Ask a person on the street what Vietnam’s distinctive style of architecture is, and the answer you get might be traditional architecture, like the historic curves of northern Vietnam’s village temples or the ornate regality of Nguyễn-Dynasty palaces. This time-honored style is widely accepted as the hallmark of Vietnam’s cultural wealth. What’s more fascinating but lesser-known is how this cultural vestige — which distinguished our architecture from that of China and Japan — has also managed to evolve in the new age, finding ways to exist right in the middle of our modern lifetime.

From the 1950s to the 1970s, Vietnam’s distinctive architecture has fashioned for itself a new life in the modern era, not just setting itself apart from that of our Asian contemporaries but also from the world.

Traditional Vietnamese homes through colonial periods

The most characteristically Vietnamese style of traditional homes. Photo via Dân Việt.

From after the periods under Chinese rule until now, some could divide the two main categories of Vietnamese indigenous architecture: ancient architecture and modernist architecture. In between these lies the colonial eras. While Vietnamese culture underwent a constant process of fine-tuning and re-imagining through each historical era, from the Đinh to the Nguyễn dynasties, architecture — as part of culture — has also similarly transformed to take on a distinctive identity and taste that can express the Vietnamese quality.

That identity is evident in the grace and modesty of Vietnamese homesteads, surrounded by vast gardens and natural landscapes. The living quarters have always retreated deep beneath a network of shelter protecting the veranda. Wrapping around the interior is a collection of wooden doors and windows that can be closed, opened, folded in, or detached so the homeowner can freely modify their living space to fit the desired levels of openness. This is a clever system that anchors the house right into its native climate. The interior, in actuality, is usually also the exterior. It is this identity that gives Vietnamese architecture its own sensibilities. Thanks to the wide eaves and veranda that shelter the living space deep inside, from afar, it can look as if the roof is hovering above layers of shadows.

The Vietnamese people have fostered a specific sensibility when it comes to playing with shadows — a highly intuitive connection with shadow as a housing “material.” From macro to micro levels, from columns and rafters to wooden reliefs, the traditional Vietnamese home is often a living landscape where the light and the dark, the visible and the invisible, the functional and the ornamental intermingle. It is a delicate balance that has been building over centuries.

The advent of modernism

The V.A.R Building in Hồ Chí Minh City, designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm in 1973. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

This millennium-long process is truncated by almost a century of French colonialism. Right after Vietnam regained its independence from the French, it stepped right into the midst of the modern era. Locals started living in brick homes, wearing pressed shirts and jeans, riding bikes, and working in bureaus instead of in fields. The advent of modernism came rather suddenly.

Yet, it was right within this sudden change that the Vietnamese taste had an opportunity to flourish with aplomb. Using the languages of modernism, Vietnam’s own architectural identity could present itself as a form of indigenous architecture with refreshing expressions. Coming out of French colonization, both northern and southern Vietnam could benefit from the industrial infrastructure left over by the colonial administration. This was the initial factor making modernist architecture possible in Vietnam during this time.

A modernist apartment on Hải Thượng Lãn Ông Street, District 5. Photo by Phạm Vinh.

Moreover, the modernist movement was supported by the local government, especially in the south, seeking to give the urban landscape a new face in the new era, but still rooted in traditional values. A plethora of large-scale public projects in the modernist style were commissioned, such as the Reunification Palace, the HCMC Library of General Sciences, Turtle Lake, etc. These constructions were all designed by Vietnamese architects who were professionally trained at the École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine or the Paris-based École nationale supérieure des Beaux-Arts in the 1930s and 1940s. Each building has its own distinctive charm that distinguishes it from modernist projects elsewhere in the world.

It must be noted that Vietnam’s modernist buildings were part of the modernist movement that started in the early 20th century by thought leaders like German architect Walter Gropius, who founded the Bauhaus school; and Swiss-French architect Le Corbusier, who pioneered the idea that architecture should be logical, functional, and purposeful. Under modernist influences, architects turned away from expensive, ornate embellishments and headed towards a new vision of design that was cost-effective, comfortable, and no-nonsense — an architectural style born of technological advancements with cement, steel, and glass. Still, it didn’t mean that they rejected aesthetic elements. Honesty and rationality themselves became the aesthetic. Modernist architecture is the architecture of reason.

14A Cao Thắng, Ward 2, District 3, HCMC.

The crop of modernist architects in Vietnam back then — like Trần Văn Tải, Lê Văn Lắm, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, Phạm Văn Thâng, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, and Ngô Viết Thụ — were actively experimenting with modernism in southern Vietnam. What came out of it also stayed close to the principle of practicality. Modernist buildings were designed to be as efficient as possible, employing cement, concrete, steel, and glass to create micro-climates. Specific features were incorporated in order to allay the harshness of the tropical sun and the ferocious attacks of monsoon rainstorms, such as a system of sun shelters and natural ventilation. The modernist structures that materialized during this time, both from the public and private sectors, were the very first steps towards establishing Vietnamese modernism as an independent architectural movement, with lessons taken from traditional architecture.

2 Tống Văn Trân, District 11, HCMC.

Modernist language in daily civil projects

Somewhere in this timeline, something unexpected happened. From the architectural vocabulary created by pioneers, in addition to a strong sense of personal aesthetic, common Vietnamese people started practicing modernist architecture on their own, bringing about a new realm of architecture with nearly no involvement of professional architects and bending the ideals of modernism to fuse with the architectural sensibilities of Vietnamese. Outside of infrastructure and public administrative projects, countless private residences in modernist style sprouted in Saigon from the mid-1950s to the 1970s. These houses could be classified as modernist due to their use of industrial materials, but often don’t exhibit the core principles of modernism, such as rationality. Instead, they came to be, at times, based on purely intuitive choices. Such contrast revealed the crucial way Vietnamese culture surfaced right in the heart of architecture.

57 Đề Thám, Cô Giang Ward, District 1, HCMC.

Across the myriads of urban houses constructed this way, we can detect an aesthetic intuition that’s intense and dense, but also quite graceful. Based on the utilitarian frame of a tube house, the owners carved out their own expressions of taste on the limited space of the house facade.

Walking past a block filled with 20^th-century modernist tube houses, spectators would probably feel like they’re attending a sculpture exhibition. Planters, louvers, brise-soleils, iron frames, and pergolas were all created and added liberally and then polished, installed, and decorated to geometric satisfaction.

Not to mention the materials: house projects gave in to the allure of washed rocks and mosaics, and played with shadow, a strange element in itself, invisible but quite affecting. Just by molding shadows, they created elements that seemingly float in mid-air. Every experiment was encapsulated in the people’s creative consciousness.

227 Trần Bình Trọng, Ward 3, District 5, HCMC.

The spectacular palate of Vietnamese modernist architecture, particularly as expressed in urban houses, is not just a worthy subject to be studied, but also the trace of a cultural pulse that has beaten across the timeline of Vietnam’s history. It’s the physical manifestation of the people’s spiritual life, where their sense of aesthetics can reflect their national identity. The elegance of shadows and their ratio, depths, and intensity; the density of layers upon layers of ornamental elements; and the sharpness of the composition — all were the results of years of distillation of Vietnamese culture, a proof of a civilization’s ingenuity.

176 Lý Tự Trọng, Bến Thành Ward, District 1, HCMC

From Saigon to the Mekong Delta and the central coast

The initial sparks of modernist architecture from Saigon, often considered the southern region’s economic and cultural center in the middle of the 20^th century, have turned the movement into a creative wave that spread to nearby localities, from urban cores to garden estates in the countryside, from the Mekong Delta to the central coast. During these decades, the Vietnamese people gradually accepted concrete houses as characteristically theirs instead of the thatch and bamboo dwellings of the past. Historian Mel Schenck, who happened to be in the country right when this was taking place and the author of Southern Vietnamese Modernist Architecture - Mid-Century Vernacular Modernism, noted that modernist architecture has become Vietnam’s indigenous architectural style.

