chí Minh City in 2024, the new touring production took place at the historic Dewan Sri Pinang theater from August 4 to 5 2025, presented and managed by MORUA, with travel sponsored by AirAsia and partial support from Đối South. Directed and choreographed by Bùi Ngọc Quân, the performance featured dancers Nguyễn Duy Thành, Lâm Duy Phương (Kim), Lương Thái Sơn (Sơn Lương), Nguyễn Ngọc (Mini Phantom), Bùi Quang Huy (Snoop Gee), Nguyễn Đỗ Quốc Khanh (Nega), and Vũ Tiến Thọ (Joong), alongside stage design by Mara-Madeleine Pieler, and live music by Tiny Giant (LinhHafornow and Tomes) and Nguyễn Đan Dương.

“129BPM” performance at Dewan Sri Pinang. Photos courtesy of George Town Festival.

The journey of “129BPM” to Penang began when Producer Red Nguyễn Hải Yến attended a forum for stage producers in Asia through GTF 2024, which highlighted the dialogue between heritage spaces and contemporary performance practices. Recognizing the potential of staging works in Penang’s historic buildings, old alleyways, and theaters — an atmosphere unique to the festival — she decided to submit the 129BPM project to the festival organizers, and received an official invitation to perform at the festival.

“129BPM refers not only to the rhythm of music, but it’s also a heartbeat — a palpitating heartbeat that shows our body in agitation, anxiety, as well as in thrill and fervor,” shared  Choreographer Assistant and Stage Manager Lyon Nguyễn. Setting against the backdrop of rapid social changes that Vietnamese youths are facing, this raises a central question on self-identity: “Who are we in the middle of these changes with regard to our past and heritage?” Using hip-hop dance as a shared “language,” performers from backgrounds came together to create a collective voice while maintaining their own uniqueness, and move under one beat of 129BPM.

“129BPM” performance at Dewan Sri Pinang. Photos courtesy of George Town Festival.

Hip-hop is often associated with dance battles, where dancers only have limited time to showcase their skills and charisma. However, “129BPM” shifted the audience’s focus to the raw emotions and vulnerability of dancers on stage, expressed with their strongest movements and synchronization with one another. Developed and performed over the span of 75 minutes, this work challenges the dancers’ endurance, physically and emotionally. Dancers are placed in conditions where they must let their inner feelings surface: from joy to pain, from happiness to sorrow. At the same time, this framework also opens up new opportunities for experimentation: expressing emotions through movements, and navigating between one’s self identity and collective creation. While audience reactions to “129BPM” are diverse in Vietnam, in Penang the response was especially vibrant, with the audience spontaneously joining the performers in a post-show cypher — a hip-hop term for the circle dancers form, taking turns stepping into the center to dance — which embodied the spirit of creating unity and shared rhythm across differences.

“129BPM” performance at Dewan Sri Pinang. Photos courtesy of George Town Festival.

“Puzzles” workshop, led by the performers under the guidance of Director and Choreographer Bùi Ngọc Quân and Lyon Nguyễn, took place a few days before the live performances. Designed as a guided jam session, it invited local participants to explore improvisation, physical storytelling, and collective rhythm. Extending beyond the collective work among the performers themselves, the workshop opened up to a wider community, bringing together participants from adolescent to 75 years old, both experienced dancers and beginners. More than just a workshop, it became a space for cultural exchange, interaction, also community building — the very spirit that 129BPM hoped to share.

“Puzzles” workshop in Penang, Malaysia (30 July 2025). Photos courtesy of Tilda61 Media.

Bùi Ngọc Quân, who returned to Vietnam after more than 25 years with Les Ballets C de la B in Belgium, “129BPM” did not look to direct references to Vietnamese heritage through sound or imagery. Instead, its identity emerges from the lived experience of being in Vietnam: working closely with the dancers, understanding their desires, and allowing individuality and creativity to shape the process. As he notes, the work carries a distinctly Vietnamese sensibility “because all of us are allowed to comfortably be Vietnamese.” This perspective highlights the significance not only of what appears on stage, but also of the collaborative process that unfolds behind the scenes.

Director and Choreographer Bùi Ngọc Quân at “Puzzles” workshop. Photo courtesy of Tilda61 Media.

All team members of 129BPM at George Town Festival 2025.

“For independent theater works without government funding or access to costly infrastructures for ticketed performances, participating in festivals has become a key strategy to sustain the life of the work, while also serving as an entry point to introduce new hip-hop performances and Vietnamese theater to the world,” Producer Red Nguyễn Hải Yến told Saigoneer in Vietnamese, when asked about the significance of presenting an independent Vietnamese piece on an festival stage to new audiences in a country with different social and political contexts. “Sustaining the practice of independent artist collectives plays an essential role in shaping and developing a nation’s theatrical landscape.”

