The rich, bluesy ‘Tại vắng anh,’ written by Tuấn Khanh, was performed by Carol Kim this past November at Saigon Jazz Revival's inaugural concert in New Orleans. 

A heart-wrenching rumination on lost love as captured via birds that forget how to sing, the track benifits from Carol Kim's textured voice and aching saxophone solos by Amari Ansari. It was released by Saigon Jazz Revival, a project dedicated to reviving Vietnam's lost jazz era while fusing old Saigon style with contemporary New Orleans, connecting Vietnamese and diasporic music lovers through shared appreciation of sonic legacies.

At the November show in New Orleans when the video was filmed. Photos by by Kim Ha.

“A lot of recordings from before 1975 have disappeared or are hard to find. Coming across them is like a portal into history. The musical influences in Saigon at that time created these tracks that have this very unique multi-cultural energy that's so similar to what contemporary music in New Orleans feels like,” explains director and project-founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

‘Tại vắng anh’ performed by Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim. Video via Saigon Jazz Revival YouTube.

‘Tại vắng anh’ is the second track to be released from the Carol Kim concert after her rendition of Phạm Đình Chương's ‘Đón xuân.’ Of that work, Hill explains, “I heard Carol Kim’s song ‘Đón xuân’ for the first time, and I had this wild emotional reaction to it! This song was recorded in Saigon in 1971, which is in every way a traditional New Orleans jazz song and a Vietnamese tune about Tết and spring all in one song. With a whole Latin breakdown section in the middle. So cool!”

Saigon Jazz Revival founder Marion Hoàng Ngọc Hill.

Hill's discovery of that song while working on a film, surrounded by her jazz musician friends, eventually led to Saigon Jazz Revival and Carol Kim being brought to New Orleans for the show. Kim is also scheduled for an August 29 show in Chicago. Meanwhile, artists including đàn tranh musician Brian Bui and vocalist Đồng Lan will be coming to hold summer workshops. Further on the horizon, the group aims to release a full album of original music in 2028 with a variety of performances along the way.

Photos courtesy of Saigon Jazz Revival.

In recent years, CÚT LỘN has cemented themselves as one of the most recognizable hardcore punk bands to emerge from the Vietnamese underground scene.

Photo by Cá koi lang thang (@cakoilangthang)

Propelled by electrifying performances and an ability to constantly reinvent themselves, CÚT LỘN continues to develop an increasingly radical sound throughout a fairly long career, especially when considered in contrast to the relative youth of the scene. “Dzữa,” their latest album, is steeped in a noise-driven physicality infused with raw energy tinged with a poetic sensibility that marks a shift away from the trash-inspired experimentation that initially defined them. Breaking away from the spirit of their early days, when they embraced a messy aesthetic that didn’t take itself too seriously, they have refined a more direct sound that emphasizes sincerity and a sharp awareness of the world around them, rather than the aggressive, hyper-masculinity so often found in the genre’s canonical imagery. This approach reflects a generation of young people who are seeking emancipation not only through alternative forms of expression but also by creating imaginaries that break free from the stereotypical constraints that could stifle the underground scene itself. I met with the band ahead of their European tour to discuss, amongst other things, their artistic evolution, their perspective on the Saigon music scene, and how touring around the world has broadened their horizons

Quang Sọt (far right) and Sergey (in back). Photo by Martin Kong.

Quang Sọt and Sergey are the two founding members still active in the band they formed in Hanoi in 2018. Quang Sọt is the lead guitarist, while Sergey took up the drums out of necessity. “To be honest I just was very annoyed that I could not find a good drummer for my band,” he noted.

They were joined by Nguyên Lê on bass, who was then working as a sound engineer for concert venues in Hanoi. Nguyên Lê responded as a joke to an online ad from the band, which was looking for a bassist at the time, but ended up joining the band permanently and hasn't left since. In 2021, they moved to Saigon, but it wasn’t until 2024 that Vui Qá, the current lead singer, finally joined the band. He, who at the time had no experience as a frontman, caught the rest of the band’s attention by taking the stage, grabbing the mic, and performing ‘Graffiti Song’ in such a memorable way that there was no hesitation in making him a permanent member of the lineup. The band’s spontaneity is thus evident even in how they’ve integrated members as they’ve evolved, demonstrating their intuition even in recruitment. This approach seems to have paid off, as they now consider their lineup to be solid and unchanging.

Quang Sọt in action. Photo by @saxichuongduong.

In their beginning days, CÚT LỘN stood out for their performances and music videos, in which they wore Pikachu costumes. The group played up a silly, unserious image that quickly set them apart from other bands. As they matured, the group shifted direction, taking themselves more seriously and embracing complex emotions that could no longer be reflected through the symbol of the juvenile mask, which, moreover, gets unbearably hot during live performances.

“We had so much fun in the first like five years when we were playing crossover trash midi hardcore but then we felt like we reached a point that firstly the Pikachu costume doesn’t fit the band anymore,” Nguyên Lê explains.

This decision to abandon the disguise allowed them to grow out of a style they had come to find limiting and to explore new creative territories.

The Pikachu era. Photo courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

As they mature, their music grows increasingly dark, and the album concepts — always centered around the image of the egg — reflect this transformation. While the band’s name reflects the embryonic nature of the group at the time of its creation (cút lộn is a fertilized quail egg), the title of their second album, “Bắc Thảo” (century egg) reflects a sound that has darkened over time and gained a more intense flavor.

The allegory of the egg is carried forward in the title of their latest album, “Dzữa,” which is intended to reflect a shift stemming not only from their increased maturity but also from their perception of the world around them. The album’s sound aims to reflect an era of crisis, where culture, the economic system, and politics seem to be falling apart. Hence, the image of the trứng dzữa, an egg that is nearly rotten but still edible and whose interior is in a state of decay and parts of which are shattered, mirrors the universe poetically described through the lyrics written by Vui Qá.

The album, which is particularly refined, was nonetheless a painful process for the band members, who were heavily occupied with other commitments at the time. From this constraint emerged a creative process in which the members worked in layers. One of them would arrive with an initial demo, after which the rest would come together to add new touches one by one and reorient the song’s emotion as they went along. Thus, if the first draft was a block of raw aggression, the second musical layer would seek to bring more poetry to the song, and so on, adding complexity to music they were determined not to let become dull and monochromatic.

Once the instrumental part was finished, the musicians would get Vui Qá and take him to Bomb’s place — a key sound engineer and true pillar of the local hardcore scene — so he could start writing lyrics, and then they’d doze off while he began recording his vocals. This piecemeal modus operandi is also reflected in their visuals, the music video for the title ‘Cà Phê Sáng’ was created exclusively from concert footage filmed on a camcorder by videographer Vinatapes, who then glitched the footage to achieve a look that captures the spirit of decay they convey in their music.

Cà Phê Sáng (Official VHS Video). Video via CÚT LỘN's YouTube.

Although firmly rooted in the local scene, the band aspires to expand its reach internationally and has already toured East and Southeast Asia, including Thailand, South Korea, the Philippines, Malaysia, Cambodia, China, etc. Countering anticipated cultural differences, these trips have instead allowed them to anchor themselves in the crossover nature of an international community whose values transcend borders, and the encounters made during these trips have comforted them in sharing common anti-establishment core values with their peers.