163 Võ Văn Kiệt, Cầu Ông Lãnh Ward, District 1, HCMC.

The story of Vietnamese architecture at the dawn of the modern era demonstrated the values of a new society of Vietnamese, a modern society. It’s a society of honesty, fortitude, and a passionate pursuit of excellence while remaining open-minded and flexible in the face of a new way of life. Vietnamese modernist architecture, and, in itself, Vietnam’s modernist aesthetics, is proof of the strength and national qualities of past generations and an affirmation of the people’s ability to transform to prosper, even right in the middle of history’s ever-changing tides.

In rapidly developing urban Hanoi, finding engaging outdoor play areas for young children is near impossible. But since 2014, the social enterprise Think Playgrounds has colored public spaces across Vietnam with wildly unique and legitimately sustainable designs, engaging with local communities to give children back their right to play.

Founded by architect Chu Kim Đức and journalist Nguyễn Tiêu Quốc Đạt, Think Playgrounds (TPG) was born as a reaction to a surprise encounter with American Judith Hansen, who was traveling through Vietnam hoping to continue a photography series of public playgrounds. “Wherever I go, I look at playgrounds because I think they tell us a lot about a culture,” she states in a documentary made by TPG. Upon her arrival to Vietnam, however, the realization of the rarity of such spaces in Hanoi inspired Judith to attempt to donate a slide, reaching out to Kim Đức and artist Ban Ga for design assistance. 

Nguyễn Tiêu Quốc Đạt.

After months of efforts and negotiations, the slide, shaped in the form of a turtle to echo the legend of Hoan Kiem, was never completed nor accepted by the city and left Kim Đức with a driving motivation. "After she flew back, I and my partner thought we have to do something! Because someone from across the globe has flown here to build a playground and we didn’t manage," she recalls. "And so we tried our first playground on Bãi Giữa (Banana Island). It was very successful, many people were interested and told us they could not find playgrounds near their house."

Compared to other Asian cities with similar high-density urban fabrics, Hanoi is also one of the poorest in terms of square meters of green space per inhabitant at just 11.2 square meters per capita, compared to an Asian average of 39 square meters, according to HealthBridge. That mixed with overprotective parents believing in “stranger danger” and the common obligation of long schooling hours, urban children in Vietnam have very little opportunity to enjoy the highly beneficial act of play. “Outdoor risky play” that is characterized by elements of uncertainty and risk of physical injury is thought to be especially valuable. It seems, in order for children to learn essential skills (and have more fun along the way) a bit of rough and tumble is advised. Acts like playing at great heights, high speed, near dangerous elements or with dangerous tools sound counterintuitive for the well-being of a child but interestingly is a thoroughly studied and developed notion that is expressed spatially through “Adventure Playgrounds.” 

Having first appeared in Nazi-occupied Denmark in 1943, the concept of Adventure Playgrounds was created by the infamous modernist landscape architect Søren Carl Theodor Marius Sørensen in collaboration with school teacher Hans Dragehjelm. Their concerns were two-pronged: first, how to offer urban children the same play opportunities as their rural counterparts; and second, how to attract them to playing in designated areas rather than the junkyards they seemed to prefer. This second element was of high concern as “mischievousness and sneaking around” — understandably important elements of play — had been criminalized and parents feared their kids' innocent play actions could be confused as acts of sabotage by German soldiers. 

This pioneering Emdrup Junk Playground concept quickly spread in popularity throughout Europe, and also appeared in Japan where currently 400 Adventure Playgrounds exist. In these spaces only a few rules apply, the most important being: no adults apart from the specially trained Playworkers whose job is to teach children how to use the available tools and only intervene if there is a very high risk of serious injury. Often these play areas look exactly like junk-yards: piles of broken wood, dismembered electronics and unrecognizable bits of metal challenge kids’ creativity. The children, free to build or destroy their own structures with whatever they find, learn not only motor skills but also how to negotiate, find resources, manage teamwork, and independently create their own world. 

Going beyond the obvious physical benefits, risky play has been proven to encourage the development of the capacities known as the “Four Cs” — communication, collaboration, critical thinking, and creativity. In comparison to “designed” playgrounds that attempt to control the inherently chaotic activity of play, risky play, though difficult to understand initially, has long term benefits and is irreplaceable by indoor activities.

But kids in Vietnam face particular challenges, Kim Đức tells Saigoneer: “Historically, Vietnamese children used to play a lot in nature because we were in agriculture with fields, lakes and forests. My parents' generation could tell us stories of how adventurous their 'play areas' were, especially during the wars. My generation and people living in cities like us still have memories of playing with friends in neighborhoods, on the sidewalks, on the street... My daughter now spends most of the time indoors, has no friends after school, no public playground near our house. It's the common situation in Hanoi and cities in Vietnam. Public spaces are invaded for commercial purposes. Parents think play is useless and a waste of time.”

Some people point fault to the rise of digital technology, a belief corroborated by a recent study finding that 78% of Vietnamese children under six use digital devices, but access to positive spaces for children takes more than just turning off the iPad. “I don’t buy the argument that the screens are keeping the kids from the playgrounds,” said Susan Solomon, an architectural historian and the author of American Playgrounds. “If the playgrounds were better, kids would be there. Better playgrounds would definitely give screens a run for their money.”

That said, the creation of engaging play spaces in Hanoi can be more complex than meets the eye. “Raising awareness of children's right to play is the most important. This affects education, urban design and community development. When the community is engaged in a project and committed to protecting it, the playground is successful,” explains Kim Đức.

The past few years have seen a steady growth in community involvement with now more than 180 playgrounds built across the country. TPG currently creates temporary and permanent playgrounds, complete commercial projects and hold events to promote their philosophy. Notably in 2019, they built Vietnam’s first Adventure Playground in collaboration with Tokyo Play and Ecopark. But the project lasted only a few months as the local community didn't mobilize to contribute to the management costs and the area was taken over to become a “check-in” point for youths. 

“From what I know, Hanoi parents are quite protective, especially when there is a lot of bad news in the media. Besides, I think the current mainstream education is not facilitated for independence in general, which surely affects outdoor play,” Kim Đức laments. But all is not lost, with many projects and collaborations en route, TPG continues to expand Vietnam's play platform, exploring subtle ways to make each original design more educative while taking into consideration children of reduced ability. Their recent work at Vietnam National Children's Hospital was specially designed for children with mental illness and the ongoing project on Bãi Giữa sports a fabulous zipline, the neighboring recycled tires, and wooden seesaws becoming a gathering point for the young and old. 

Typically, TPG projects are welcoming, colorful, jumbled spaces, often composed of organic shapes, natural materials and animal forms, breaking from the cold geometry and sterility of the urbanscape. In the beginning, TPG used 100% recycled materials such as wooden palettes. Although having the advantage of being cheap, the wood rarely lasted more than a few months and now TPG source their wood from local producers, treated organically with mud and biomaterials. Each project design involves as much as possible the local community. Through drawing workshops involving children and adults, the gathered illustrations are then crafted by the designers in their workshop, later returning to collaborate with the community to install, paint and maintain the spaces themselves. By transferring this sense of ownership and responsibility, it ensures the longevity of each space to allow children to enjoy their play for years to come.