“129BPM” performance at Dewan Sri Pinang. Photos courtesy of George Town Festival.

More information and recap of “129BPM” performance at George Town Festival 2025 (Penang, Malaysia) can be found here on this Facebook page.

In the mind of many Vietnamese readers, the name of writer Trần Dần has been inextricably linked with artistic experimentation and innovation. His poetic voice feels nothing like those of writers I learnt back in high school: there is something so different, refreshing and oddly contemporary about it. As I consider every page of his bulky posthumously published anthology Thơ (Poetry), I find his legacy remains inspirational even for contemporary readers — especially other young Vietnamese — on what it means to “be an artist.” This does not only entail one’s appreciation and production of Vietnamese art, but also their adoption of an artist’s mindset into daily life.

Good art confronts life in all its complexity and grittiness

Around 1954, Trần Dần joined the guerrilla forces to fight against the French in the Điện Biên Phủ battle, and was actively involved the artistic scene alongside his revolutionary peers. While they all adopted socialist realism as the ideological paradigm for their works, what set a writer like Trần Dần apart was his desire to confront the current affairs in all their complexity and grittiness.

Trần Dần as a young adult.

In comparison, most poets in this period still adhered to the lyricism of the sentimental pre-Điện Biên Phủ Thơ Mới (New Poetry) movement, and classical Vietnamese epics such as Truyện Kiều (The Tale of Kiều). Their depictions of battles were indirect at best, romanticized at worst, and mostly focused on uplifting, hard-working portrayals of a pastoral Vietnam, as opposed to the soldiers’ internal struggles. “Some people want poetry to be clear, enthusiastic, rosy, melodious,” Trần Dần wrote, “that is why, I instead want a kind of poetry where there’s the enthusiasm of teardrops, sweat, and crimson blood; the enthusiasm of dust, dirt sand, gunpowder, corpses, crematorium, [...]; the enthusiasm of disappointments, separations, disintegration, and failure. I want a dose of sweet medicine from earth’s most bitter and spicy tastes.”

A soldier unit carrying the flag “Quyết chiến, quyết thắng” as they seize Mường Thanh Bridge in 1954.

Soldiers rowing against the stream of Mã River in Thanh Hoá to deliver rice as part of their war effort during the Điện Biên Phủ battle.

This was extracted from Trần Dần – Ghi 1954-1960 (Trần Dần – Writes 1954-1960), a published compilation of the writer’s personal notes. He further added: “I love current affairs poetry, following closely the anticipations and worries of my Party, my fellow citizens, millions and millions of hearts of civilians and army, soldiers and cadres, leaders and populus.” As evaluated by critic Đỗ Lai Thuý, Trần Dần was highly against superficial and clichéd tellings of contemporary life. Instead, he championed honest observations that demonstrated deep empathy for flawed, human experiences. As sentimental as this might sound, Trần Dần’s works actually embraced ambivalence with an astute eye, and via a more impactful and innovative poetic voice than his contemporaries': this was what poetry of the new, revolutionary era should be — as envisioned by Trần Dần and many writers supporting Nhân Văn–Giai Phẩm.

Earlier publication of  “Đi! Đây Việt Bắc” under a different name, “Bài thơ Việt Bắc.”

Trần Dần — Ghi 1954-1960.

His epic-poetry collection Đi! Đây Việt Bắc! (Go! Here’s Việt Bắc!), wrote during a brief peaceful era regarding his Điện Biện Phủ’s experiences, exemplified such a spirit — as seen in an excerpt of chapter III:

The refrain “chung” employs togetherness to connote soldiers’ impoverished state — sharing mats, and even shirts; harsh life-risking conditions in battle, with its malaria-inflicting mosquitoes and deadly bombs. They are traumatic yet real experiences that the cultural zeitgeist would like to forget. However, togetherness also emphasizes the soldiers’ steadfast devotion to the cause amid the hardships. This goes to show Trần Dần’s ability to convey the soldiers’ complex experiences using the most succinct and impactful language, but also how encouraging socio-cultural amnesia risked erasing empathy and understanding towards the beauty that came along with and emerged from life’s ugliness.

Wounded soldiers at Điện Biên Phủ being taken care of.

