Music & Art - Saigoneer

Memories and Heritage Considered Across Mediums at Dogma Prize Exhibition

2026-01-19T07:37:00+07:00

How can personal and collective memories – alongside questions of community and heritage – be explored through artistic practices that span different mediums and respond to changing times?

Entering its twelfth edition, the 2025 Dogma Prize Exhibition brings together nine artists from Vietnam, Laos and Cambodia: Hà Đào, Đỗ Văn Hoàng, Lê Tuấn Ry, Willie Xaiwouth, Hằng Hằng, Hul Kanha, Nguyễn Đức Tín, Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn, and Bi Tuyền. Organized by Dogma Collection, this year’s selection was made by a jury including artist Thảo Nguyên Phan, curator Bill Nguyễn, and art historian Pamela Corey – each of whom mentored three artists during the entire process leading up to the exhibition.

A makeshift shelter stands at the end of the corridor upon one’s arrival, where ocean sounds and market noises emerge. Inside the shelter, Đỗ Văn Hoàng’s short film The Tofu Maker’s Son blends fiction and documentary to recount his family’s history in Hong Kong refugee camps and his father’s life as an undocumented worker. Structured like a series of court sessions, with re-staged police raids and conversations with his father, the film unfolds as a confrontational dialogue between past and present, examines painful memories of family displacement, while also leaving space for remembrance and healing.

Đỗ Văn Hoàng. The Tofu Maker’s Son, 2025. Short film, 20 mins 55s. Film still courtesy of the artist (left). Đỗ Văn Hoàng. Water Spinach, Garlic, Chili, Coke (audio), 2023 (right).

Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn’s series on miniature sculptures of everyday forms – Untitled (Notes on romance and cities), incorporates a system of feedback and sonic circuity, where street sounds, and melancholic music play on loop, as the objects remain hidden within wooden boxes along Dogma’s signature architectural structure. The installation evokes the feeling of mini theaters, with shifting backdrops behind a miniature couple, armchairs on a spinning stage, or flashing LED lights. The miniature works form a world on their own where time is trapped in repetition, with an emerging quiet sense of nostalgia and loneliness.

Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn. Untitled (Notes on romance and cities) 1, 2025. Plywood, stain, reversed clock mechanic, toy traffic light, LED running name tag (left). Thuỷ Tiên Nguyễn. Untitled (Notes on romance and cities) 2, 2025. Plywood, stain, phone screen (right).

Inspired by Western modernist painting techniques, Bi Tuyền fuses them with Vietnamese domestic imagery and childhood nostalgia through her monochromatic painting Seven Green Beans. The absence of colors invites viewers to pause and pay attention to lights, shadows, and forms, with the artist asking: “Can black and white condense something essential?” Upon closer observation, one may notice the subtle traces of color beneath the monochromatic surface. Created amidst times of rapid cultural changes, the work resembles a moment of stillness – a reflection on what we choose to remember from the past as we move forward.

Bi Tuyền. Seven Green Beans, 2025. Acrylic on canvas.

Known for merging Catholic faith with Vietnamese traditional culture, Nguyễn Đức Tín’s Faith, features black mosquito nets with slits that partly reveal portraits of Our Lady of La Vang (Đức Mẹ La Vang) and the Christ Child, and Catholic martyrs between the 17th and 19th centuries. Their lives remain largely unknown, yet they upheld their faith despite tragic deaths. The layered mosquito nets represent concealed histories, memory, belief, and the passage of time. Alongside is the Heart series where viewers’ distorted reflection appears – where faith is reframed not solely for religious devotion, but for one’s purpose and inner strength.

Nguyễn Đức Tín. Faith, 2025. Watercolor, oil pastel, acrylic, mosquito net, canvas.

Spanning across three different levels in between the staircases, Willie Xaiwouth’s The Fading Breath of Forgotten Words presents script embroidered onto fabric, using bamboo flowers collected from his hometown Saiyabouli (Laos). Viewed from above, the Tai Tham script flows downwards along the fabric and slowly fades away. Belonging to the Tai Yuan people, descendants of the Lan Na Kingdom between the 13th and 18th centuries, now scattered across Laos and Thailand, Willie weaves together his own story and a fragile cultural legacy amidst changes of history and modern times.

Willie Xaiwouth. The Fading Breath of Forgotten Words, 2025. Handmade calico, bamboo flowers, Tai Yuan traditional skirts, cotton sewing threads.

In a reimagined alternative world, Hà Đào portrayed the notorious Hải Phòng female gangster Dung Hà as a transgender man wandering through the street like a ghostly figure in If Heaven Awaits. The work takes the form of a music video with 1990s Vietnamese aesthetics with Lam Trường’s ballad “Đêm Nay Anh Mơ Về Em”. Accompanied with the video work also features two laser-engraved crystal cubes, Castle I (Vũ Hoàng Dung’s Tomb) & Castle II (Đồ Sơn Casino), an empire that faded and now exists only in memory and imagination. Focusing on marginal lives, her works also resist and question mainstream narratives, stereotypes and social norms.

Hà Đào. If Heaven Awaits, 2024. Audio, video, 6 mins 39s. Castle I (Vũ Hoàng Dung’s Tomb) & Castle II (Đồ Sơn Casino), 2024 (left). Laser-engraved crystal cube, wooden stand, LED strip. Film still courtesy of the artist (right).

Unforgotten Land glows softly in a darkened space. Composed of hair stitched and pressed onto fabric by Hằng Hằng and her family, the work was created from a collective effort and speaks for family’s history and internal dynamics. The hair, gathered from her mother’s salon and the surrounding community, forms a surface resembling a fragile, scorched grassland. Each strand carries memories of war, conflicts, migration, yet also love and care. Through the material intimacy of hair, the work also reflects on what it means to collect, inherit, and carry historical legacies onward.