Though it may seem in Vietnam we are far from arming children with hacksaws and throwing them up great heights in rubble-filled Adventure Playgrounds, slowly the work of TPG will spread the benefits of free play to the next generation, offering them opportunities to learn and grow, one tumble at a time. 

To learn more about Think Playgrounds and their program of activities, visit the organization's website and Facebook page.

This article was originally published in 2020 on Urbanist Hanoi.

During a new decade when architecture projects in Vietnam are increasingly looking towards the future and influences outside the national boundaries for inspirations, Memories House decided to do the opposite by integrating old heirloom furniture and elements from the past into the living space.

Designed by Saigon-based Risou Architects, the Memories House project was completed in 2021 on a 250-square-meter plot of land in District 7. The residence features a living room and kitchen overlooking the garden on the ground floor, in addition to four bedrooms, and two dedicated spaces for reading and working.

According to the architects, Memories House was meant to be the nest for a three-generation family including the owners, their parents, and their children. To maximize the ease of movement for senior members of the households, their room is based on the ground floor with a door linking right into the kitchen and living area.

Natural lighting is also a prized resource that was consciously built into the blueprint. A series of windows, some spanning two floors, are in place to channel sunlight down the living area and into the reading nooks.

Across the interior design, sparks of modernism dot the overall nostalgic atmosphere brought about by extensive use of dark-toned wood that might bring to mind Indochinese architecture. The connection to past decades of Vietnamese traditional homes also comes in the little details, such as the poster bed in the grandparents’ chamber, complete with a mosquito net; or the curvaceous details on the balustrade; and the motifs featured on the kitchen tiles.

Another standout aspect of the house’s interior is its eclectic trove of vintage furniture, all of which were collected by the owners in the past decade. Their presence is an important part of Memories House and the architects made sure to seamlessly incorporate them into the abode’s space — it is a very thematic treatment as, after all, vintage furniture carries with it all the memories of past usage and previous owners.

Have a closer look at Memories House via the photos below:

Stone and wooden textures are employed throughout the inside spaces.

The kitchen and dining area overlooks the inner courtyard.

Modernist elements on the kitchen tiles.

The living room and small pond.

The bedroom for the senior family members evokes the charms of traditional homes.

A corner for audio enjoyment.

The corridor on the upper floor receives lots of natural sunlight.

The master bedroom.

The office.

A small reading corner overlooking the courtyard below.

Photos by Quang Trần via Risou Architects.

From the 1960s towards the end of the 1970s, urban centers in southern Vietnam saw robust and widespread growth of modernist influences in architecture. Still, outside the usual foci of the movement like Saigon, Cần Thơ or Mỹ Tho, how has this unique form of vernacular architectural expression been transformed?

Back in 2021, Saigoneer had an opportunity to roam Phú Quý Island, an island district under Bình Thuận Province just 100 kilometers from Phan Thiết. Surrounded by emerald lagoons, rocky cliffs and enveloped in a carpet of rich foliage, Phú Quý still retains much of its ancestral way of living, placing a focus on self-sufficient crafts using natural resources instead of pivoting to the lure of tourism.

Under French rule, it was known by the name Poulo-Cécir-de-Mer; according to folk legends, Bàn Tranh, an exquisite but insolent Chăm princess, was exiled to the island by her father for refusing to follow his orders. Today, Phú Quý is a quaint isle with over 30,000 residents and, until 2021, was the only place in Vietnam where graduating highschoolers have to take a boat to the mainland to undertake their college entrance exam.

Across the small main town, families live in one-story detached houses featuring a diverse array of architectural elements pulled from the country’s collective modernist “vocabulary.” The use of grey wash rocks as an external coating for columns and facade; geometrical ventilation blocks; intuitive and highly personalized decorative features such as stylized flower beds and balustrades — these are all common features in Vietnam’s modernist architecture playbook, one that’s unique to the country and has transcended the boundaries of global modernism.

Be that as it may, modernist houses on Phú Quý Island have also developed unique character traits on their own. The most prominent is the inclusion of numerical decorations on their facade, likely to be the year when the structure was completed. The years range from the early 1970s to the late 1990s, though most seem to have been constructed in the 1980s and 1990s.

Phạm Phú Vinh, a researcher and book author focusing on Vietnamese modernist architecture, opines that the addition of the year might have been purely for aesthetic or sentimental reasons to commemorate the birth of their home.

“It might be there just as decoration, but I think its presence shows a strength of local modernist architecture,” he tells Saigoneer in Vietnamese. “In the mid-20^th century, residents of Saigon might have had more financial resources [to build houses], it’s less common in rural areas. A homestead in the countryside was, therefore, more profoundly valuable to its owner, who might have worked their whole life to afford to build a house.”

By the time residents in suburban and rural regions had saved enough to have their own house constructed, it was well into the late 20^th century. As such, Vinh also notes several ways that the houses on Phú Quý Island differ from their predecessors from the 1950s and 1960s. While they are still modernist, there are structural variations, such as the increase in decorative elements; more materials were introduced apart from washed rocks; and the use of serif fonts for the numbers, instead of sans serif like in previous decades.

“During this period, the appeal of western modernism waned more than the 1950s, 1960s and 1970s, so their toolbox is not as strict as before and the style has started to diverge,” Vinh adds.

Without a compiled or formalized set of rules regarding modernist construction, for decades it was up to the contractors and homeowners to mold the house design whichever ways they felt could best utilize existing materials and reflect personal taste. In areas where homes built during the same period are concentrated, like Saigon, styles are more consistent and tend to take shape in accordance with a neighborhood’s unifying feel. The further one gets from southern regions, like Phú Quý off the south-central coast, separated populations of houses will evolve their own traits, like the way Darwin’s finches radiated from their common ancestors.

This article was first published in 2021.

This time of the year, the giáng hương tree in my grandma’s courtyard is probably blooming with clusters of golden blossoms, enticing the kids in the neighborhood to gather around it and carefully pick off the prettiest petals to create makeshift jewelry.

Grandma’s yard is at times tranquil, at times rambunctious, but always peaceful despite the relentless pulse of time. To past generations of Vietnamese, the courtyard was an indispensable part of their daily life. In the design of traditional homes, yards existed not just as something to marvel at, but also as a crucial component to the house, where family members go through their routine, create things, and experience every facet of the human condition. Any patch of land, be it in front or on the side of the house, can become a space for spiritual living — a familiar anchor of the innocence of childhood.

The courtyard in the residence of artist Mộng Bích in Bắc Ninh. Photo via Happynest.

In Văn minh vật chất của người Việt (The Material Civilization of the Vietnamese People), writer Phan Cẩm Thượng compares and contrasts: “In Yunnan, [China’s southern province bordering Vietnam], earthen homesteads are built adjacent to one another, like a big fortress. Homes in Vietnamese villages are not like that, each household lives in a separate house in the middle of a garden.” The garden can be defined as an outdoor zone to grow plants, display objects, or just to relish the rustic beauty of nature. Yards and gardens in Vietnam are localized in a distinctive way, suitable for the seasonal climate, soil, culture, and historical background of the region. For instance, the Vietnamese countryside is populated by wells, huge water jars, bamboo thickets, hedges made of chè tàu or hibiscus bushes — endemic wild plants from the tropical climate.

Vietnam’s courtyards are an extension to the home’s living quarters. Photo via Flicker user manhhai.