Trần Dần ends the chapter with aplomb, finding new poetically interesting ways of using concepts “nợ” (debt) to convey the soldiers’ humility and gratefulness to everything, even if they were inanimate beings like the land, its flora and fauna, and of course, their fellow citizens:

As such, Đi! Đây Việt Bắc! demonstrated Trần Dần’s socialist realist spirit, but also his rebellious creativity: not just in the idiosyncratic yet apt imageries, but also in the enjambed lines of the stair-case poetic form that he learnt from Russian poet Mayakovsky, whose “poetic form-and-function revolution” practice resonated much with Trần Dần, infusing an accelerating dynamism to the work.

Russian Dadaist poet Vladimir Mayakovsky.

Unfortunately, despite the work’s merits in both craft and content, it didn’t come to light immediately: Trần Dần had been banned from publishing and served a brief jail sentence that was cut short by his suicide attempt. This was in part due to his involvement in Nhân Văn-Giai Phẩm, particularly his criticisms of ‘Việt Bắc,’ a poetry piece written on the same subject matter by Tố Hữu, his literary rival who oversaw the artistic activities at that time. He found Tố Hữu’s work, with its usage of traditional epic poetry’s register to focus on the region’s romantic beauty post-battle, had not dived deep enough into the soldiers’ perspectives, nor had it demonstrated new and strong employment of the Vietnamese language to convey so, thus lacking in power and zest necessary for a revolutionary poetic voice. It did not help that Trần Dần’s artistic approach meant he also decided to address the 1954 exodus of northerners in his poem ‘Nhất định thắng’ (Surefire Victory); this was the nail in the coffin to his literary career, alongside his decision to marry his wife Khuê, even as his peers disapproved because her relatives were among those who left to the south across the divided Vietnam.

Trần Dần (right) and his wife Ngọc Khuê (left).

Up until 1988, many public readers passionately stood by his works; he was even invited for literary talks with them in Huế, admitting: “I became very emotional because of the many direct and honest questions that were posed to me.” His contributions were ultimately formally recognized with a posthumous National Award for Arts and Literature in 2007.

Overall, Trần Dần’s incredible even if tumultuous, journey served as a bittersweet reminder of the difficult yet important endeavors of integrity and sensitivity in life. This wasn’t just a matter of making art, but also adopting in art-making the philosophy of being attuned to contemporary life’s undiscussed social aspects, neither by sugarcoating them nor being “a rebel without a cause.” Only by doing this can we inspire ourselves and others around us to critically reflect on our lives with honesty and acknowledgement.

Challenge yourself and the past, always — because you are alive.

If not for the Điện Biên Phủ Battle against the French, subsequent issues of Dạ Đài would have been produced. The magazine was established by 19-year-old Trần Dần and fellow poets of the Tượng Trưng (Symbolist) group, influenced by Symbolist poetry but also its following artisic movements, such as surrealism and Dadaism — hence the name “Dạ Đài.” “We’ve become tired with shallow poetry, chewing and referencing to death earthly sceneries, and worldly sentimentalism,” their Symbolist Manifesto declared, “we want to dive deep into extraneous bodies, into inner selves, and want to go further than heaven and earth.”

The front and back covers of Thơ.

Trần Dần had been a rebel ever since his formative years. Apart from Russian Dadaist Mayakovsky, in his interview with literary friends, Trần Dần named French Symbolist figures, such as Baudelaire and especially Rimbaud, as his early reads’ writers. This contrasted with the influences of his senior contemporaries, like Xuân Diệu or Thế Lữ, from Thơ Mới, taking cues from the Romanticism of Victor Hugo or Musset. They were thus deemed overly sentimental and melancholic by Trần Dần’s group, who sought to bring in a fresh poetry wave. 

Even as Tượng Trưng was disbanded, its manifesto remained in Trần Dần’s core belief. He was determined to break away from previous generations’ established conventions on what was considered acceptable or unacceptable subject matter and aesthetics. Therefore, apart from embracing the country’s multi-faceted current affairs in poetry, and as part of his “all-encompassing revolution” ideal, Trần Dần also tackled subject matters such as sexual liberation and individualism with the same intensity and avant-garde techniques that had since become his signature style, at a time when socialist realism was solely privileged. “I also love Non-Current-Affairs Poetry,” he explained. “Poetry that encompasses the country and time, Poetry that spills over all centuries, and Poetry that even enters the immense dialectic of things.” 

For instance, in ‘Đố ai chọc mắt các vì sao’ (Who here pierces the eyes of stars?), he combines quotidian images of the townscape and its flora (such as phố, mưa, lá, cành, nhà, and ngõ) with suggestive word choices (such as khoả thân, khe, toẻ, and xoạc) to create a surrealistic poetic tension:

By juxtaposing the two registers, he invites readers to reframe their perceptions of sexuality from something generally considered taboo into something deserving of normalization, for the presence of such terminologies prevailed among most mundane and natural phenomena. Using this technique, Trần Dần further espoused a world washed clean by the rain, returning to a primordial and arguably pure, “naked” state of being, with rules yet to be placed on it.