“For this kind of community, I think it is the same everywhere. Every tour feels like we met friends, because this spirit is international.” Vui Qá says.

While the tours entail significant expenses, the group is able to offset these sometimes substantial investments through the sale of merchandise, wherein they can expand their creative expression not only via clothing but also through unusual items like a hot sauce bearing the band’s image, which, incidentally, was delicious.

The band's hot sauce Cayvailon. Image courtesy of CÚT LỘN.

Experiencing major scenes abroad allows them a newfound perspective on the state of the Saigon punk scene, which they have observed evolve since its inception. They are pleased to see that in recent years, the number of bands has increased dramatically, accompanied by an ever-growing audience. This development is part of a broader trend of expanding subcultures in Saigon, which often interact with one another due to the still-small size of these circles — a permeability that is part of the charm of Saigon’s underground scene.

But young people’s growing interest in these alternative forms of expression is hampered by the economic difficulties and pressure faced by clubs and concert venues, which have been closing one by one in recent years, foreshadowing a period of struggle in the years ahead. While the DIY tradition fosters solidarity within the community — particularly through the sharing of equipment — CÚT LỘN laments the lack of access to quality venues and sound systems, revealing the significant strain on Saigon’s music venues.

CÚT LỘN at a live gig. Photo by Martin Kong.

At the time of writing, CÚT LỘN is getting ready to embark on a European tour. They are profoundly grateful for the opportunity to travel to so many countries and reach such a milestone, and the response to the tour announcement has been overwhelmingly positive, revealing a level of enthusiasm from an international audience that the band itself hadn’t anticipated. But, beyond the apparent glamor, a tour like this is extremely exhausting for an independent act, and Quang Sọt — the only driver with an international license — will be handling the tour van in addition to performing at every show, sometimes playing back-to-back dates in different countries for five days straight. He adds nuance to the positive reactions received following the tour announcement, clarifying that he doesn’t want to use it as a way to “show off,” and above all, doesn’t want CÚT LỘN to be reduced to being one of the few Vietnamese artists to have pulled off a large-scale tour in Europe. For him, this tour comes at a time when the entire band is fully convinced of their artistic prowess, and traveling represents an opportunity to connect with new audiences and share their musicianship around the world.

“We really know where we are. We know where our music is. We want to share it,” he summarizes.

CÚT LỘN's European tour poster.

“Remember to write that we’re nerds!” Vui Qá tells me as we’re concluding our interview. Indeed, CÚT LỘN’s approach to being hardcore resides in the attitude of not trying to act according to the tough tropes usually found in these genres, preferring to appear as true as they are. They want to walk in front in the audience with a genuine attitude, embracing their individual offstage personalities. It is this feature that sets their performances apart from the conventions of hardcore punk. While some bands focus on perfecting their attitude and stage presence, the members of CÚT LỘN are primarily concerned with having fun on stage and delivering a nerve-racking performance, increasingly blurring the line between themselves and their audience. Their style is noisy and distorted, and raw energy is their main focus, as that is what remains fundamental to them, far beyond the lyrics or even the compositions. Their motto is that they have nothing to prove on stage, no matter how nerdy they look, and that’s what gives them such a unique and poignant presence. I believe this is what it means to be a punk in the current era: embracing being cute while maintaining a sincere approach without trying to perform another persona. And this approach proves to be infectious and liberating in a context where opportunities for cathartic expression are becoming scarce.

“If you happen to pass by Huỳnh Mẫn Đạt Street in Hồ Chí Minh City
There’s a strange bar with a Mekong theme
Where cải lương is performed every Saturday, a piece of our hometown heritage
Beside the show, you’ll have a chat with Đờn Ca Đó Đây troupe
A Mekong corner in the middle of skyscrapers”

This intriguing invitation appeared on my social media, a whimsical suggestion in the middle of Saigon. As someone who grew up to the sounds of Mekong Delta folk melodies, I was immediately curious of the promise of a đờn ca tài tử experience inside a city bar. Upon doing more research, I learned that the venue was just one of many spontaneous stages of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, a collective of young Vietnamese who found one another in their quest to promote the beauty of southern đờn ca tài tử arts in the mid of Saigon.

From random encounters to a borderless space for đờn ca

As a performance art form, southern đờn ca tài tử has been around for over a hundred years. This genre of folk performance had its start in the ceremonial orchestral music from Huế — which originated from court music itself — but under the influence of folk music in the south. At first, it followed musicians and artists from the central region as they emigrated to the south, and then was adapted to the local culture. Đờn ca tài tử reflects the sentiments, spirits, and living circumstances of communities living in this new land of natural resources. The end of the 19th century was the apex of đờn ca tài tử, when melodies, compositions, and techniques were created and systematized in documentations, becoming a comprehensive wealth of folk art that has continued to exist alongside southern Vietnamese.

A đờn ca tài tử troupe in Saigon in 1911. Photo via Wikipedia.

I managed to arrange a phone call with Đỗ Thanh Phong, the leader of Đờn Ca Đó Đây, on an afternoon when I was visiting my hometown in the delta. I sat on the deck in the back of our homestead, with a placid river and thickets of swaying mangroves in front of my eyes, as I listened to Phong’s stories. Our conversation flowed in and out amid the rustling breeze and memories of a đờn ca lover living in Saigon. These contrasting settings somehow meet in the middle, where these melodies ring.

Members of Đờn Ca Đó Đây.

Although Phong is quite busy handling tasks at his own office job, he still channels as much effort as he can to sustain folk arts. Phong himself can play đàn tranh, or Vietnamese zither, on a novice level, and is tasked with connecting collective members, envisioning group directions, and helping to maintain cohesion without losing freedom.

True to its name, Đờn Ca Đó Đây was born of impromptu performances.

Phong reminisced about the early days at Lê Văn Tám Park in Saigon, where they first convened to play together: “Back in the days, we often met at the park. Right in between busy streets and crazy traffic, there was one corner where the mood turned contemplative thanks to the music and vocals. A few instruments and a few music lovers can carve out a very distinctive space for art.”

A practice session at a cafe.

From such rustic setups, Đờn Ca Đó Đây gradually took shape. Members come from different walks of life: a teacher, a worker, an engineer, a student, etc. Albeit not professionally trained, they all share a passion for đờn ca tài tử and cải lương. The collective found one another first via social media, and then started organizing offline meetings from the beginning of 2025 at the park. In March 2025, the group became more organized and began performing at casual venues like eateries, schools, exhibitions, and especially bars, bringing a novel experience to listeners.

A show by Đờn Ca Đó Đây at Hai Tô Bar.

Many key members of the group’s current roster were recruited from chance encounters. Phong recalls: “I got to know one of them when he was just in 11th grade in Đồng Tháp, via his practice videos on TikTok. We started chatting about instruments. When he moved to the city for college, he asked to meet me. When we met, I recognized his musical talent straight away, so I connected him with other members. Since then, he’s been in charge as our music expert, establishing the musical identity of the group, in addition to musical arrangement and editing our content.”

Another member who works as a teacher for his day job can make use of his pedagogy skills to facilitate the group’s school outreach programs. He is tasked with writing the script, planning the content, and executing it in a way that’s accessible and educational so the knowledge can reach the school children.

Promoting the art of đờn ca tài tử to the younger generation at their school.