Hằng Hằng. Unforgotten Land, 2025. Hair, faux leather fabric.

Hul Kanha’s installation Plates of the Passed comprises fifty papier-mâché sculptures floating on thin poles across the space. Rendered with vibrant colours and childlike brushstrokes, the plates combine painted imagery, black-and-white photographs of childhood and family memories, sewn red threads, and gold paint. The brushstrokes and threads appear to hold cracks and lines together, while also evoking childhood trauma shaped by extreme hardship in rural Siem Reap. On these fragile surfaces, childhood memories are reworked through the artist’s adult perspective and personal recollection.

Hul Kanha. Plates of the Passed, 2025. Cycle paper, acrylic, sewing silk.

On the highest floor, Lê Tuấn Ry’s 18 Realms of Mound is placed behind a red curtain. Here, the visitors assume the role of spectators, activating a music box and observing a vertical row of CCTV screens that display a site-specific installation composed of old X-ray films of anonymous bodies – collected from clinics and hospitals and threaded together – located in an unknown, remote place. His work poses questions of surveillance and perception: "who is watching, who is being watched, and what becomes of that which slips outside the frame?"

Lê Tuấn Ry. 18 Realms of Mound, 2025. Old X-ray film, industrial safety pins, claw machine motors, car display screens, music boxes (installation block), water coconut fronds, charred wood, found steel base, aluminium profiles, asphalt, mother-of-pearl powder, red velvet curtains (screen block).

Dogma is a private collection and exhibition space dedicated to archival and contemporary art in and around Vietnam. Starting as a collection of revolutionary propaganda posters, the collection has since expanded into three interconnected programs: Collection, Research, and Prize. Now in its twelfth edition, the Dogma Prize has grown alongside Dogma Collection, evolving from an award focused on self-portraiture into a platform that celebrates the diversity of artistic practices across the region.

The 2025 Dogma Prize Exhibition is now on view at 27A Nguyễn Cừ, An Khánh Ward, Ho Chi Minh City until 28 February 2026.

Hanoi Indie Duo Limebócx Brings Tried-and-Trù Traditions to Young Ears

2026-01-08T11:00:00+07:00

A grazing buffalo, frolicking water puppets, mystifying tam cúc cards, an insolent maiden in áo tứ thân, a rustic meal around cái mâm. These are just a few standout visuals that will haunt your brain upon feasting your eyes on Limebócx’ debut music video ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay).’

Amidst bewildering characters and surreal segments that seem to have been spontaneously glued together in a chaotic fever dream, Tuấn and Chuối — the founding members of Hanoi indie duo Limebócx — appear as the only semblance of normalcy reassuring viewers that they’re watching a music video and not tripping balls. The pair first met through a jam session at the Rec Room community years ago, but only played music together during a music exchange program in South Korea, they told Whammy Bar in an interview. The founding of Limebócx started from an unknown mishmash of influences that didn’t fit in any particular genres but sounded relaxing when đàn tranh was added to the mix. Over time, the sight of a beatboxing Tuấn hunching over his trusty loop station and Chuối cranking out sultry bass licks or a đàn tranh solo would go on to become a beloved familiar image in the mind of fans starting from the duo’s debut in 2019.

In 2023, the renaissance of traditional Vietnamese elements in the local music landscape is so prevalent that you can’t walk two blocks in any metropolitan area without bumping into a fusion pop hit blasting from a bubble tea parlor or sidewalk coffee cart. Names like Hoàng Thùy Linh, Hòa Minzy, Văn Mai Hương, and K-ICM have all found success of varying degrees with new chart-topping tracks featuring facets of Vietnamese culture, from folk instruments like đàn nhị or đàn tranh to ancient literary classics. This appreciation for local flavors in mainstream pop productions has been bubbling away for half a decade or so, but is fully flourishing in 2023. Back in 2019, the release of Limebócx’ EP “Electrùnic” was the first time I saw zither and classical poetry having a place in such a contemporary, sleek and exciting context.

The cover of the extended play "Electrùnic."

Even with just a handful of songs, Electrùnic demonstrated a coherent creative vision that rose above the music landscape at the time. The debut extended play includes four tracks: ‘Yêu Nhau (Qua Cầu Gió Bay),’ the first to premiere, is based on the quan họ Bắc Ninh mainstay ‘Qua Cầu Gió Bay’; ‘Mục Hạ Vô Nhân’ and ‘Hồ Tây’ weave in poetry by 19^th-century literary powerhouse Nguyễn Khuyến; and ‘Chiều Trù Nhật’ takes inspiration from ca trù, another form of folk singing. Beatboxing, bass, echoing loops, and đàn tranh intermingle as the simmering base for Chuối’s deliciously viscous line delivery. It’s as if slam poetry has a dalliance with electronica during a quan họ performance.

Limebócx 2.0

Hà Đăng Tùng (left) and Lê Trang (right), the current roster of Limebócx.

Watching ‘Dung Họa,’ Limebócx’ latest single and music video released back in February, you might notice a new face in the member roster. Last year, Hanoi bid farewell to Tuấn as he embarked on a new academic journey in Australia, and the group welcomed a new member in the form of Hà Đăng Tùng, who brought his passion for electronic music into the tapestry of Limebócx. I met Tùng and Chuối for the first time via virtual call as they were drowned out by the cacophony of a random coffee shop in Hanoi. It was hard for me not to feel intimidated, as a self-proclaimed Limebócx groupie, to sit face-to-face with the people behind the songs that have accompanied me through numerous flights, night showers, and languorous Saturday nights lying on the floor feeling every beat.