Tản mạn kiến trúc Nam Bộ (Southern Vietnamese Architecture Excursions) also pointed out that courtyards function as more than just decorative spaces, but also living spaces: “The yard is not merely a space to grow plants and flowers, but also an extended living space. Beneath the canopies of trees, people arrange rows of large ceramic jars to store water for showering and washing. Vietnamese used to shower freely and naturally right in the garden, and the act is frequently romanticized via visual and textual art forms. As natural as being, the daily routine of Vietnamese isn’t confined within four walls, but expands to the surrounding environs as well.”

The courtyards of each geographical region have distinctive characteristics of local architectural archetypes: northern Vietnam’s three-block, two-wing courtyard homes stand out with a brick yard and tall plant pots; nhà rường in Huế features dividers and small ponds; stilt houses in the highlands have stone mills and looms. In southern Vietnam, the homesteads are often surrounded by water bodies, so cầu khỉ (single-beam bridge) made of bamboo are usually present, challenging distant visitors’ balancing skills.

“The gardens, where the family grows food and interacts, have transformed into a part of the home. They are no longer just a pretty landscape, or a still-life to marvel at.”

In the Trần Anh Hùng-directed flick Mùi đu đủ xanh (The Scent of Green Papaya, 1993), the boundary between the garden and the home seems to have disappeared. The characters interact in scenes that blend between the spaces, as if there are no divisions between. Madame Ty prepares meals outside and takes them inside. The wife steps from the large chamber into the courtyard to get to smaller rooms. On sun-drenched summer days, the son sits right on the veranda to relish a good book, undisturbed by the urban chaos outside. Surrounding the distinctively Asian villa are layers of greenery, whose presence helps to open the space up while providing a sense of privacy for the musings of the people living within it.

Gardens appear often in Indochinese architecture, such as the setting of The Scent of Green Papaya.

One movie detail that accentuates this connection between the garden and the home is the window. At first, it only serves to provide viewers a glimpse into the garden, but over time, it’s no longer just a picture frame for the landscape outside, thanks to the way the characters interact with it — Mùi sits up gingerly beneath the soft film of sunlight peering through a thin veil, while outside, Madame Ty crouches amid the foliage, plucking a green papaya. She moves closer to the window and starts chatting to Mùi. At that moment, the inside and outside become one, and the scent of freshly cut papaya fills the air without any obstacle.

Mùi, as a young girl, loves observing the papaya tree by the window.

Courtyards are often spacious enough to fit several squares of scattered peanuts and corn kernels for drying on sunny days, not to mention the sprawling vines of gourds and squashes providing shade for the children to play make-believe. They are the setting for peaceful dinners and boisterous death anniversaries when relatives and neighbors gather to cook up a storm. At night, the courtyards turn into a stage for the symphony of frogs and crickets, in between the dulcet tones of grandma’s lullabies. Over generations, courtyards have witnessed decades of childhood.

Some gardens are also a place of ancestral worship, and a home to family altars. Better-off households even built altars for folk deities right in their yard, so every special occasion, like Tết, joss sticks always light up the family altar first, and then the altar to the patrons of the land, set up right in the garden.

The yard and the house, blending into one continuous, symbiotic entity, form a seamless landscape. It would be impossible to discuss the traditional Vietnamese home by separating the people from the garden, the interior from the exterior. In metropolises, houses with gardens do exist, but they seem to be more ornamental than functional.

“Vườn nhà ai ngập trong nắng ấm / An unnamed garden drenched in warm sunlight
Tỏa hương thơm hoa cỏ tràn lan / perfumed by a cascade of floral scents”
— Quốc Hưng Nguyễn Cao

When I was in my grandma’s backyard, I only wished to set foot in new horizons, but now as an adult, it seems as if my world has shrunk into a small garden, where every flower blooms in spring and every sweet fruit pops up in summer. Those growing up with the red dirt of the Central Highlands get to experience another season: coffee season. It’s a time when the “aroma” of fertilizers fill the air, in between the nutty notes of ripe coffee beans drying in the courtyard. Grandma’s courtyard is also the witness to a gaggle of kids playing without any ulterior motives, tearful hiccups during punishments by parents, and the seemingly endless afternoons waiting for my grandma to get home from the market.

A petite home in Vĩnh Long. Photo by Bùi Đình Chương via Tuổi Trẻ.

These days, the giáng hương tree has grown so large that it litters the ground with mounds of leaves and petals. My uncle wanted to chop it down, but grandma insisted on keeping it: “It’s always been there, it’s no trouble!” In my mind, it's her wish not just to preserve an old tree, but also to keep the soulful landscape of our courtyard intact.

Major metropolises like Saigon and Hanoi might boast the most concentrated distributions of coffee shops in Vietnam, but a new crop of fresh faces in other up-and-coming towns have emerged in the scene, offering sterling brews, spacious seats, and, in some cases, delightful interior design that blends modern cafe conventions with uniquely local flairs.

Designed by Saigon-based KSOUL Studio, Đàng Trong Cafe is a newcomer to the Vietnamese coffee scene, having opened its doors only in 2024, but the Gò Công cafe is already making a name for itself as a must-visit stop on the Mekong Delta trek. A town in Tiền Giang, Gò Công is just 60 kilometers from Hồ Chí Minh City and was once the capital of Gò Công Province under the French administration until 1975.

Like many other Mekong Delta townships such as Châu Đốc and Mỹ Tho, the urban landscape of Gò Công is characterized by spacious nhà ba gian architecture. Multi-generational households used to live on the same spacious lot in expansive three-compartment homesteads connected by two wings, surrounding a courtyard filled with trees and flowers.

Classical nhà ba gian decorative elements — a confluence of French and Chinese influences — were what inspired the interior design of Đàng Trong Cafe, which is based inside a corner house facing three streets. These include the use of ornate balustrades, abacus-inspired decor, wooden rafters and woven bamboo on the ceiling, patterned cement tiles, and natural terracotta tiles, amongst others.

Those who have been to the Traditional Medicine Museum in Saigon would also find some wall decorations familiar: they are botany illustrations done in the vintage style showcasing local medicinal plant species. The use of natural textures like wood and bamboo in contrast with a bright turquoise creates a familiar but modern ambiance for anyone seeking a refreshing drink to combat the intense Mekong Delta heat.

Have a close look at Đàng Trong Cafe below:

[Photos by Phu Dao via ArchDaily]

Thick multi-layer brick walls, shaded areas, water features, and natural ventilation allow this private home to stay cool amidst the city's stifling heat.

Nam House designed by CTA Architects emphasizes comfortable temperatures over stylistic flourishes or newfangled aesthetics. The result, as reported by Design Boom, is an austere but cozy dwelling that sets a good example for future development in the area. 

The Thủ Đức home is divided into three main blocks. The front block containing the garage, bathroom, study, and one bedroom; the back block has two more bedrooms, a bathroom, and a laundry — both surrounded by a 250-millimeter, three-layer brick shell that absorbs sunlight but allows airflow for heat transfer. The open block between these two contains a dining and relaxation area that is open to sunlight and fresh air. The setup prioritizes privacy thanks to thick walls that shield against sound and conceal the open middle section.

In addition to this basic arrangement, subtle construction choices allow for further climate control. All rooms have at least two windows so cool breeze can replace stagnant warm air. The brick walls rely on raked motor joints that create shade and reduce heat absorption by 14–16% while Z-shaped shades integrated into doors and windows promote airflow to further cut down on thermal drafts during peak hours. Even the seemingly decorative water features contribute to keeping the home cool. A pleasant pond on the northeast side of the home brings average temperatures down from 6 to 8°C.

To casual observers, the house may seem to have been built as cost-efficiently and easily as possible with little concern for appearances. However, understanding the conscious construction choices allows us to admire functionalism as a style in and of itself. Being comfortable without egregious air-conditioning use as supported by humble natural materials is an admirable aesthetic. 