Right from the name Đờn Ca Đó Đây, the collective is very clear about their operation philosophy. It can be loosely translated as “performing here and there,” reflecting the group’s “nomadic” nature. They can perform at a range of different venues and not just on stage, for anyone who is interested enough to listen and connect. Music then, can transcend the confines of a one-way performance to be a two-way interaction. The performers and the spectators are brought closer.

A contemporary language to chronicle an age-old art form

Đờn ca tài tử was not an intentional destination ifor many collective members, but it managed to find them again by evoking their childhood memories, such as the quiet evenings watching TV with their family members or festive gatherings at the village temple. Even without professional music training, these formative experiences have fostered a fondness for đờn ca tài tử within them. During the lockdowns of the COVID-19 pandemic, when everything came to a standstill, some found time to explore this connection deeper and transition from merely consuming to learning, practicing, and even creating.

Regarding đờn ca tài tử, they are aware that the art form’s biggest barrier is the public’s stigma. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương are usually thought of as sentimental, obsolete, and inapproachable. Nonetheless, they believe that these are not inherent to the music, but could be the result of the execution and communication, so they try to present đờn ca using a language of the modern society. The performance content is adjusted to reflect more familiar social issues like career pressures, urban ailments, and the mental state of young people. The execution is also refreshed to fit each venue and its audience.

During interaction sessions, even audience members can join in.

The performances at local bars have been especially acclaimed for their high interactivity. Each night is written separately, so actors can improvise their script to fit the particular bar.

Besides, the group has been writing new lyrics based on traditional melodies like lý so they depict the contemporary state of southern provinces. These compositions showcase the cultural, geographical, and social shifts today while retaining the structure and spirit of the original version. Phong showed me a paragraph lionizing VĨnh Long after the national province merger, set to the tune of ‘Lý Đêm Trăng’:

In another video, Phong gives an example of how the group interacted with the audience, via these news lyrics sung in the tune of ‘Lý Chim Xanh”:

Connecting a community of đờn ca enthusiasts

Sustaining an independent folk music troupe is not a cakewalk. Phong explains: “Where to perform and interact with the audience is the biggest struggle. Official venues don’t prioritize grassroots performers, so our activities are often spontaneous and fully independent. Besides, the older generations are still quite wary of our new approach to this old art form.”

A performance at the “Thanh Kiều” exhibition.

Despite the hurdles, the positive reception from Saigoneers is a crucial factor motivating Đờn Ca Đó Đây. Phong proudly tells me about a woman in Đồng Tháp who messaged to gift them sets of brown áo bà ba to boost the authenticity of the performances.

After sharing the clips online, another fan sent over a pack of southern checkered scarves. Not long after, someone else donated more colorful áo ba ba so the group “don’t look so monotonous.” And just like that, clothing items like áo dài, khăn đóng started arriving from across the country to keep their morale high.

Phong also met a Việt Kiều visiting from years abroad at a performance, which moved him to tears, and invited them overseas to participate in cultural exchange programs. On the other hand, right at rustic venues like in public parks, many older uncles and aunties would stop by to listen to music and tear up seeing young people being in touch with folk music.

Through every time they perform, Đờn Ca Đó Đây has learned that the true value behind their music is not dependent on how it’s performed but whether it’s performed with sincerity and if it can bring people together. Đờn ca tài tử and cải lương will continue to exist in any space in the future if that spirit is treasured and sustained.

While phasing in and out of sleep on a coach in the Mekong Delta, have you ever been jolted awake by the bouncing beats of a Vinahouse version of ‘Quê em mùa nước lũ’ (Flooding Season in My Hometown)? Or, a mindless TikTok scroll would bring up the catchy tune of ‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ (Pass Me the Sewing Needle) that’s trending nationwide.

As an emerging genre, miền Tây remix has seeped everywhere in our daily life, from nhậu spots to wedding receptions, from street karaoke to social media charts. The thunderous bass is accompanied by a dulcet vocalist crooning about the colorful life along the Mekong Delta and making everyone curious about the southern way of life. How has miền Tây remix managed to charm even segments of the society that are usually indifferent to it?

Image via YouTube channel Miền Tây Remix.

Miền Tây, but not remixed, yet

Đờn ca tài tử is perhaps the most recognized art form to come out of the rich musical landscape of the Mekong Delta through history. The genre attracts listeners thanks to its layered instrumentation and distinctive singing style. Musical instruments like đàn kìm, đàn cò, đàn tranh and đàn bầu often accompany đờn ca tài tử performances using the pentatonic scale (hò xự xang xê cống).

It’s also important to note that, right from its early days, đờn ca tài tử has never been confined to stuffy amphitheaters, but was born right at drinking sessions and fields huts after fieldwork was done. The fundamentals of southern music have always been rooted in the community, its core principles forged on kinship and human connection. This festive spirit helps propel the traditional sounds of the south right into today’s entertainment sensibilities.

Đờn ca tài tử is a major part of music culture in the south. Photo via TTX Vietnam.

Remix never dies

Southern Vietnamese are notoriously convivial, and this conviviality means that they often do not care for the distinction between old and new. Music in the south is born for the party table, so when the time requires it to evolve to be more energetic, đờn ca and its traditional peers will rise to the occasion via different evolutions. The miền Tây remix trend stems from this need to electronify southern tunes.

Riding the wave of electronic music, countryside DJs started to reshape folk melodies into upbeat remixes that are familiar yet livelier to satisfy the need for club bangers. A melodramatic and tragic cải lương classic like Võ Đông Sơ - Bạch Thu Hà even got remixed three times.

Miền Tây remix is specifically created for festive, rambunctious occasions, especially wedding parties or Tết gatherings. In the Mekong region, weddings are major milestones that can stretch for two or three days of revelry, feasting, dancing, and singing by the newlyweds, their families and guests. Unsuspecting visitors during these periods might be easily swept up by the “tornado of hospitality” distinctive to miền Tây. Southerners are welcoming by nature, but with a little alcohol in their system, everybody becomes family in their eyes. Anyone who’s been to a Mekong wedding, be it Vietnamese from other regions or foreign travelers, would leave with perhaps some of the strangest memories of their life, ones that are filled with miền Tây remix earworms that are both folksy and high-energy.

Most remix songs are characterized by a fast-paced, repetitive beat and straightforward lyrics that are easy to learn, guess and follow along — especially engineered so the crowd can get into the mood and sing along as quickly as possible. The climax is the most anticipated moment, when everyone holds their breaths for a few seconds before exploding in cheer when the beat drops, despite not knowing how the music will transform. Critics are usually leery of miền Tây remix because of its formulaic recipe, which is not an unfair assessment, but that is by design.

Miền Tây remixes are often criticized as lacking creativity due to their repetitive beats, overused melodies, and cliched themes, but those attributes help the songs stay simple and easy to memorize so they can appeal to the narrow common denominator of the mass. If one can put aside the need for artistic merits, it might be easier to accept that these musical formulae are very effective tools to connect people, thereby helping the songs achieve their human-centered mission.

A musical identity rooted in marrying and drinking

Knowing the music taste of miền Tây listeners, songwriters often focus on the theme of relationships in the lyrics, such as weddings, watching an old flame marry a new lover, or pulling an all-nighter boozing with the squad. Regardless of the topic, the melody must be catchy, lest the remixer steal one’s thunder by attracting more attention with a banger makeover.’

Nhậu, romance, and weddings are the content pillars of miền Tây remix. Image via YouTube channel AC Media and G5R Remix.