My attempts to dispel the initial awkwardness with small-talk questions went about rather poorly, though many random things I’ve been wondering were answered. Chuối, meaning banana in Vietnamese, is the affectionate nickname of Lê Trang. As she was growing up, Trang’s father referred to her by a plethora of pet names depending on his mood, but only “Chuối” has stuck until now. Her favorite fruit? Not banana, but jackfruit. Is there a special story behind the band name? Nope, before a performance back in the early days, they were asked about the name of their act, so they fused together “chanh/lime” (đàn tranh) and “bócx” (beatbox). Limebócx was born and the rest is history.

Limebócx before a performance at the Temple of Literature in Hanoi.

The indie music scene in Hanoi was as small as can be and Tùng and Tuấn were already friends way back then, so it was a natural progression that Tùng stepped in to form Limebócx 2.0. “I was ‘coerced’ maybe three, four times [to join Limebócx]. After four, five nhậu sessions, I finally had to say yes,” Tùng tells me. “I already knew both of them. At the beginning, it was challenging as I didn’t know where to start, and the band already has an established image, so it was tough for me to fit in.”

Long-term followers of the independent music scene in Hanoi might already recognize the prolific “pedigree” of the members. Chuối was a segment of Hanoi quintet Gỗ Lim, iconic punk legends of the 2000s, and is currently the bassist for rock/metal group Windrunner. Also known as Đờ Tùng, Tùng studied Classical Guitar at the Vietnam National Academy of Music in Hanoi and is a member of several music entities, such as Bluemato, Phác Họa Xanh and Ngầm. Becoming a part of Limebócx, Tùng brought to the table a distinctive touch of electronic music, something that he has already been exploring in his personal endeavors, along with experimental and ambient sounds.

Not too cool for school

From nhậu mates to bandmates.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness. Making a world of percussive sounds using just one’s mouth movements, gliding easily between traditional and contemporary instruments, and smashing together east and west, old and new — none of these are easy feats for newbies. Cool, however, is not exactly the first adjective one would associate with many of Vietnam’s traditional performing art forms. Quan họ, ca trù, chèo, đờn ca tài tử, hò, tuồng, xòe, and many more, all have rich histories, involve meticulous techniques, and are shining examples showcasing the country’s profoundly diverse cultures, but one is more likely to catch them at tourist sites and academic television documentaries than in the minds of young Vietnamese. Nguyễn Khuyến, whose vịnh poems inspired a number of Limebócx songs, is a mainstay author in the national high school literature syllabus, and thus, tends to evoke memories of exam-related dread rather than a sense of fascination among youths. This is all to say that there isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

There isn’t an obvious bridge between classical poetry and electronic music, but somehow Limebócx managed to make schoolwork thrilling.

Much of the link to traditional influences came from Chuối, who credited her interest in reading and poetry to the literature lessons back in high school. “In high school, we are taught so many types of fiction and poetry. There were things I really hate, but there were things I thought were cool and resonated with me,” she reminisces. Nguyễn Khuyến is perhaps best known for a trio of poems revolving around autumn: ‘Thu Điếu’ (Autumn Fishing), ‘Thu Ẩm’ (Autumn Drinking) and ‘Thu Vịnh’ (On Autumn). “I like things like that, a bit of romanticism in there, like taking a walk, appreciating the flowers, sipping some rice wine,” Chuối adds.

No matter which version of Limebócx one’s observing, they always ooze an effortless wellspring of coolness.

In between verses of poetry, the music of Limebócx is truncated by metallic licks of đàn tranh, our version of 16-string zither and a major factor contributing to the duo’s unique fusion sounds. Chuối received an old đàn tranh as a gift, but found the traditional instrument too challenging, so she didn’t touch it for a long time. When she started making music with Tuấn during the early days of the band, she decided to give it another chance. The next era of Limebócx might or might not see the addition of guitar phím lõm in its soundscape, something that Tùng is experimenting with after he was given one by a friend. This six-string lute is the Vietnamese adaptation of the European guitar, albeit with scalloped neck spaces between frets; this modification was designed to produce the reverberating sound commonly heard in southern cải lương.

Finding a new balance for a new album

Following a few years of relative quietude, Limebócx confirms with me that they’re indeed working on the next record, an album that pays tribute to the band’s old self, in-transition self, and new self. There’s a sprinkle of throwbacks to the first extended play, but with more of Tùng’s input. There’s an exploration of Limebócx as a trio, as evidenced in the latest single ‘Dung Họa.’ And of course, there’s Limebócx 2.0, much of which we don’t know about yet, but the making of which is a process of experimentation that they enjoy. Long-time supporters will be able to find the traditional elements they know and love about the duo, but electronic music will play a bigger role than before, adding more weight to the new record.

The new direction will lean more towards electronic, Tùng's forte, while retaining the traditional references that fans know and love about the band.

“Tùng has been in the group for a year, but at the beginning, we were just trying to get to know each other,” Chuối says of the process of making new music. “For the new album, I want to ‘exploit’ this one [points to Tùng] as much as possible so that it will turn out to be something with a lot of his personality and voice too.”

“I hope it will turn out okay,” Tùng quips. “I think it’s quite dope when I listen to it, but I don’t know what people will think.”

Limebócx’ biggest wish ever since the band’s founding is to bring their music and more traditional Vietnamese materials to the international stage. For decades now, local music has struggled to find a footing in bigger arenas, but there are glimmers of a very Vietnamese identity that are starting to shine through — in projects by Hoàng Thùy Linh, Dzung, and Limebócx, for example. After decades of learning from developed industries, perhaps we’re finally at a point where we can grow what we learned into a unique and personal sound.

What’s Limebócx’ biggest dream?

Chuối: Perform with a symphonic orchestra. Or even better, a traditional orchestra.

Tùng: Glastonbury. [laughs]

Photos courtesy of Limebócx.