Have a look at the photos, taken by Hiroyuki Oki below:

[Photos courtesy of CTA Architects]

In the middle of the 20^th century, Vietnam grew to become one of the world’s prominent centers of modernist architecture. Saigon at the time was an economic and cultural heart of the region, with many official government structures constructed and designed in the style of modernist architecture. They were created with aesthetics and form in mind, laying the groundwork to usher in a new period of growth for Vietnamese creative independence.

Amongst such buildings is the headquarters of the Voice of Ho Chi Minh City People (VOH), or Đài tiếng nói Nhân dân Thành phố Hồ Chí Minh in Vietnamese, located at 3 Nguyễn Đình Chiểu Street, District 1. The station radio building was started and completed in two eras, a metaphorical hyphen linking historical episodes.

The VOH building was designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm in 1969.

The compound was designed by architect and urban planner Lê Văn Lắm in 1969. It’s not hyperbolic to claim that, in the decades following the end of French colonization in Vietnam, Lắm was amongst the powerhouses playing a key role in shaping the identity of the nation’s architectural landscape. He was involved in numerous major projects in southern Vietnam at the time — such as the V.A.R building on Nguyễn Công Trứ Street, with a layer of complex and wondrous brise-soleil. He was also consulted during the making of the HCMC General Sciences Library, another modernist design by Bùi Quang Hanh and Nguyễn Hữu Thiện.

Lắm, too, was the creator of many urban plans for the era's recently established metropolises. As the country underwent an exciting new age, he analyzed and pointed out the key areas needed to develop Saigon in 1962. The following year, in 1963, he delivered a keynote at the Centre Culturel Français (French Cultural Center) on Paris’s significant urban concerns.

In Saigon, one of the most outstanding creations of Lê Văn Lắm is the Radio Broadcasting Station, now known as the VOH Building. It was designed in 1969, but construction couldn’t be completed before 1975 and it took a few years after to finish the necessary reparation and resume construction. The final design of the brise-soleil was also modified due to how the construction was conducted.

Although the golden age in the development of Vietnamese modernist architecture happened during the time when the country was separated, this Lê Văn Lắm project finished right after that. The VOH headquarters, hence, can be seen as a witness to a key historical episode in the architectural chapter of Saigon’s development. At the same time, it is, on its own, an iconic example of architectural excellence, accentuating the distinctions between Vietnam’s local version of modernism compared to that of the world.

The first distinction lies in how the blueprint thoroughly takes into consideration the climate in which the building will exist: heavy rainfall, high humidity, and ample thermal radiation. Thus, the VOH building is divided into three parts. One comprises the ground floor with an extended roof and a front porch facing the heavy Saigon traffic in front. The second part consists of the three floors in the middle where staff work, surrounded by a layer of brise-soleil, pushing the functional area deeper inside, reducing exposure to the heat, and boosting ventilation. The third part is the raised roof on top, designed to curtail head accumulation and rain splash. These features aptly adapt the building to the weather context, providing comfort and convenience for the people who use while keeping construction costs low. As an example of vernacular architecture, it epitomizes elegance and softness, instead of the imposing features of other strains of modernist architecture out there — all thanks to the manipulation of volumes and empty spaces to create shadows.

The VOH building and its features, as designed by Lê Văn Lắm in 1969.

The second distinction is of utmost importance in deciding the identity of a work of modernist architecture — architectural formation. Across the structure, built on top of utility features are geometric artifacts forming details that are nearly sculptural and abstract in nature. From the layer of brise-soleil to the cantilevered beams supporting the carved roof, these architectural elements seem to exude a celebration of humanity instead of just merely being structural features. The building is almost akin to an inner dialogue between the architect and his intuition, not through extraneous decorative motifs but as a direct manifestation of his aesthetic sensibility.

The building’s abstract design.

Furthermore, Lắm is a seasoned employer of shadows. The deeply recessed voids of the structure form dense, thick patches of shadow. Even though shadow is an intangible “material,” visitors can sense that it is an element that was carefully deliberated and embedded across the design. Besides, the building also neatly hides the structural joints, creating a visual effect — almost an illusion — that the architectural elements are floating in mid-air.

The VOH Building is not just the answer to the puzzle of how to balance form and function in the modernist style, it is also the result of its creator’s acute aesthetic sensibility in crafting visually striking architectural works. The employment of shadows and “floating” elements is greatly embraced in Vietnamese modernist architecture, and this building is a prime example.

Lắm’s creation is proof that architecture and culture are tightly interwoven, even amid the constantly changing currents of time. The work is an assertive declaration of identity and of an up-and-coming culture that’s both self-sufficient and distinctive.

Located 130 kilometers from Saigon, this humble housing project in Bà Rịa-Vũng Tàu is a prime example of living enough rather than living large. Even though the family owns a lot spanning a total area of 1,000 square meters, the house itself only covers 62.8 square meters, utilizing locally available materials and craftsmanship on a budget of US$19,000.

Designed by Saigon-based firm studio anettai, the home was commissioned by a son who wanted to create a peaceful haven for his mother and brother, away from the fast pace of city life. Instead of dense neighborhoods and chaotic alleys, this country homestead is surrounded by vast stretches of rubber and pepper plantations, typical of the region.

The design reflects the characteristics of suburban homes in rural Vietnam, blending practicality and simplicity. The house’s box-like shape is shaded by a large steel roof with significant overhangs, creating deep shadows that cool the interior and shelter the rear of the house. The roof design which relies on a double-layered system significantly reduces solar heat radiation and prevents water leakage, while promoting natural ventilation — an essential feature in the humid tropical climate.

The home’s minimalist concrete structure and block walls define the core living space. Meanwhile, the overhanging steel roof extends beyond the walls, creating an outdoor dining and kitchen area that seamlessly blends indoor and outdoor living. Wide sliding doors connect the living area to the vast surrounding fields, dissolving the boundary between the interior and nature.

Translucent tarps can be easily installed or removed to control the amount of sunlight entering the home, adjusting the shadows according to the changing position of the sun through dry and wet seasons. This flexible design allows the residents to shape their environment to their needs, fostering a sense of connection to the rhythms of nature.

In this tropical region, where weather patterns can be unpredictable, the house embraces ambiguity, as the space is defined not by rigid boundaries, but by a fluid layering of elements that spread across the land, inviting the outside in.

[Photos by Hiroyuki Oki, courtesy of studio anettai]

Take a stroll along any random street in downtown Saigon, one is bound to bump into a hodgepodge of architectural styles. Sleek but boring international-style skyscrapers, tranquil Buddhist pagodas, and yellow colonial villas peek out in between a sea of generic tube houses. Amid those influences, the predominantly gray facades of modernist houses seem drowned out by the noises.

The decades from 1940s to 1970s are considered by researchers of Vietnamese history and architecture as the golden age of kiến trúc hiện đại Việt Nam, a uniquely Vietnamese flavor of the kind of global modernism that was in vogue in the mid-20^th century. This local movement was spearheaded by a number of architects like Huỳnh Tấn Phát, Nguyễn Quang Nhạc, Nguyễn Văn Hoa, and Phạm Văn Thâng, who designed some of the city’s most iconic modernist buildings.

As French colonialism took its last breath, in this period, Vietnam was eager to foster a new society centered by independence and optimism for the future, according to architect Mel Schenck. “Vietnamese architects jumped past the neoclassical and art deco architecture of the French architects directly into modernism, since it expressed their autonomy and their aspirations to be a modern country in the industrial age,” he writes.