Some examples of romance-forward narratives include ‘Muốn cua anh làm bồ’ (I want to woo you) by Dương Ái Vy: “Nè gật đầu cho suôn, sang năm mình làm đám cưới luôn / Hey just give me a nod upfront, next year we’ll wed at once.” In ‘Rồi tới luôn’ (Take the next step) by Nal, the courting is even bolder: “Em ơi em ở đâu anh mang trầu cau qua anh rước dâu luôn / Baby where are you, I’ll bring the trầu cau over to ask for your hand.” Phát Hồ is even more eager to get hitched in ‘Yêu là cưới’ (To love is to marry): “Yêu là cưới trên dưới hai là làm sui, rượu bia chơi láng chín tháng mười ngày có cục cưng nuôi / To love is to marry. Our parents will be in-laws. When the drinks flow freely, nine months are all it takes for a baby.”

In a different context, the genre shifts to fully celebrate booze and nhậu culture, like in ‘Hết sảy miền Tây’ (Miền Tây the GOAT) by Tracy Thảo My: “Anh cứ nhậu thoải mái, có xỉn em vào thay / Baby just drink to your heart’s content, once you’re down I’ll take your place.” This track’s bright spot is how it incorporates traditional cải lương tunes to accompany tongue-in-cheek lyrics that stay true to the youthful spirits of today. ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk again) by Võ Lê Mi, on the other hand, playfully features “hic” sounds in the production to emulate the comical hiccups of drunkenness.

Each of the above-mentioned hits amasses anything from several to dozens of millions of views on YouTube, proof of their catchiness and virality. For sure, these impressive figures are impossible to achieve without the contributions of the constant streaming of barber shops, lunchtime meals beside a mug of sweet tea, boisterous feasts, and the playlist of children of the Mekong bringing their hometowns’ favorite tunes to Saigon.

Reinforcing the southern identity visually

Besides employing familiar southern folk music and lyrical narratives, miền Tây-style electronic also lionizes the region’s cultural identity via visual language, especially in the music videos accompanying the songs.

While the original video usually tells the story via a skit, such as ‘Lại say nữa rồi’ (Drunk Again), the remixed version will opt for a different direction.

In the remix, Võ Lê Mi decided to take her music as close as possible to its real-life application by re-enacting an entire Mekong-style wedding. The bride wears a festive gown and gold bracelets all across her arms while dancing her heart out on stage with a mug of beer. This would not be a foreign sight if you’ve been to any wedding party in miền Tây.

If a wedding scene is not the first choice, then it would definitely be a countryside landscape, complete with elements often seen in rural Mekong, such as straw mounds and bamboo thickets. In Tracy Thảo My’s music video, such tranquil scenes play background to her hip sways and hand gestures.

In conclusion, both the music and visual sides of miền Tây remix closely follow the people’s everyday culture, be it well-recognized landscapes or energetic wedding parties — with the added dance moves from clubs and discos.

From the southwest to the world

Miền Tây electronic doesn’t need a coat of glamorizing paint to exist today. The genre finds inspiration in the familiar sounds from the past and reshapes them into simple, straightforward remixes so accessible that anybody can vibe to them, even if it is their first listen. Over time, these tunes have transcended the boundaries of matrimonies or family feasts to infect streaming services and the general public.

When a female DJ known for her hip-hop work wants to fire up a set especially curated to spotlight Mekong wedding culture, she would proudly invest in a bà ba pajamas set, checkered scarves, and golden bracelets, just to complete the visuals often associated with a southern party.

The rising popularity of miền Tây remix is best demonstrated in TikTok’s trendy dance challenges, where new music can spread at the speed of sound. Once a 15-second chorus goes viral thanks to a famous creator’s video, countless others would join in. Thanks to its inherently catchy melodies, miền Tây remix is welcoming to everyone. From edgy rappers to showbiz darlings, I’ve seen many instances where social media users dance to songs that seemingly do not match their vibes.

‘Lấy cây kim may đồ’ is a miền Tây remix track that went viral on TikTok. Video via TikTok user @thuanzilo.

The most interesting phenomenon for me when it comes to the social impacts of miền Tây remix is how a friend once admitted to me that she really needs miền Tây electronic to… focus on her homework. “I can only focus with this upbeat kind of music. It hits hard but also is kind of monotonous, making me feel awake,” she said. Perhaps this could be an untapped potential for miền Tây music, a brand-new kind of white noise to help young Vietnamese focus?

Tattoo Therapist, dr.99hz, cd.cadao, goc.viet, Solarist and Baby Nepotism: listing the artists that call Th.ink Room home feels like shouting out the members of a rap clique. Indeed, tattoo artists, more than any other visual artists, are akin to rappers in their use of pseudonyms, so to employ a common hip-hop refrain, Saigoneer became interested in Th.ink Room because “game recognize game.”

Like Saigoneer, the studio, or “art hub for art lovers from all over the world” as they describe it, is dedicated to gathering inspiration from Vietnamese architecture, design motifs, flora, fauna, and history; preserving traditional artwork; telling stories about and through niche passions and forefronting creative expression, united by, as Phi (@tattoo.therapist) puts it, “the ethos of an ever-curious observer, and an ever-diligent maker.”

For such a permanent end result, tattooing too frequently involves an impulsive or careless process and experience. Phi founded Th.ink Room in 2023 to actively work against both, emphasizing, “we care about the whole experience, starting from your connection to the tattoo you are getting and its origins to your artist to how you feel after you leave.”  

Phi (tattoo.therapist) and their designs.

I experienced the studio’s thoughtful approach first-hand last year after seeking out Phi’s detailed black line work. Having grown up in Russia, they were heavily influenced by Europe's golden age of illustration (circa 1880s–1930s). With that inspiration in mind, they developed their signature style while studying art in the UK, but upon graduation, they encountered a market that had little interest in it; clients had moved from print books to websites and wanted color and full images without backgrounds and/or animation. Fortuitously timed requests from friends for tattoo designs introduced the possibility of becoming a tattoo artist. 

Golden age of illustration examples: ‘Then There Came a Wind So Strong that it Blew Off Curdken's Hat’ by Jennie Harbour (left) and ‘Reigning Death’ by Robert Montenegro (right).

During that visit, Phi explained the carefully curated design of the District 1 space. Situated in a classic, low-slung residential block partially repurposed for commercial use, the lobby’s raw clay color calls to mind pottery and the shaping of inspiration into tactile ideas. Clients then proceed to the stark red interior room, where those ideas are metaphorically fired and become permanent. The back garden — where artists and clients hang out before, during, and after sessions — meanwhile, embodies the calm and welcoming vibe that transcends the space. Tattoo artists, with their impressive talent in an art form that, despite increasing mainstream acceptance, continues to carry a hint of rebellion or danger, can be intimidating, but everyone at Th.ink Room is a sweetheart, which contributes to an effortlessly relaxed vibe.

The Th.ink Room lobby and studio space.

So much work; that's Vietnam

A man catching a dragonfly in a tree, a physician checking for a pulse, a hand-pulled wedding procession, a rural notice-board demanding “commit no nuisance,” and 15 types of shoes: these are amongst the thousands of woodblock images produced by 19^th-century French ethnographer Henri Oger and his local team. Saigoneer had written about the work several years ago and recently noticed selected images appearing on Th.ink Room’s Instagram page as available tattoos. 