This article was originally published in 2023.

In His Research-Driven Artistic Practice, Quang deLam Maps History, Knowledge Together

2026-01-04T10:00:00+07:00

What if art functions as a visual form for transmitting knowledge and entangled histories, and the artist is a messenger between them and the audience?

With an academic background in image sciences and professional career in digital media, French-Vietnamese multidisciplinary artist Quang deLam (Quang Lam) works across photography, painting and installation. His artistic process is often research-driven, where he starts from looking into science, history and geography, and with archival materials playing a significant role. This approach is reflected throughout his works included in his first solo exhibition “Seas of Silk” (2025) at Lotus Gallery and in the group exhibition “Archive and Post-Archive” at Vincom Center for Contemporary Art (VCCA) as a part of Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025.

Quang deLam next to his work ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

His exploration of different materials and media is closely linked to his scientific background and inspired by Marshall McLuhan's well-known phrase, “The medium is the message,” from Understanding Media: The Extensions of Man (1964). McLuhan’s idea implies that the communication medium itself is the message, and the form of the message determines the way the message is perceived — which resonates strongly in Quang’s practice. He initially worked primarily with photography, a medium often associated with “conveying the truth,” but became interested in how the same knowledge can be perceived differently when “translated” onto different mediums. Through the re-composition of objects and forms, painting allows him to reorganize visual information and alter how the truth is constructed and perceived by the audience. Since 2022, this has marked a shift in his practice as he became fully engaged in art-making by expanding beyond photography into painting and installation, alongside his research on science and history.

Quang Lam's series of paintings and installations, recently presented in the solo exhibition “Seas of Silk” (2025) at Lotus Gallery, draws on the history of the maritime Silk Road, shipwrecked ceramics, ancient civilization, and their surrounding narratives. Developed through his research of maps and astrology, as a combination of different materials and historical references, the bodies of works invites viewers to consider the inter-relationship between these histories, the way we view histories that we had never lived in but could only imagine and find out through historical sources, with connections to our contemporary world.

Installation view of ‘Seas of silk’ (2025) at Lotus Gallery. Photo courtesy of the artist.

The central installation depicts a shipwreck scene with broken ceramic fragments scattered on the ground. The paintings incorporate representations of the silk road expeditions, using the Maokun map as a reference, alongside motifs drawn from shipwrecked ceramics from museum collections and transformed into iconography. In ‘Cocoon’ (2025) and ‘Pegasus cells’ (2025), the centrally placed cocoon shape references the process of silk production. Surrounding this are images of corals and motifs from Chu Đậu ceramics, such as the mythical pegasus, a bird on a tree branch, shrimps, and flowers — all rendered in iconographic forms in bright, vibrant colors and clean lines. While the compositions evoke a sense of collage and abstraction, this reveals the artist’s process: collecting images and artifacts, turning them into iconographic elements, and arranging them on the paintings.

‘Cocoon,’ 2025. 100 x 80cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist

‘Pegasus cells,’ 2025. 80 x 60cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

In other paintings, such as ‘Dancing with the storm’ (2025) and ‘Oc Eo Aurora’ (2025), the imagery shifts towards sea and mountainous terrains, depictions of the wind currents, and shipwreck scenes. One work depicts ships coming from afar, with silhouettes of ancient Oc Eo statues appearing across the horizon. The main reference behind these paintings is the historic Mao Kun map, also known as Zheng He’s Navigation Map, published in 1628 during China’s Ming dynasty. Originally created as a rollable strip map documenting coastal regions and islands along the maritime routes, it is considered to be the earliest known Chinese map on the maritime Silk Road connecting different parts of Asia, Persia, Arabia and East Africa. By adopting this Asian map as a reference, Quang intentionally moves away from the Eurocentric perspectives that have long dominated historical mapping and education.

‘Oc Eo Aurora,’ 2025. 80 x 100cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

‘Dancing with the storm,’ 2025. 80 x 100cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

For the artist, maps themselves function as a kind of “abstract” art, even though they were not originally created with artistic intention. Ancient navigators recorded mountains, rivers, and terrains encountered during their journey, where lived experiences are translated into a system of measurement. While maps are often discussed from a geographical and political perspective, they are rarely considered within the context of art. This perspective made Quang highlight the importance of scientific knowledge beyond how mainstream art history is often written, which tends to focus on stylistic development.

Beyond cartography, Quang deLam also researches astrology, the use of astrolabes and compasses, acknowledging that navigators in the past relied on the stars in the sky to navigate their way through darkness, whether on land or at sea. For him, one of the most fundamental ways to understand the world is through measurement: time measured by the clock, directions determined by the compass, and position in relation to the stars measured through the astrolabe. These systems explain the different layers of his artistic and research practices, as well as different materials, with the aim of creating works that embody a sense of time and space.

‘Made in Far-East,’ 2025. 80 x 80cm. Acrylic on canvas. Photo courtesy of the artist.

‘Astrolabs Saigon–Hanoi’ (2024) features an astrolabe-like structure, composed of large ruler forms positioned at the top, paired with die-cut plexiglass panels engraved with city maps. Beneath the plexiglass layer is a painted star chart, alongside archived letters with destinations written on the envelopes. According to the artist, the constellations depicted in the work are calculated according to the specific date on the letters, determining the positions of the stars at that moment. The letters contain names of senders and recipients from different locations, with postal stamps and sending and receiving dates, providing the basic geographic information of who, where and when. Collected by the artist, the letters themselves are artifacts representing lived histories of movement, measurement, and communication.

‘Astrolabs Hanoi–Saigon,’ 2024. 90 x 36cm. Inox, plexiglass, wood, paper, postcard. Photo courtesy of the artist.