Over time, the appearance of numerous modernist structures across the city, from residential tenements to government offices and shophouses, has built up a wealth of modernist architecture elements — a vernacular “dictionary” that’s still being used and appreciated today by new projects. The five buildings introduced here represent the most distinctive features of Vietnamese modernism, blending style with function to fit the local tropical climate.

1. V.A.R Building | 9 Nguyễn Công Trứ, D1

Photo by Alberto Prieto.

The V.A.R building, finished in 1973 and designed by architect Lê Văn Lắm, is a great example of Vietnam's mid-20^th-century modern style, showcasing both the country’s unique post-colonial creativity and push for cultural independence. Lắm was one of the early architects who shaped the tropical modernist movement, making modern buildings work well in Vietnam’s hot and humid weather. His use of the double-skin method, seen in many of his designs, is especially notable here. The V.A.R building’s front, with its “moving” double-skin at the busy corner of Hồ Tùng Mậu and Nguyễn Công Trứ streets, stands out for both its smart function and interesting texture and structure. Despite the tight space, Lắm chose to use this feature for its cooling effect, making the building a great model of how modern design can adapt to Vietnam's urban and tropical needs.

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

Read our in-depth feature about the V.A.R building here.

2. HCMC General Sciences Library | 69 Lý Tự Trọng Street, D1

Photo by Kate Tipler.

Covering about 7,000 square meters, the Ho Chi Minh City General Sciences Library is another prime example of southern Vietnam’s modernist architecture from the late 20^th century. The site was originally a mint in the 19^th century, but later became a French colonial prison, and then a university before the current library was built between 1968 and 1971 by architects Nguyễn Hữu Thiện and Bùi Quang Hanh, with Lê Văn Lắm providing technical insights. Its geometric façade, inspired by eastern designs, includes intricate motifs resembling the Chinese character for happiness. The building also features symbolic representations of dragons and phoenixes, mythological creatures believed to bring harmony, success, and positive energy to the space. The library, too, employs the double-skin method to reduce exposure to outside heat for readers while providing ample canopy to shield them from the rain.

Photos by Lee Starnes.

3. V.O.H Radio Building | 3 Nguyễn Đình Chiểu, D1

Photos by Alberto Prieto.

Designed in 1969, the Voice of Ho Chi Minh City People (V.O.H) building is another creation of Lê Văn Lắm that demonstrates his vision and thorough command of modernist architectural language. Although construction began before 1975, the building was not fully completed until years later due to ongoing modifications. Lắm’s design masterfully responded to Vietnam’s tropical climate, incorporating three distinct structural elements: a ground floor with extended eaves to handle high traffic, three central floors wrapped in a brise-soleil layer to improve ventilation and reduce heat, and an elevated roof to prevent heat accumulation and rainwater intrusion. This passive design approach not only created a comfortable, cost-effective building but also added to the unique gracefulness of Vietnamese modernism, with its softer, more humanistic expression.

Read our in-depth feature about the VOH building here.

4. Reunification Palace | Bến Nghé Ward, D1

Photo by CreateTravel.tv on Unsplash.

Before this iconic building stood at the western end of Lê Duẩn Boulevard, the site housed the French Palace of the Government, or Norodom Palace, which was demolished in May 1962. Construction of the new palace began in July 1962 and was completed in 1966. The modern design was the vision of architect Ngô Viết Thụ, who was the first Vietnamese to win the Grand Prix de Rome in 1955. Thụ blended modern and traditional Asian architecture by incorporating auspicious Chinese characters into the building's layout. The palace's shape reflects different characters depending on the viewing angle. 

Photos by Rowan Heuvel on Unsplash.

The façade at the Independence Palace was inspired by the image of bamboo, using concrete with a white finish to create a visually striking effect under sunlight. Designed by sculptor Nguyễn Văn Thế, the two-story brise-soleil features abstract, prefabricated vertical concrete elements resembling bamboo stalks. These bamboo segments form a "stone curtain" with nine leaf-shaped openings to allow light into the building, reminiscent of bamboo blinds used in traditional Vietnamese homes.

5. Thống Nhất Hospital | 1 Lý Thường Kiệt, Tân Bình District

Situated on a 3-hectare plot at the intersection of Cách Mạng Tháng 8 and Lý Thường Kiệt streets, commonly known as Ngã Tư Bảy Hiền, Thống Nhất Hospital as we know today used to be named Vì Dân Hospital when it was first built by the previous government. Before 1954, the plot was a military outpost. Its design was the work of architect Trần Đình Quyền, the “father of hospitals” in Saigon.

Photo by Lee Starnes.

Born in Huế in 1932, Quyền got into a medical program in Saigon but dropped out because he was too afraid of dissection. He enrolled in architecture school instead and graduated in 1960. Soon after, UNICEF awarded Quyền a two-year scholarship to study hospital design at Columbia University. His experience learning how the US plans medical facilities played a major role in the conceptualization of Thống Nhất Hospital, the design of which marked a departure from the fragmented style of French-designed hospitals often seen in Saigon at the time. These often have scattered, isolated wards connected by covered walkways, making it difficult to provide quick care. Quyền incorporated the American approach, where medical services were huddled in close proximity in one building block.

Still, instead of adopting the fully enclosed American model with its high reliance on centralized air conditioning, Quyền modified the design for Vietnam’s hot climate by creating separate but connected blocks, maximizing natural light and airflow while incorporating features like brise-soleil and large open spaces to reduce heat and improve ventilation, making the hospital more energy-efficient and better suited to the region’s conditions.

“A book must be the axe for the frozen sea inside us,” according to famed Czech writer Franz Kafka.

 Those entering Kafka's namesake library in rural Trà Vinh will find it easier to shatter those frozen seas thanks to a simple but secure library. 

Like many rural areas in Vietnam, economic difficulties reduce children's access to books and appropriate spaces to read them, which hinders their ability to learn, develop, and ultimately succeed in the world. Basi Atelier in the Basi community in the suburbs of Trà Vinh City thrifted together many of the materials to create a simple three-room dwelling that places the comfort of its readers at the forefront.

Video via Kafka Library's YouTube Page.

Kafka's bright orange facade makes it immediately noticeable amongst the lush Delta foliage that surrounds it in a natural garden. The simple building consists of one large room whose walls are lined by bookshelves. A few chairs, tables and basic furniture invite guests to read, study and relax naturally amongst books. The space doubles as an event and community space able to accommodate larger groups. The loft directly above offers an uncluttered reprive for further lounging beside literature. Smaller areas are reserved for a kitchen, toilet and pantry so people can further appreciate the placid pace of life in a library. 

Much of the library was constructed with recovered and upcycled materials. For example, the doors, windows, main staircase and roof shingles were collected from other buildings in Trà Vinh with the help of volunteers. Kafka Library's chill atmosphere is established in part by its embrace of natural light and the elements. A transparent roof and large windows let in light while cool air enters across the lotus pond outfront.

Take a look at more of the photos of the library below and visit Kafka Library's Facebook page to learn more and consider a visit when you're nearby. 

[Photos by Nguyen Dao Thu Linh via ArchDaily]

A Quảng Nam brick kiln that's been operating for over twenty years has received a makeover that allows guests to get a more intimate look at the traditional craft of making terracotta.

Before implementing any alterations to the standing brick kiln, Saigon-based architects Tropical Space observed the kiln worker's daily rhythms. After observing how their working, walking, sitting and resting habits interplayed with the light, wind and temperature, they designed two 5.4-meter-high folded brick walls that create three separate areas that accommodate routine tasks and visiting guests.