Original Henri Oger images (top) and Vũ's (@goc.viet) tattoo designs (bottom).

“This is what started it all. I really liked it and was like, who did this?” Phi noted while showing some Oger illustrations that they had come across in an artwork anthology. Inspired to find more, they sought out a tattered copy of his work at a local book shop. “Actually, I nerd it out so hard on this,” Phi said while flipping through illustrations. “Look at that guy, he's wonderful!” they continued while pointing to one of the images and explaining how the single slim volume contained hundreds of illustrations and thus inspiration “So much work; this is just Vietnam,” they concluded. 

Some of the books kept at Th.ink Room.

While online resources help the Th.ink Room team explore their interests and sources of inspiration that range far beyond Vietnam, when it comes to local topics, antique shops have been a part of their process since the beginning. “We used to drive Trần Nhân Tôn Street, which is an antique street, and they have books there as well. We'd look through things that we thought would make good tattoos, and it sort of became a tradition,” Phi explained of early field trips with Trung (@dr.99hz).

Designs and final work by Trung (@dr.99hz).

Those books now get handed over to Vũ (@goc.viet), a young artist whom Phi had mentored at the studio. “I have materials available from books, and I take designs out of them to make tattoos. I research the contexts: which time period they belong to and how the characters are drawn,” Vũ explained of the works he makes and shares on the Instagram account goc.viet, a name that he explained as “here ‘goc’ means both ‘perspective/corner’ and ‘roots/origin,’ so that people will know who we are — we are people born here and we are Vietnamese. And most of the designs I explore are from within Vietnam, even just a certain corner of Vietnam is fine.”

Vũ at work.

Works by Oger and his team, those collected by Nguyễn Thị Thu Hòa, various unfortunately uncredited drawings, such as ones in the margins of revolutionary South Vietnam: the Struggle newspapers from the 1960s and 1970s, or classic Đông Hồ prints — all require alterations to become suitable tattoo designs. Because of their age and printing methods, details are often lost, so Vũ needs to research the image’s purpose, background, and the conventions of the time it was produced to fill in details such as facial expressions and hand positions while making adjustments for line widths to suit the tattoo medium. Within the laborious examination of what to adjust and how, there is also room to include some personal touches. For example, I had requested a portion of the classic Thầy Đồ Cóc (toad teacher) đông hồ and Vũ adjusted its skin texture while Phi advocated for it to have a bigger butt and more impressive steam coming off the tea kettle. Comparing the original and the finished tattoo makes the final product feel like both a matter of preservation and a conversation between artists across time. 

Example of full Thầy Đồ Cóc đông hồ and Vũ's completed tattoo.

More than simply creating works that he hopes will attract customers, Vũ’s recycling of past artists is a matter of pride. “I am Vietnamese, so when I see those images, they remind me of the things my grandparents or parents told me — things I had only heard about before. But today, seeing them in these books, I find them very interesting, yet no one had [made tattoos from them] before. This style of imagery has also been around for a very long time, but no one has developed it further; people just let it be forgotten. Over time, I want to convey it and let everyone know more about the activities of Vietnamese people in the past; these are things that will remain and continue to exist.”

Vũ's designs based on collected đông hồ illustrations.

In addition to his goc.viet account, Vũ operates the vznary account where he posts original artwork that shares some resemblance to his archival pieces but also allows him to explore other impulses. Th.ink Room considers it important to differentiate between tattoo artists (nghệ sĩ xăm) who design original pieces and tattoo technicians (thợ xăm) who execute already existent designs, while emphasizing that one is not better or more valuable than the other, and they both require mastery of different, difficult skills. 

Sample issue of South Vietnam in Struggle newspaper (left) and Vũ's tattoo designs based on the periodical (right).

When using outside images, technicians must be extremely careful, though. Phi has noticed that many in Vietnam and abroad are eager to follow trends and fads and will thus steal ideas and exact designs from living artists who are still around and able to make a living from creations that are incontestably theirs. Not only is such behavior unethical, it's also unneeded. “Here lies an enormous, beautiful graveyard of past illustrators and printmakers whose work is brilliant but lost. Many of these can be reworked into tattoos as a humble nod to our past masters, giving them a second life in a world that is getting further and further away from print,” they conclude. In such instances, the Th.ink Room team makes every effort to provide citations, including source, date, and artist when possible, that they include on their Instagram and share with the clients along with assurance they will never repeat the design on anyone else. Of course, this material cannot be included in the tattoo itself, and thus it’s up to each individual to share the story behind their ink.

Finding inspiration for styles vast yet distinct 

Ngọc feeds goats, the team hangs out in the zoo, Vũ holds a flower, and Trang imitates a statue in Tao Đàn Park.

Fostering warm, memorable experiences, a core mission of Th.ink Room, requires members of the team to genuinely like and appreciate one another, a truth attested to by how frequently they gather outside of the studio. “We spend days together,” Phi said of their routine field trips. “We sit in the same space, but are drawn to different things in those spaces and the different textures.”

Examples of photos the team sends one another.

In addition to these trips to the park, the zoo, interesting buildings, and corners of the city with particular energies, they are frequently sending photos and links to one another, serving as “each other's eyes.” Animals, ducks, and dogs get sent to Trung; prints and illustrations on vases or ceramics go to Vũ; and Vietnamese architectural elements, patterns, and motifs go to Trang (@cd.cadao).

Trang at work.

“At first, [my style] stemmed from the fact that I just liked ethnic patterns because I spent some time going to the highlands and saw the people there embroidering very beautiful patterns on their clothing. Later on, as I worked and learned about the meaning of these patterns and about the different ethnic groups, I found it very interesting, and I could learn a lot more about the culture, and about the specific techniques,” explained Trang of her handpoke designs. Her method of engaging with past artwork is less one of ethnographic preservation and more a matter of finding inspiration. Ethnic minority embroideries and motifs mingle with organic elements, typography and architecture to become wholly original works. “I draw inspiration from everything — I could listen to a song, read a poem, or read a newspaper… Then it comes along with my memories, my emotions, my own thoughts, and inadvertently, it becomes relatable to everyone.” 

Able to offer explanations and academic sources for many of her influences, Trang creates work that is, according to Phi, “very well researched; she can speak about it in a lot of detail.” Of course, no one needs to know the context, details and story behind an image to appreciate it, let alone permanently put it on one’s body, but Th.ink Room believes there is intrinsic value in knowing more. It’s a matter of curiosity about the world. “I don't think there's anything wrong with not being curious, but I think it just makes things better; you just end up learning more,” Phi explained. 

Trang's (@cd.cadao) flash designs surrounded by finished pieces.

One of Saigoneer’s illustrators can surely speak on the story behind the tattoo she got from Trang, having selected one based on our logo, which was meticulously scouted before being selected several years ago. And while currently Saigoneer only boasts three tattoos from Th.ink Room artists, there is a trend amongst clients for more. As Vy (@babynepotism) explained, some regular guests have gotten work from each Th.ink Room artist and many that come for guest residencies. Members of the team have also begun experimenting with collaboration on single works. The first piece Vy had done, for example, involves Trang’s patterns and vegetation alongside Trung’s butterflies and bees. Meanwhile, Vũ and Ngọc have begun collaborating on ideas that combine his archival pieces with her coloring. 