Returning to photography with an emphasis on archival materials accumulated throughout the years, Quang deLam’s “Tales from the Land of Dragons” (2025) was recently featured in the large-scale group exhibition “Archive and Post-archive” (2025) at Vincom Center for Contemporary Art (VCCA), curated by Đỗ Tường Linh and Éline Gourgues, as part of the Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. The installation centers an index drawer surrounded by stacks of white boxes and books, with dragonfruits placed on top and inside the index drawer, and some in between the book stacks. These elements are connected by a dense network of electric wires and threads, with photography works of dragonfruits and books staged within old libraries on display in the background.

Installation view of ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

The work took inspiration from the Vietnamese origin myth “Con rồng cháu tiên,” which depicts the Vietnamese people as descendants born from 100 eggs laid by the dragon lord Lạc Long Quân and the fairy Âu Cơ; following their separation, 50 eggs were taken to the mountains while 50 returned to the ocean. In this installation, according to the exhibition text, the work “takes the fruits of the dragons [dragon fruits] as the symbol of the eggs, and along the various pictures combines with architectural and book elements to compose the timeline of contemporary Vietnam.” By linking this myth with the modern and contemporary Vietnamese history, which was marked by upheavals and violence, the work reflects on the shifting access to knowledge: from the colonial period, where it was largely restricted to a small number of intellectual elite, to the post-independence period when public libraries play an important role in making cultural resources and knowledge accessible to the public. The photography installation itself in this case represents an archive of knowledge and a timeline of cultural memory.

Installation view of ‘Tales from the Land of Dragons’ (2025) as a part of “Archive and Post-archive,” Biennale Photo Hanoi 2025. Photo courtesy of the artist.

As much of his practice centers on history and knowledge, Quang deLam employs archival materials and research to bridge science and art, while reflecting on the nature of knowledge itself, and the significant role of human consciousness. “Knowledge comes first, then our consciousness and then followed by our actions. If you have knowledge but without consciousness, there’s no meaning in your action. The same thing applies to art, where action needs to be guided,” Quang deLam shared with Saigoneer.

For the artist, art functions as a means of knowledge and a prophecy: it is not about his own self-expression, but about transmitting understanding to the viewer, positioning the artist as a messenger. In this increasingly complex world — where distinctions between what is real and what is fabricated are often blurred — he believes that art plays a vital role in cultivating awareness and critical engagement with new knowledge, rather than relying on inherited moral principles passed down through generations.

Photos courtesy of Quang deLam.

Euphoria, Ruin, Nostalgia: Tracing Hanoi's Changing Skyline by Its Soundtrack

2025-11-16T20:00:00+07:00

From loudspeakers broadcasting construction anthems during wartime to melancholic ballads mourning vanished street corners, Hanoi's soundtrack reveals a city that has never quite learned to live in its present tense.

Hanoi has become, in these last few years, a vast construction site. The city transforms rapidly — a metamorphosis most visible to those who've left and returned. After several years abroad, I began to understand the emotions of those who abandoned the city in 1954 to head south, or departed in the 1960s for Eastern Europe to build socialism in Berlin, Warsaw, Prague, and Sofia, while American bombs tore their beloved Hanoi apart. Skyscrapers now sprout from the skyline like mushrooms after rain, concrete rainforest replacing the greenery that once covered the metropolis's outskirts.

Hanoi's skyline. Photo via Wikimedia Commons.

The prevailing mood among young people responding to this rapid change is optimism. Like myself, many of my peers feel no astonishment when encountering pedestrian areas in North America, Europe, or, right nearby, in Singapore. In Vietnam's major cities like Hanoi, Hải Phòng and Saigon, you'll find the same malls, high-tech centers, and sprawling suburbs as anywhere in the west. Though perhaps you won't feel quite the same confidence when your plane descends into Shenzhen or Shanghai, where even westerners begin to suspect they're lagging in history's race.

“Socialism works, finally!” I hear this refrain from both my Canadian left-wing professors and Vietnamese orthodox Leninists populating Facebook comment sections. This excitement echoes the early years of socialist construction in the north during the 1960s and 1970s, when the Hanoi government received financial, material, and ideological support from the Soviet world to erect the first nhà tập thể — communal apartment blocks.

The euphoria of construction and how it outpaced reality

The brutalist nhà tập thể pales beside today's luxurious skyscrapers in Cầu Giấy, west of Hanoi. But when the country was caught between wars, these buildings symbolized socialist development, monuments to the glorious, ever-growing Vietnamese working class born of French colonialism and their fight for liberation. This achievement was celebrated in revolutionary songs broadcast through urban loudspeakers on every corner. In Phan Huỳnh Điểu's ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm’ (Night Stars), the windowpanes of nhà tập thể were compared to stars in the galaxy, illuminating Hanoi's sky:

Làn gió thơm hương đêm về quanh,
Khu nhà tôi mới cất xong chiều qua,
Tôi đứng trên tầng gác thật cao,
Nhìn ra chân trời xa xa.
Từ bao mái nhà đèn hoa sáng ngời,
Bầu trời thêm vào muôn ngàn sao sáng,
Tôi ngắm bao gia đình lửa ấm tình yêu,
Nghe máu trong tim hòa niềm vui, lâng lâng lời ca.

The fragrant night wind circles near,
Our new-built homes still gleam from yesterday.
I stand atop the highest floor,
My eyes drift far where sky and city fade.
From roof to roof, the lights bloom bright,
The heavens sparkle, joining every flame.
I watch each home, each heart’s warm fire,
And feel my blood flow into song—
A joy that carries me away.

Nhà tập thể, mimicking the style of khrushchyovka blocks in the Soviet Union, was under construction in Hanoi. Photo via Thanh Niên.