An external experiential zone along the straight outer wall invites guests to interact with the craft and make their own clay souvenirs. The innermost zone is used as the daily workspace for the kiln employees. The walkway that connects these two areas displays unfinished and broken pieces, brick slag, and leftover materials, showcasing the full, messy process to those exploring the kiln.

In addition to learning about the process for forming, firing and finishing terracotta bricks, guests will gain a new appreciation for brick as a building material. The new walls contain geometric holes and open bases that allow refreshing breeze to sweep in from the nearby bamboo groves. These gaps in the walls also provide views of the craftspeople adding fire and charcoal in the kiln and removing finished products, encouraging visitors to appreciate how the smoke sashays into the sky and shadows slump in the late afternoon.

Video of Lê Đức Hạ's workspace and the newly embellished kiln. Video via Lê Đức Hạ Terra Cotta YouTube account.

This 2024 project in Điện Phương comes after the architecture team designed a cubic studio for artist Lê Đức Hạ on the same plot of land near the Thu Bồn River. Situated near a Chăm capital dating back to the 4^th Century, the workshop's brick and bamboo design takes inspiration from the former empire's architectural style. Seen together, the new walls surrounding the old kiln and the studio exist harmoniously with geometric garden plots and trees along the river bank. 

Have a look at the fabulous structures below:

[Images via Archdaily]. 

The super cute duo that make up the design studio “Exutoire” are Bùi Quý Sơn and Paul-Antoine Lucas. Life and work partners, they moved back(ish) to Vietnam from Oslo last year, and are currently preparing the opening of the exhibition “OUTLET: Slow/ed/ing Architecture” in Saigon.

As architects, they seek to “challenge norms however you want to see it, to be more inclusive, less prescriptive,” allowing room for an array of uncommon values such as care, commons, and play. The exhibition, which opened on July 18, is an installation presenting a series of interviews conducted in 2022 and 2024 with three Saigon-based architecture collectives: sgnhA, Nhabe Scholae, and Aaaaaa. The interviews are intimate and revealing, questioning what it means to create and run a (small) spatial practice in contemporary Vietnam, and celebrating those that do.

The exhibition's posters.

By incorporating different perspectives on ways of practicing architecture, OUTLET reveals the complex conditions, realities, and concerns of such a setup, but more importantly, the convictions, motivations, and ambitions that fuel their accomplishments.

Imagined as a visual, physical, and spatial support for encounter, the exhibition is formed of co-created social spatiality, shedding light on the collective aspect of the OUTLET project. For this, Exutoire collaborated with each office, making objects as exhibited pieces as well as functional supports. These compose “artifacts of assembly” that aim to bring people together.

A corner of the exhibition space.

I was delighted to chat to Sơn and Paul-Antoine about the project, love heart emojis and all!

Elise Luong:
<3
Hello my loves! I am so happy to be doing this interview!

Paul-Antoine Lucas:
Hello lovely, so glad to have you on this *aw*

Bùi Quý Sơn:
Bienvenue to the wasteland of our relationship <3 <3

Elise:
Absolutely not a waste of time! As a lover of your work, and even more of your friendship, I am so excited that you have the OUTLET project coming out soon in Saigon. Well done ❤

We are meeting here in this chat space because I was hoping for Saigoneer to replicate the playfulness of the interviews in OUTLET. It might push my Gen-Zness to the max but let’s hold virtual hands and see how it goes?

Paul-Antoine:
Perfect!

Sơn:
This is the perfect occasion for us to collaborate actually. I’ve been wondering about how to work together since we met. Combining love and work is a real thing with us haha!

Interviewing Aaaaaa.

Tbd Office building construction. Photo by Lê Hữu Triết.

Elise:
Collaboration, love, work, friendship are perfect places for me to start with my questions :)

The three offices you featured in OUTLET really seem to value their personal and professional relationships. Is that why you selected them?

Sơn:
We didn’t know them personally before the interviews but did have a feeling that there was a strong human side to what they were doing.

So technically, no, that wasn’t why we reached out to them, but on some levels, it was what we were hoping for.

Paul-Antoine:
I think feeling is a good way to describe it. Indeed, nothing could really tell us how they are as people/humans or how they operate as architects.

Nevertheless, just by looking at projects sometimes, you can have a sense of the personality of a designer. Are they extroverted, shy, megalomaniac? :)

With these three practices, we had a hunch that they were more on the humble and generous side, looking to share with others. And that’s why we ended up interviewing them

Elise:
I realize we might need to side-step as I didn’t ask an intro question!

Who is Exutoire? What are you guys up to?? Omg let me add another question. Maybe you could tell us about the exhibition you're preparing in Saigon?

Paul-Antoine:
Complete 360, love it.

Sơn:
We’re (literally) a couple of queerdos, educated as architects, struggling with what it means to be architects, and trying to be our own kind of architects. We usually present ourselves as a queer critical spatial practice working toward social, spatial, and material justice.

Paul-Antoine Lucas (left) and Bùi Quý Sơn (right). Photo by Vũ Khôi Nguyên. 

Elise:
And in this exhibition — which I am gleefully interviewing you about — you discuss the values of care, inclusivity, sustainability, common good, and playfulness.

It really tickles my interests in the interrelation of elements, human and not, and how things like social factors, access, and alternative economics can influence those working in the creative sector.

Sơn:
That explains a lot why we’re (goooooooooooood) friends! It seems like a lot of our interests intersect. The interrelation between human, financial, ideological, social, environmental factors in the operation of an architecture office in contemporary Vietnam is what we’re looking at through the three case studies of sgnhA, Aaaaaa, and Nhabe Scholae.

What makes them different (even though just slightly, sometimes) from others, lies in how they articulate those links through design, almost like doing research by design or by practice.

Paul-Antoine:
More than an exhibition, “Slow/ed/ing Architecture” is a spatial installation giving hints at the discussions we had with the three offices. We’re trying to recreate the vibes of the conversations that we had with them in summer 2022 and during the last weeks.

The space also aims to foster more conversations, new conversations around conversations in a way. We will present some of the images of the encounters, some pictures of the architects’ work, and some of their inspirations, personal and creative things that define them.

Lastly, we’re working with the designers to create objects within the space to host people, furniture/sculpture hybrids that speak to their ways of practicing: an interest for plants or renovation for instance.

Interviewing Nhabe Scholae.

The lush garden in a recent Nhabe Scholae project. Photo courtesy of Nhabe Scholae.

Elise:
So a human-interested rather than project-interested vibe? Which is not too common, right? I love how this project is kind of gently messing things up! There are a few winks in here that are not what we see everyday, from how you interview, the topics you cover, even the language you use.

By making the industry of architecture seem relatable (and *gasp* even fun!), would you say you are trying to shake things up? My take on this is that you are pushing to celebrate alternative processes rather than criticize traditional ones. Is this correct?

Sơn:
Shaking things up is a BIG claim, I don’t know if I can say that’s what we do. But there’s an unapologetic objective of turning the tables around and asking ourselves (and others) the questions: Why is the architecture industry this way? Why are we accepting to build bad projects for bad people, and along the way, disrespectfully exploit the things we should really care about: the people right around us, our employees, peers, friends? Maybe there’s some criticizing in there haha. But the alternative practices come in right there to make that criticism constructive.

Paul-Antoine:
Don’t get us wrong, we’d love to criticize traditional architecture offices, but it’s probably a more private conversation to be had. There’s so much… being built everyday by designers, but they’re probably never going to read what we publish, so what’s the point?