Vy's collaborative tattoo from Trang and Trung (left) and a collaborative design from Vu and Ngọc (right).

This collaborative ethos extends to Th.ink Room’s lobby, where, alongside the collection of archival texts and various books and zines, are products from local creators for sale. Dyed fabrics, buttons, prints, and photos, as well as random items that members of Th.ink Room make, are available, as well as pro-Palestine fundraiser pieces. The eclectic shop space reflects Th.ink Room’s desire not to be seen as only a tattoo studio, which is underscored by its name. While it includes “ink” it doesn’t explicitly say “tattoo,” and the large Thinker statue at the entrance suggests a different way to interpret it. Such versatility coincides with the space hosting art, music, and community events. 

The Th.ink Room team.

Th.ink Room’s perspective on art, originality, and creativity seems particularly relevant today when AI is upending not just how artists make money, but society’s relationship with creativity in general. It seems to me that too many people are eager to outsource their creativity to computers that gobble up sources for commodification while individuals abandon the curiosity that compelled them to make or appreciate art in the first place. While Phi may have concerns about AI, they are not worried about creativity. “Our collective culture is unimaginably rich. I do not personally believe that creativity is dead or ever will be; you can see how vast yet distinct it has always been, by looking back.”

Most people who have flown with VietJet are probably familiar with the song ‘Hello Vietnam’ or its Vietnamese version ‘Xin chào Việt Nam.’ As it's often played during landing, tourists might mistake the song for a cute jingle of the company, but the meaning behind the song lyrics is much more nostalgic. It’s about a person of Vietnamese descent longing for their ancestor’s homeland, a place they’ve never been — a story that can certainly strike a chord with many Vietnamese people. Few know, however, that this song was originally a French-language song, one that was almost never released.

‘Hello Vietnam’ achieves the rare feat of being widely recognizable among Vietnamese today, even though it originally emerged from the diasporic community.

The song cover.

Perhaps this accomplishment should not be surprising, as the song seems specifically crafted to appeal to Vietnamese sensibilities: nostalgic lyrics on a melancholic melody were the framework of many other widely acclaimed songs in Vietnam. Even though the lyrics describe the feelings of a person who’s never been to Vietnam, the longing can resonate even with Vietnamese people who never left the country, whether towards their hometown or a version of Vietnam from another decade.

“Want to see your house, your streets. Show me all I do not know.
Wooden sampans, floating markets, light of gold.”

The sheer love and curiosity for Vietnam, along with descriptions of its wonders make the song an easy choice for anyone who wants to convey patriotic pride. This may explain why it sounds familiar even to people who have never heard of it. The exposure to the music is huge: it's featured in travel companies’ commercials, videos on social media, and background music in cafes.

The story behind the creation of ‘Hello Vietnam’ actually began in Belgium, where its original singer, Phạm Quỳnh Anh, was born. Her parents are Vietnamese immigrants. Her father went to Belgium to study and her mother was a political refugee. Always a talented singer, at 13, she participated in the Belgian singing competition TV show Pour la Gloire and won with a terrific cover of Celine Dion’s ‘The reason.’ This achievement convinced her that a career in music might really be a possibility: “Pour la Gloire all started with a bet between my father and me. He was like, ‘Yes, you’ll make it,’ while I was thinking, ‘I won't even get past the first auditions.’ And that's just how it happened; I didn't really realize what was going on at the time,” Quỳnh Anh recounts in French.

Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

In 2005, her career took off, as she became Marc Lavoine’s protégée. Marc Lavoine, a famous French singer most known for his karaoke classic ‘Elle a les yeux revolver…’, was looking for a voice to feature in ‘J’espère,’ a new duet. He was convinced by Quỳnh Anh's performance: three takes during the audition was enough. Following this duet’s success, Quỳnh Anh went along with Lavoine on his tour to many countries.

Being close to Marc Lavoine provided a pivotal boost to Quỳnh Anh, even more so as Lavoine wrote her some songs, which were never released — one of which was called ‘Bonjour Vietnam.’ When learning that the song was written by a white French man, one can feel weirded out at first by the lyrics, notably the description of the character’s physical traits. It was however written at the request and supervised by Quỳnh Anh.

While working on a potential album, she felt the need to sing about her roots, and as such, asked the lyricist Yvan Coriat to write about Vietnam. The text was allegedly too long, which is why she later reached out to the seasoned Lavoine to transform the text into a song, with music by him. The Vietnamese-Belgian singer was immediately charmed: “I tried it, and it worked instantly. It’s amazing because they’re European, yet they recreated an Asian atmosphere so well. I feel very lucky to be surrounded by talented people who help me express myself.” She says in a French interview in Vietnam.

Marc Lavoine.

How ‘Bonjour Vietnam’ reached stardom was its own story: a demo leaked on the internet, and quickly spread throughout the diaspora. By Tết 2006, the song had already blown up all over the world, usually paired with a fan-made video montage of Vietnam. This unexpected instant hit made Quỳnh Anh famous around the globe among Vietnamese diasporic communities. The song never had an official release, and yet she started receiving offers to perform live in many countries like Canada, the US and Australia. Spurred by the global attention, it behooved her to release an English version, translated by Guy Balbaert, called ‘Hello Vietnam.’ This version gained a wider audience in Vietnam, while solidifying her fame among the English-speaking diaspora.

In 2008, she performed ‘Hello Vietnam’ on Paris by Night, which cemented the ubiquity of the song in the diaspora. At the end of the same year, she was able to set foot in the forever longed-for Vietnam in the lyrics, thanks to the popularity of the song, via a short tour in the country.

The original version in French performed by Phạm Quỳnh Anh.

There is a some undeniable poetry in the fact that everything seems to have led Quỳnh Anh to the country of her roots. Starting with her meeting with Marc Lavoine, which resulted in the creation of a song where she sings about how much she would like to go to Vietnam. Then the fact that the song got a self-made fame of its own. And finally, the English translation reached Vietnam, bringing her there as she wished for in the lyrics.

“One day I’ll touch your soil.
One day I’ll finally know your soul.
One day I’ll come to you.
To say hello… Vietnam.”

Nowadays Quỳnh Anh’s musical career has gotten much more quiet, she kept her studies a priority throughout this success, and now it seems to be a historical period, as she has begun new chapters of her life. But the popularity of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is as strong as it has ever been: many translations to Vietnamese helped the song gain a new audience. The budget airline VietJet decided to play a mix of the English and Vietnamese versions as landing songs and a welcoming gesture. This has increased the song’s popularity even more, though it has also inspired a sense of overexposure for frequent domestic travelers. The history of ‘Hello Vietnam’ is usually forgotten, obscured by its reputation as a mere commercial jingle, but it was once a heartfelt wish to reconnect with a homeland one hears about so much but has never encountered.

Whether they're from Saigon, Hanoi or Đà Nẵng, urbanites in Vietnam have all grown up amid the chaos of local street culture, where the pulses of civic life churn with every vendor, family business, and gig worker. "Moment of Stillness," a collection of colorful illustrations by artist Hoàng Thanh Hiền, was born of the artist's keen observations of the familiar scenes in her immediate surroundings.

Hanoi streets are notoriously busy and hectic, but when one actually sits down to focus on each moving part in that busy puzzle, they would immediately notice the charms and vivid liveliness of things that we often overlook while going about our life. Each artwork in Hiền’s illustration project zooms in and isolates an element from the street scene in Hanoi, and highlights it with her artistic sensibility.