Phan Huỳnh Điểu, one of Vietnamese socialist realism's greatest names, wrote ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm’ in 1962–1963, while living in the communal house of the Vietnam Songwriters Union. His son, songwriter Phan Hồng Hà, recalled how the lights from the Kim Liên communal house, then in mid-construction, inspired Điểu when viewed from atop the union building. Born in Đà Nẵng and having built his early career in Quảng Ngãi, the revolutionary artist always looked southward, yearning to fight for it after moving to the north in 1955. He eventually returned to the south in 1964, serving as an artistic cadre spreading revolutionary spirit beyond the 17^th parallel. His longing, as expressed in ‘Những Ánh Sao Đêm,’ was finally fulfilled:

Em ơi, anh còn đi xây nhiều nhà khắp nơi,
Nhiều tổ ấm sống vui tình lứa đôi,
Lòng anh những thấy càng thương nhớ em.
Dù xa nhau trọn ngày đêm,
Anh càng yêu em càng hăng say,
Xây thêm nhà cao, cao mãi.

My love, I still must go and build new homes afar,
Where joyful couples share their life and dreams.
And in my heart, I find I miss you more.
Though day and night keep us apart,
The farther I go, the more I love you—
And build the houses higher, ever higher.

Revolutionary songs erupted at every corner of northern urban life, replacing what had been a “petit bourgeois” metropolis, as Phạm Tuyên sang in ‘Từ Một Ngã Tư Đường Phố’ (From a Street Corner). While red ideals' fate remained uncertain in the south, they occupied the highest position in northern hearts. Tuyên sang: “From a small street corner, I can already see the future coming near / In every figure, head held high, striding swiftly down the sidewalk.”

The metropolitan life of Hanoi, 1973. Photo via Bcdcnt.net

Written in 1971, ‘Từ Một Ngã Tư Đường Phố’ was more than Phạm Tuyên's artistic depiction of northern metropolitan life during the American War. Like a masterful conductor, he directed radicalized youth through song to move faster than history's natural pace:

Xây cuộc sống mới toàn dân gái trai vững vàng,
Nhịp đời cuộn nhanh nhanh như vượt trước bao thời gian.
Đường phố của ta vẫn đang còn hẹp,
Nhường bước thúc nhau đích xa cũng gần,
Tự hào đi trong tiếng kèn tiến quân vang ngân.

We build a new life—men and women, steadfast all,
Life's rhythm surges fast, as if outpacing time itself.
Our streets are still narrow, yet we make way for one another,
Urging each other on—our distant goal now feels so near,
Proudly we march to the echo of the trumpets calling us forward.

Phan Huỳnh Điểu dreamed of building the future while Phạm Tuyên urged youth to outpace the present. These imperatives revealed the revolutionaries' special relationship with time: they claimed to represent the future. Hoàng Vân's ‘Bài Ca Xây Dựng’ (The Song of Construction) became the anthem of this future as it would — and should — eventually materialize on Vietnamese, Chinese, and Eastern European soil. It captured the emotions of those who had just moved into newly constructed nhà tập thể. For Hoàng Vân, Hanoi's new urban setting promised a new life where new personhood would flourish.

This new life wouldn't remain localized to North Vietnam; it would spread globally with the working class's forward march through history. Vân sang proudly: “Tomorrow we set out once more / Toward new horizons waiting ahead,” followed by "Our hearts have merged in a common joy like rivers joining the boundless sea." Written in 1973, when northern victory seemed certain as American soldiers departed from the south, the song mentioned warfare only once, “[believing in the new life] in the smoke of bombs” but also “under the moonlight.” Public reception proved so enthusiastic that during the postwar period, it was performed repeatedly by socialist art's finest voices, like Ái Vân, throughout the European socialist world — just before its collapse.

‘Bài Ca Xây Dựng’ (1973), performed by Ái Vân in East Germany in 1981.

Yet these optimistic construction songs fundamentally mismatched their era's reality. While they excited people and helped them endure hardship, the actual situation differed drastically: American bombardments, urban populations fleeing to the countryside, extreme poverty, industrial failures, bureaucratic delays, so on and so forth. Construction projects stalled and showed degradation shortly after completion. Essentially, socialist construction became more psychological than material. These utopian songs held people together — especially urban dwellers who suffered most — rather than letting them fracture.

The rise of urban nostalgia

The 1970s' optimism evaporated as the country entered the 1980s, witnessing Soviet socialism's mass collapse and economic liberalization marked by the Communist Party's Sixth Congress in 1986 (Đổi Mới). Socialist optimism gave way to a newly emergent genre: urban nostalgia. The most famous example was Phú Quang's ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố’ (Darling, Hanoi Streets), an adaptation of Phan Vũ's poem of the same title.

What makes the song extraordinary is that poet Phan Vũ wrote the original in December 1972 during the US Air Force's Operation Linebacker II, which bombed Hanoi, hoping to pressure the north into cease-fire negotiations on terms acceptable to the United States. With its depressing, nostalgic tone, Vũ never published it, sharing it only with his intimate circle. He read it directly to Phú Quang in 1987, after the songwriter relocated to Saigon. Deeply moved by ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố,’ the composer selected 21 of 443 lines from the original work to craft Hanoi's new anthem.

Khâm Thiên street in Hanoi, after an American bombardment. Photo via Vietnam News International.

Rather than praising revolutionary symbols, ‘Em ơi Hà Nội Phố’ evoked a much older Hanoi — one that might have been condemned as “petit bourgeois” before Đổi Mới:

Ta còn em cây bàng mồ côi mùa đông.
Ta còn em, nóc phố mồ côi mùa đông, mảnh trăng mồ côi mùa đông.
Mùa đông năm ấy, tiếng dương cầm trong căn nhà đổ,
tan lễ chiều sao còn vọng tiếng chuông ngân

I still have you—the orphaned banyan in winter.
I still have you—the lonely rooftop in winter, the orphaned crescent moon in winter.
That winter, the piano sounded in the crumbling house,
And after the evening mass, the echo of the bell still lingered.