In fact, Trần Dần’s exploration is comparable to French philosopher Michel Foucault’s 1976 study The History of Sexuality. In it, Foucault argues that repressive moral values and pathologizing scientific frameworks both exist to control sexuality’s discourse in society. Similarly, many of Trần Dần’s writings frequently disrupt boundaries demarcating certain language uses as inappropriate, thus liberating our modes of expression from their preconceived definitions and social connotations. Furthermore, while Trần Dần is not the first Vietnamese writer to explore sexuality, the fact that such a topic was tackled in folk literature or Hồ Xuân Hương’s poems spoke to the timeless and ever-contemporary nature Trần Dần’s experimentations, especially considering how talks on sexuality have become even more open in contemporary artistic and daily realms.

Various drawings by Trần Dần.

Trần Dần also pushes himself further by exploring the individual’s place within society, playing with spelling rules and other “extended techniques” to visually position words on a page. This can be seen in this extract from ‘Con I’ (Unit I), whereby the letter “i” itself is the subject matter — a letter Trần Dần seemingly considers as the simplest sound particle, and basic visual symbol and building block:

According to researcher Nguyễn Thuỳ Dương, “i”’s shape is evocative of a human icon, thus representing an individual person; while I also find it interestingly resonant as the English first-person pronoun “I.” Just like how phonetically similar letters are replaced to produce idiosyncratic spellings (such as j replacing gi in “jới”), “i” morphed in and out of its upper and lower cases, trying out personas and placements in words, as if to find its belonging. “i” becomes part of words like “Đi” or “NGi”, often with deviating case and spelling rules, before joining the ever-present row of “i   i   i   i   i” that conjures sonically drone-like raindrops, or visually a line of humans, etc. — and the cycle continues.

Is Trần Dần trying to convey how the Self constantly fluctuated (and won’t settle: “KHÔNG i KHÔNG THÍC NGi”) between a larger homogenous society symbolized by the line-up of “i” figures, and imperfect even if individualistic cliques symbolized by the differently spelled words? In which case, Trần Dần argues against viewing the concept “us” as an equivocal singularity, and instead calls for the recognition of the individual “I”s that fosters a collective whole. Uncannily, this very conclusion is uttered a decade later in Lưu Quang Vũ’s play ‘Tôi và Chúng ta’ (I and We), in light of Vietnam’s tense zeitgeist towards adopting a socialist-oriented market economy that eventually led to Đổi Mới.

It is easy to dismiss any avant-garde experimentations as alienating and pointless art for others. Nevertheless, “all values of Truth, Kindness, and Beauty are difficult to understand — even artistic ice-skating is difficult to understand (!)” Trần Dần expressed. He added: “What’s known is a meaning, what’s not yet known is a word. What’s not known is deep and profound. Your recitation of a beautiful saying like Confucius’s is yet poetry, of a paradox like Lao-tsu’s is also yet poetry. To jump over your shadow is poetry. One’s yet to understand poetry, because they face difficulty jumping over their own shadow.” As such, Trần Dần’s decision to stretch his artistic practice in both form and function, using ways that challenge its pre-established aesthetic conventions, breaks new grounds for fellow Vietnamese on what our human experiences could look and feel like, and what subject matters art could and should address. 

In the same interview, Trần Dần commented on ca dao, an antecedent folk literary form: “That’s our national heritage, a teacher must place it at the same level as Nguyễn Du’s, or Cao Bá Quát’s. Must learn it to bury it.” Breaking rules and challenging predecessors were what Trần Dần called for, and he anticipated that the younger Vietnamese at that time would eventually rise to the challenge as well: “The younger generation? I’m still waiting and waiting. They were still being contained in the trap of regal literature. I’m anxiously waiting for the young cohort to gather enough strength, grow up, and bury us, just like how we have buried the pre-war generation.”

Trần Dần (second from left) and Trần Trọng Vũ (second from right) and friends.

It can be safe to say that Trần Dần would be pleasantly surprised to learn about the many independent writing communities in Vietnam nowdays. Even without systematic government support, they host spaces for young Vietnamese willing to experiment with the national language and critically engage with our contemporary experiences. Perhaps this is Trần Dần’s greatest hope for his readers: to live and love life like an artist, in ways that are even more passionate than whatever he had done.