“The bikes carrying seasonal fruits, the food carts, the corner vendors selling iced tea, the trees and traffic signs that double as helmet or raincoat racks,” Hiền shares with Saigoneer via email. “Perhaps, with the forces of development and convenience of modern society, sidewalk vendors have become something associated with disorderliness and complications. But I want to redraw those images with a gentle palette. A moment of stillness for people whom I think are dealing with a lot of hardships.”

Mobile fruit sellers, a deliveryman waiting for pickup, rideshare drivers on bikes, a sugarcane juice cart: the subjects of Hiền’s illustrations are mostly small business owners and gig workers who spend the majority of their workday on sidewalks. The human figures are all faceless, perhaps in line with how most of us perceive the people we brush past on the street, but each scene is portrayed using cheerful color choices to celebrate the small moments rather than dismiss them.

Observing daily moments and illustrating them have become an escape for Hiền after the many hours spent at her day job. While drawing has been her favorite pastime since she was four or five years old, she graduated with an unrelated degree and then started working. “After many years, I still drew, wanted to draw, and constantly thought about art, so I quit and started learning art from the beginning,” she says. “ I got another job and, fortunately, met seniors who are very patient with me and believe in me. So I’ve been working while studying since.”

The title “Moment of Stillness” refers to the snapshot of street moments that Hiền collects while walking around Hanoi, but on the other hand, it also started from a need for her to take a break from drawing for work. “One day, I felt like I was illustrating like a machine. I illustrate at work, for my jobs every day. Everything runs smoothly and everybody is satisfied, but suddenly I stopped feeling that joy when I draw,” she shares. “A product finishes and another one comes right along; I don’t know how things began to flow so fast [...] So I started doing art just for myself in my free time.”

With a simple goal to reignite that happiness while drawing, she began with the simplest things that are right around her: “A dry leaf on the street, a fold on my clothes, a muscle of human anatomy… everything can become a story. I want to return to finding beauty in simple things like that. Gradually, I started paying more attention to our sidewalk space and its daily life.”

It might be a bittersweet time period for anyone making a living on Hanoi’s pavements or harboring great affection for the city’s vibrant informal economy, as a sidewalk-clearing campaign is sweeping through local streets, aiming to make them neater and safer for pedestrians. Independent art projects, like “Moment of Stillness,” will serve as an indelible documentation of the street moments of our collective memory.

Hailing from Hải Dương, Hiền herself has been in Hanoi for 10 years through her education and career. Creating art about Hanoi has encouraged her to observe where she lives more instead of being a mere passerby.

“I think each person has a different Hanoi. An old cart can be someone’s way to make a living. It seems like there’s everything on the sidewalk: necessities, food, clothes, even haircuts. Fruits, bánh mì and coffee in the morning and iced tea and skewers in the evening. The space on the pavement might look messy, but operates rhythmically with its own symbiotic negotiations.”

To view more of Hoàng Hiền's artworks, visit her Behance page here.

Silk is an inherently finicky, demanding medium. Yet from the very first encounter, Quế Hương had chose to embrace its temperament and has devoted herself to it for nearly a decade.

Recently, Saigoneer had the opportunity to visit Quế Hương’s living space, which also serves as her creative studio. Greeting us right at the doorstep were her two feline assistants.

Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

Quế Hương’s love for painting blossomed in childhood and grew stronger as she studied Fine Arts at the University of Fine Arts in Hồ Chí Minh City. While searching for her own artistic identity among various materials, silk chose her, perhaps it was her patience that ultimately won silk over.

When asked about her artist name, “Một Quả Tắc,” Hương explained, “It is just a random name without any particular meaning. Among the larger citrus fruits such as pomelo and orange, tắc is the smallest. And I see myself as still very green and small as well.”

Quế Hương. Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

The journey of a young artist is rarely strewn with roses. Graduating right as the pandemic erupted, Quế Hương faced the crossroads of careers. She even considered setting aside her brushes to find a stable office job. “Thankfully, at that very time, I had the fortune to meet an art collector who bought some of my paintings, giving me more confidence to pursue this path.”

‘Mơn man’ (Caress)

‘Méow’ 

Looking at Quế Hương’s works in exhibitions or on social media, you'll be immersed in a gentle realm of grasses, trees, flowers, small animals, and youthful maidens. Her sources of inspiration are never far away. They may be self-portraits, the most ordinary moments of daily life, the people closest to her, or, at times, some strange ideas that suddenly take hold in her mind

The two silk paintings currently in progress that Saigoneer observed offer a clear example. One shows a small cat lounging contently across its owner’s lap in a green floral dress. The other captures a pair of cats in a playful tussle. Each painting feels like a diary entry that Quế Hương has recorded and preserved on silk, allowing those memories to endure. Even when they find new owners, the works are likely to evoke recognition or hold personal meaning for whoever takes them home.

‘Mấy đôi giày đã cũ của tôi’ (My old shoes)

‘Hái sao cho em’ (Picking stars for you)

“I’ve never felt bored, discouraged, or wanted to give up on silk painting, because there are still so many ideas I want to explore and so many things I want to paint.”

This persistence has earned Quế Hương multiple awards and a unique place in the art community. In September 2024, she marked a major milestone with her first solo exhibition, “Xôn xao” (Flutter). The show featured 15 paintings with a poetic color palette, creating a serene space where viewers could escape the chaos outside and lose themselves in her dreamy realm and her meticulous technique.

Silk painting ‘Lập xuân’ (Spring beginning) displayed at the “Xôn xao” exhibition.

Learning the silk painting process

By following Quế Hương through each stage of her work, one comes to truly appreciate the intensive care and labor this art form demands.

‘Xoxo’

The silk fabric used for painting is different from silk used for clothing. It is thinner, has a rougher texture, and is usually coated with a thin layer of glue. If needed, the artist can wash some of it away to make the fabric softer. After securing the silk, she builds a wooden stretcher frame of any size she desires. “One time, I made a frame so large it wouldn’t fit in the apartment elevator, so I had to carry it up the stairs. Later, when taking the painting to an exhibition, I had to ask muscular guys to help carry it down the stairs again,” Quế Hương recalled with a smile.

Silk being coated with glue.

Next, she must stretch the silk onto the frame herself, secure it with pins, and apply glue. “During this stage, I usually have to put the two cats away so they don’t run around and get fur on the painting. Even so, while painting, cat hair still easily sticks to it, so once the paint dries, I use a lint roller to clean it.” When the silk frame is ready, Quế Hương selects her idea, sketches, draws the details, and applies color. She mainly uses watercolor, but also incorporates gouache and Chinese ink when needed.

‘Bật một bản nhạc nhé’ (Let's put on some music)

She added: “Silk painters often work standing at a flat table. I used to do that too. It was so tiring on the neck and legs! Luckily now I have this easel that I can tilt, but it still causes back pain and sore knees.” Despite that, because she loves her craft, Hương still paints diligently for hours on end. “When I get too tired, I just massage myself or go to a parlor!”

Finally, Quế Hương mounts a layer of fabric on the back of the painting. It is usually a smooth fabric with minimal texture so as not to alter the structure and image on the silk. Depending on the “mood” of the painting, she chooses light, dark, or neutral backing fabric. “For dark paintings, I’ll choose gray or black fabric. For warm-toned paintings, I use white. I don’t always add backing fabric though. Some pieces I leave as they are, depending on the aesthetic.”