Phú Quang's melancholic masterpiece awakened a new aesthetic in Hanoi-inspired songs, including 'Cẩm Vân's ‘Hà Nội Mùa Vắng Những Cơn Mưa' (Hanoi Season Without Rain) and Trần Tiến's ‘Hà Nội Ngày Ấy’ (Hanoi of Those Days). These songs mourned not old socialist ideals but far older urban values — French colonial street scenes (especially the distinctive trees planted during that era), feudal myths (like Lê Thái Tổ's sacred sword), and traditional Hanoian customs overlooked during the socialist construction years. Consider these verses from Trần Tiến's ‘Hà Nội Ngày Ấy’:

Hà Nội giờ đã khác xưa
Kiếm thiêng vua hiền đã trả
Bạn bè giờ đã cách xa
Ngỡ như Hà Nội của ai?

Hanoi is changed from days gone by,
The holy sword of the wise king restored.
Friends have wandered to places far,
Whose Hanoi do I see before me now?

Hanoi, as depicted in urban nostalgic songs, was like Hanoi in Bùi Xuân Phái's painting. Photo via Kiệt Tác Nghệ Thuật.

Rather than celebrating post-Đổi Mới modernization and the country's opening to the wider world, Trần Tiến lamented lost Hanoian values. But he reached beyond recalling heroic days of resistance against invaders. He summoned remembrance of feudal Hanoi as Vietnam's cultural center. He mourned the old Hanoian elite who guided the city through both colonialism and revolution. Regardless of their politics, what mattered was their defense of Hanoi's metropolitan values, elements slowly vanishing under postmodern gentrification.

The nostalgia of Phú Quang, Cẩm Vân, and Trần Tiến wasn't simply a reaction to rapid urban development during both the 1970s and the contemporary era of economic liberalism. It responded to the promise of building a dreamworld during wars, revolutions, and hardship, which was fulfilled mentally but not materially. For so long, Hanoi's spirit resided in the future while actual life remained trapped in the past. People endured the pain and trauma of American bombs and radical social revolution while being told to feel perpetually optimistic. They never inhabited their present.

What will tomorrow's nostalgia look like?

Now that urban modernization has actually been accomplished, at the cost of demolishing old socialist icons like communal houses, what will future Hanoi generations remember and feel nostalgic about? In the early days of the 2010s, people expressed nostalgia for the subsidy era when life was simpler, governed by socialist morality and modest infrastructure. But it seems a wealthier, more dynamic life is now winning Hanoi's heart.

Perhaps this is the cruel logic of Hanoi's emotional architecture: we are always living in someone else's future, always mourning someone else's present. The revolutionaries of the 1960s and 1970s sang of futures they would never inhabit, building dreams in melody while American bombs destroyed stone and mortar. Their children learned to miss a past they were forbidden to mourn at the time. And now, as glass towers replace concrete blocks, as luxury malls erase subsidy-era markets, we're constructing yet another promised land that today's youth will someday lament when it, too, becomes obsolete.

In front of Đông Kinh Nghĩa Thục Square, 1973. Photo via Vietnam News Agency.

What makes this cycle particularly poignant is that each generation believes its present will finally be the one that lasts, the one that fulfills all previous promises. The socialists thought their communal houses would stand as monuments to a permanent revolution. The nostalgists of the 1980s believed they were preserving something eternal about Hanoi's soul. Today's developers and their young, cosmopolitan customers imagine they're building a modern city that will endure.

But if history teaches us anything, it's that Hanoi will continue to transform, and each transformation will feel like both progress and loss.

Nguyễn Đức Tín Weaves Spirituality, Faith, Everyday Life Altogether in His Paintings

2025-10-29T11:00:00+07:00

Can a painting reflect who we are, even if we can’t see ourselves thoroughly? And how does faith guide us forward in life?

Based in Hồ Chí Minh City, Nguyễn Đức Tín is a multidisciplinary artist whose practice spans painting, mixed media, and conceptual installation. In recent years, he has become well-known for incorporating mosquito net (vải mùng) into his paintings, while his latest works also experiment with a wide range of materials, including canvas, dó paper, colored acrylic board, and stainless steel. His most recent solo exhibitions include “DUCTIN” at Lotus Gallery (2025) and “Under The Sun II: Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024) at Sun Life Flagship - De La Sól (2024). He also participated in group exhibitions such as “Thanh Kiều Art–Culture Exhibition” (2025) at Hải An Bookstore, Hanoi Grapevine Selection (2024), Ồ Ạt – Oh Art (2024–2025), 2T (2022), and international programs such as the India Art Camp (2023).

His recent works reveal not only technical experimentation with different choice of materials, but also how faith has been the main driving force throughout his artistic journey. His works uphold dialogues between faith and everyday life, which is inspired by his very own Catholic upbringing and his deep engagement with Vietnamese traditional culture.

After graduating from the HCMC University of Fine Arts, Nguyễn Đức Tín spent another few years expanding his cultural and spiritual studies in Australia and the Philippines. His work often draws from traditional Vietnamese aesthetics, theology, and social reflection, interweaving memory, myth, and modern life. When preparing for a new exhibition, he usually starts by establishing a central theme, then spends time researching and gathering materials.

For instance, in “Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024), he focused on the everyday objects that he grew up with, mainly mosquito net (mùng) and the mat (chiếu) and explored their connection to Vietnamese culture, such as children’s games and afternoon naps. For “DUCTIN” (2025), the inspiration came from a trip to Hanoi as he saw the collective housing blocks there as a miniature society, where people share common spaces but each has their own story: someone with authority — kings and officials in his paintings, the talkative person, the quiet introspective one, the inner demon within each individual, or the person who is punished among others.