‘Lặp’ (Repeat)

The recent resurgence of interest in silk painting among young people is an encouraging sign. For Quế Hương, it’s not only a personal joy but also an opportunity for this traditional medium to be reinterpreted in more diverse artistic languages.

“I also want to travel more to recharge and gain new inspiration. Besides that, I hope more people will get to know me as a silk painter,” Quế Hương said, her eyes sparkling as she looked out toward the sunlit balcony.

Photo by Jimmy Art Devier.

To learn more about silk painting and Quế Hương's art practice, visit her Instagram @motquatac.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rare Sea co-founder Luke Schneider.

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

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

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

Phố Bên Đồi achieves art through institutional collaboration in Đà Lạt

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

Greenhouses, farms and windmills comprise the outskirts of Đà Lạt

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

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

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

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

Rigorous art achievement amidst Cù Rú’s creative chaos

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The southern leg of Saigoneer’s exploration of Vietnam’s artist residencies revealed how diverse they can be in terms of vibes, resources, and structure. Visiting residencies in the central area expands on these observations in part two, while part three looks at Hanoi to considers the variety of mediums that the residencies cater to. 

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

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

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

The autograph-covered door into the studio.

“I’m here for Richie,” I say.

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

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

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

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

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

Archiving history via city sketches

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pens and papers — an artist's best friends.

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

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

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

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

Putting the Saigon skyline on the map

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

A snapshot in the story of Saigon.

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

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

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

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

An appreciation for the little things

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

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

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

Smiling from above.

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

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

A quick sketch of Tết on the street.

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

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

Towards tomorrow

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2023.

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

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

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

Portrait of Quế (Nguyễn Đức Hùng).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photos courtesy of Quế (Nguyễn Đức Hùng).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Photos via Gỗ Lim's Facebook page.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was first published in 2018.

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

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

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

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

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

About the film

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

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

The poster of New Wave the documentary.

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

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

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

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

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

A confession

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

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

Photo courtesy of Elizabeth Ai.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Washing a lacquer masterpiece with dish soap

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Visitors pose with artworks.

Beyond one damaged painting

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

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

The museum interior and Tết photoshoots.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Video via Brian Bùi's YouTube.

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

Photo by Chiron Dương.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Emotions as Transparent as Water from its Source”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Work Before Play

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

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

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

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

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

“Fifty Years in Prison”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This article was originally published in 2021.

Can ceramics be a form of self-care? Sitting in a cozy space, slowly covering blank clay with color can have a profoundly calming effect. Rotating a textured mug in your hand to spread paint across a template or letting your imagination reveal a picture on the surface of a plate is important in what it's not: idly scrolling a screen or absorbing a chaotic assault of algorithm-indebted ads and announcements. As digital busyness invades every minute of our waking lives, hand-painting ceramics is a mental and emotional cleanse.

 Ceramic4You’s Arrival in Saigon

The past several years have seen a rise in hobby craft activities with ceramics among the most popular. BBC explains: “The tyranny of working and communicating digitally is one reason for the recent appetite for crafting – it is the perfect antidote to the online world. And of all the crafts, perhaps pottery does this most successfully. [...] although multi-tasking has long been seen in a positive light, now is a time when many of us yearn to slow down, and focus on a single, absorbing activity.”

Ceramics themselves are, of course, an ancient, essential element of human society. The painting of already-formed plates, cups, trays, and dishes as a fun pastime is not new either. In the 1990s, for example, the trend moved from America to Europe, where shops and cafes opened for groups of friends, coworkers, students, and couples to spend time transforming simple ceramics into personal works of art.

Stefan Michalk witnessed the ceramics trend in his native Germany in the 1990s, and the idea returned recently after he’d left the publishing world and was looking for fresh businesses to bring to Saigon. Along with his partner, Chi, a voice of creativity and local insight, they recently opened Ceramic4You on Lê Văn Miến Street in the former Thảo Điền. The cafe and pottery studio now provides a casual form of therapy, relaxation, and bonding for Saigon residents.

The Difference is in the Details

True to stereotypes of German demand for precision and a fastidious attention to quality, Ceramic4You holds itself to exceedingly high standards. Such commitment to details is evident the moment you step into the hushed, bright space. After a small seating area, a pristine cafe countertop and kitchen area outfitted with high-tech coffee, waffle and drink gadgets stands across from a floor-to-ceiling shelf of blank ceramics. It’s from these awaiting Bát Tràng pieces that guests can select.

The spacious second floor features more tables for painting at with natural light. On the wall at the top of the staircase is a large display of Mayco paints. These American-made colors are considered the world standard because of how consistently and accurately they maintain their shades after being fired in a kiln. Similarly, Ceramic4You’s two kilns were both imported: one from Germany and one from the USA. This means that when guests finish a piece, they can be confident that their hard work and artistic vision are perfectly preserved.

To control quality Ceramic4you manages the whole process inhouse. Having two own modern electric kilns customers receive their finished work within 72 hours, which is rather unique for the activity that can often take more than a week.

A Complete and Soothing Experience

Ceramic4You makes the experience easy for guests by providing very clear, multilingual instructions for how to use the many design elements that include stickers, stamps, patterns, tape, stencils and silk screens. There are even QR codes that lead to videos for how best to use them. This is particularly helpful because Ceramic4You doesn’t offer classes or teacher-led instruction; that’s not the point. Guests have the freedom to indulge their creative whims while focusing on the company they are with, savoring the hours of uninterrupted peace and opportunity for self-expression.

In addition to not being a place for classes, Ceramic4You is not a babysitter, Stefan cautions. Children are more than welcome, but while it is popular for the many families that live in the area, parents must supervise their young children to ensure they enjoy the experience while not bothering other guests. This maintains a comfortable atmosphere where couples have time to really hear each other, friends can feel unencumbered, and co-workers can discover sides of one another’s personalities that don’t normally appear in office settings.

While sponging abstract colors, stenciling delicate flowers or even printing a beloved pet’s paw on a dish, it’s nice to enjoy some refreshments. The same commitment to quality that informs the ceramics applies to the cafe’s drinks and waffles. Fresh fruit means that no added sugar is needed for the juice while only real butter and maple syrup are used for the waffles.

The result of this holistic attention to detail manifests in guests having positive experiences that leave them relaxed and happy, Chi notes. Such feelings are reflected in the glowing reviews online with customers praising the comfortable space, friendly staff and easy process that leaves them with creative pieces to be treasured as reminders of precious afternoons in the city.

Decorating ceramics is a year-round activity, but it seems particularly suited to the holiday season when friend groups, companies and families are all eager to gather and yearn for something new or different. Moreover, Ceramic4You sells gift cards that make a perfect gift for nearly everyone.

The next time you find yourself wondering what there is to do in Saigon that isn’t another routine cafe or restaurant, or are consumed with a vague but pressing ennui that defies a simple remedy, consider Ceramic4You. You might discover that simply having coarse pottery in your hands, colors unspooling from your imagination and a chill atmosphere are exactly what you need.

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

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

A recap of Động Tag Season 1.

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

Season 2's featured line-up.

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

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

EP01: Nhạc Của Trang

EP06: Chillies

Media courtesy of Cổ Động.

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.