“The Lady of Faith” (back), 2025. 40 x 100, 40 x 70 cm, 40 x 60 cm (set of 5 panels). Plexiglass, fabric, glass paint and acrylic. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

“The Lady of Faith” (Nữ Vương Đức Tin), created in 2025 and including a set of five two-sided panels that evoke both Catholic stained glass and the form of a hanging screen door, features Catholic figures such as Mother Mary intertwined with elements rooted in Vietnamese folk tales — characters, myths, and spiritual motifs, such as the phoenix and the parasol tree (cây ngô đồng). According to the artist, the rose symbolizes the joy and gentleness that Mother Mary brings to humanity, while the parasol tree, in Vietnamese culture, represents a virtuous and kind person ready to welcome holy figures. It also reflects Mary’s gentle and humble character, as she receives God with the words “xin vâng.”

The integration between his Catholic faith and Vietnamese traditional culture emerged naturally in Tín’s works. During his time in monastic life, he studied a lot of philosophy and theology, while Vietnamese culture was something he explored personally. When working with theological materials, mainly Catholic, that knowledge sank deeply into his subconscious. Prior to “Mùng Trời Chiếu Đất” (2024), he had not painted much about Vietnamese culture, and it was during this project that the fusion began to emerge. By reading the Bible and other Catholic texts alongside a rediscovery of tradition, he gradually found a connection between the two.

“The Lady of Faith” (front), 2025. 40 x 100, 40 x 70 cm, 40 x 60 cm (set of 5 panels). Plexiglass, fabric, glass paint and acrylic. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

To Tín, each artwork represents a human being, which explains the complexity of materials used in his works. In the “Heart” (Tâm) series (2025), each material represents each part of a human: craft paper and canvas stand for the bones, clear orange acrylic board embodies muscles, mosquito net fabric resembles human skin, die-cut mirror acrylic represents the soul. This series of orange-hued paintings shows human beings in different stages of emotions against the backdrop of Vietnamese folklore. In each painting, there’s always one human being depicted with a mirror-like material above the mosquito net fabric, prompting viewers to see their own distorted reflection. In this way, the audience does more than observe the artwork; they encounter a version of themselves, confronting the inescapable complexity of their own humanity.

Heart 5 (Tâm 5), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 2 (Tâm 2), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 11 (Tâm 12), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel and color pencil.

Heart 12 (Tâm 12), 2025. 80 x 60 cm. Dó paper, plexiglass, fabric, stainless steel, oil pastel, and color pencil.

Mosquito net is commonly known as a household material, and probably the last material that one can think of when it comes to making a painting, as it gets torn easily and can be stretched more than regular canvas or silk. To work with this material, the artist needed to go through many different trials and errors, and eventually mastered the art of painting on such fragile material. This new experiment and artistic direction began in 2022, when the artist went through financial difficulties, and his mother gave him a bag of fabric, including mosquito nets. He made use of what was available and often added an extra layer of material underneath when painting. Over time, he has learned to adapt and create with whatever he could find, even using photographic gel filters or plastic bags if needed.

Details of “Heart” (2025).

Regarding his choice of stainless steel instead of real mirrors in his works, Tín shared that mirrors oxidize quickly, and eventually, stainless steel became a material that aligns with the themes and messages in his work. Unlike a perfect mirror, stainless steel is not completely reflective, but only offers a distorted and blurry glimpse, symbolizing how we can never fully understand our inner selves. The moments we look into a mirror are when we’re most self-aware, yet the reflection of our soul is something that not everyone, sometimes not even ourselves, can truly see through.

Details of “Serenity 1“ (Thanh tịnh 1), 2025. 60 x 40 cm (set of 2 panels). Glass paint and acrylic on dó paper and plexiglass. Installation view at Lotus Gallery.

“Having faith in oneself is already a form of progress,” Tín told me. When viewers encounter his works, one of the first impressions is often a strong sense of faith — a core element that has naturally been part of his creative process since the beginning, shaped by his upbringing. Yet in his practice, faith does not have to be tied to any particular religion, as it can be about anything that gives a person strength, purpose, and a reason to exist in the present moment.

There were times when he felt uncertain about the future, and maintaining a main job for stable income also meant that the time left for painting was limited, but it was precisely this discipline that allowed him to keep creating. Rather than being paralyzed by doubt or overthinking, he pushed himself to paint consistently and set deadlines to stay on track. This self-discipline is deeply rooted in his faith, providing him with the strength and commitment to continue pursuing his artistic path.

Inspirations from Nguyễn Đức Tín’s studio.
Left: Lights reflected through layers of acrylic board gave inspiration to the “Heart” series.
Right: Shadows and reflections.

In the near future, Tín hopes to explore new facets of Vietnamese everyday life and culture, including subjects like motorbikes, while experimenting with different materials such as lacquer, and researching more on church stained-glass paintings.

Photos courtesy of Nguyễn Đức Tín.

The Multiverse Behind the 1990s Classic 'Người Tình Mùa Đông' by Như Quỳnh

2025-10-17T11:00:00+07:00

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.

In Hội An, Artist Nguyễn Quốc Dân Breathes New Life Into Scrap Materials

2025-10-12T11:00:00+07:00

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.

What Shipwrecks Can Teach Us About Vietnam's Centuries-Old Maritime History

2025-10-05T21:00:00+07:00

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.

Local Designers Create Entire Family of Mascots for Vietnam's 63 Provinces, Cities

2025-09-29T10:00:00+07:00

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:

Wartime Sketches, Stamps, Typography Transcending Time in ‘Collection+’

2025-09-17T16:00:00+07:00

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.