We’re glad to see that you enjoyed the cheeky/relatable aspect of the format we adopted, that’s indeed the whole point. We often refer to an essay published in 1990 by Reyner Banham (sorry for the referencing, I promise, it’s not to be pedantic) describing the architecture profession as “secretive,” and calling it the “blackbox.” What he means is that this secret is just a smoke mirror, (too many) designers follow instincts, preferences, and trends but always try to pretend that there’s a lot more behind their production that people wouldn’t understand.

Fortunately, many practitioners do indeed have convictions, hopes, and a productive critical outlook that tries to challenge the way we do things within capitalist-oriented societies. That’s what we try to uncover and decipher through. Moreover, we’re interested to learn, and share the back-of-house process that allows these designers to bring their message to life through projects.

Spectators perusing the exhibition. Photos by Vũ Khôi Nguyên.

Sơn:
We like the idea of proposing other ways of doing because it’s emancipatory and much more fun. Not only it’s how our brains work — always thinking about how to get around systems — it’s also because our targeted audience is young people, students, the next generations. We want to empower them to practice differently by presenting different tools, methods, and references; in this case, real stories of how they don’t have to follow exactly the trails of others.

Paul-Antoine:
What he said!

Elise:
And so how did you arrive to propose “slowness” as the embodiment of these alternative methods?
I am super interested in Degrowth Theory but I find it really difficult to apply those thoughts in my work, or in urban life in general.

What is Exutoire’s relationship to slowness? Is it a return to craft in design or something more philosophical?

Sơn:
The slowness idea came from the interviewees, or more precisely our reading of the interview transcripts. They all mentioned it in different ways: an innate trait of character, a want to slow down in reaction to the velocity of construction in Vietnam, a fresh change from how they were working before. In the context of those conversations, slowness is rather psychological, philosophical, and personal.

It sort of means: why go so fast if you’re not giving yourself enough time to make the project worth being built when you’re not even enjoying the work? However, in the end, reality would catch up with them as being slow might equal not earning enough money. I’ll let Paul-Antoine talk about what slowness means to us more specifically.

Paul-Antoine:
As Sơn explains, and as you mention in your question, slowness when meaning degrowth — which in some ways interviewees all directly or indirectly allude to — can be very difficult to achieve, especially in an urban environment.

Interviewing sgnhA.

A pathway at Okkio Coffee Duy Tân, a recent design by sgnhA. Photo by Hoang Le.

Paul-Antoine:
Slowness for us means doing less, and carefully considering the ethical, social, and environmental implications of a project. We don’t necessarily do projects slowly per se, but degrowth is very present in the way we build our practice. To counteract growth imperatives of contemporary systems, we have decided since 2019 to be just the two of us, without any employees. This in turn limits what projects we can take on and how much we can produce in a year. Dearth then means collaboration and co-authorship, which we believe is an interesting counterproposal to traditional practice methods, in the way that it doesn’t rely on cheap or free labor. As we haven’t built, it’s hard to say how it will manifest within the construction industry but we look to local crafts, social contexts, and rehabilitation as avenues to explore.

Elise:
Eeeek! Architects that don't build?!

Gosh, I have so many more questions! But maybe I could meet you on a bench in the exhibition?
Can we keep chatting there?

Paul-Antoine:
Yes please, enjoy the kangaroos in the meantime! Thanks for the very GenZ convo <3

Sơn:
See ya at the exhibit for more cute times (always)!

The exhibition “OUTLET: Slow/ed/ing Architecture” will be available for viewing at IDECAF, 31 Thái Văn Lung, D1, HCMC from July 18 to August 16. This event is free admission. For more details, click here.

Hammocks, koi ponds and mature trees are not typically associated with industrial parks.

Smog-spewing engines feeding gears to churn out widgets, pistons shuddering as tires rumble across concrete, truck beds groaning under the weight of rusted dreams for a satisfying life: mentions of Đồng Nai can often yield thoughts of industrial landscapes. Yet, one new company headquarters suggests it needn't be this way. 

In order to provide their employees with a better atmosphere, CP Vietnam has filled its headquarters with elements of peaceful nature. Native plants and adaptive species that provide shade and attract birds were planted in areas intended for communal use between the road and buildings. The company hopes its workers gather there for meals, and unstructured socializing. An area also provides space for peaceful walks and exercise. Customized hammocks strung up beneath the large trees are perfect for napping, reading a book or playing word games on one's phone. 

At the center of the new design is a koi pond that symbolizes the company's desire for good fortunes and perserverance, inviting workers to linger and feed the fish. Behind it is a grandstand for meetings and gatherings within view of vines that hang down from the rooftop.

Industrial spaces will always be, to some extent, at odds with the natural world, but they do not need to deny it completely. This construction by LJ-Group Landscape Architecture provides a great example of how companies are seeking to connect their employees with features essential to our mental wellbeing.

Have a look at the full design below:

[Photos via ArchDaily]

“We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive.”

I tried to remind myself of this Albert Camus line every time I passed the once-shuttered pedestrian bridge spanning the Nhiêu Lộc–Thị Nghè Canal near the Saigon Zoo.

Spanning the water between the Thị Nghè Bridge and Điện Biên Phủ Bridge, the beloved canal’s first pedestrian crossing will offer locals a modestly more convenient route from District 1 to Bình Thạnh. Reported to be 90% complete and “operational soon” back in December 2023, the humble infrastructure project remained frustratingly sealed behind corrugated steel sheets for months. It looked done, and I’d occasionally see workers on it painting some railing trim or staircase accents, yet for inexplicable reasons, we could not use it. This went on for months. 

As the wait dragged on, I sat down to write this piece. I decided that laughable delay shouldn't be an opportunity to bemoan the city’s infrastructure incompetence or to express skepticism for the other, larger pedestrian bridge recently announced, to say nothing of grander projects. There is enough negativity in the world and I didn’t want to sully anyone’s afternoon with my privileged bitching and bellyaching. 

Instead, when I passed the pedestrian bridge twice a week to attend Vietnamese class, I tried to see it as an opportunity to savor anticipation. The structure, simple in its severe cement, steel, and concrete, offered a lesson in delayed gratification. Humans do better with things to look forward to. The visible but closed bridge was a gift like the wrapped packages my parents would place under the tree a few days before Christmas, their presence heightening my excitement and making me appreciate them more once opened.

On July 4, I went to take photos of the metal barricades and found the bridge, shockingly, open. With no official announcement or news reports, and since my visit two days prior, it had opened. For the first time, I stepped onto the bridge, took a few photos, gazed at the scenery, and then stopped. I didn’t actually need to cross; I had no reason to go to the other side. The bridge has no use for me. Thankfully, Saigon has no shortage of sweet pains to remind me I am alive.

If many Vietnamese families often opt to reserve one room in their house plan for ancestor worship, this household in Hanoi decided to dedicate an entire backyard to their family altar.

Designed by AICC Architecture, Phú Lương House was built in 2021 in a cacophonous alley amid a suburban Hanoi village. The owners presented a challenge for the architects to reconcile many different living functions in one house: a commercial area for the family business, a tranquil quarter for spirituality, and living and interacting space for every household member.

The front of the house is reseved for business activities.

The resulting design divided the lot into two blocks with rather contrasting architectural styles. The front-facing block has clean contemporary features and a monochromatic palette while the back block is built in a traditional wooden style often seen in heritage homesteads or temples completed in past centuries.

A calming courtyard on the second floor

The ground floor is reserved for commercial activities and parking, in addition to a small dining area, a bedroom, and two bathrooms — one reserved for the business. The second story hosts the family’s communal space, with the main dining room connecting to a back courtyard, a small pond, and the altar room. The use of red terracotta tiles evokes a vintage air often seen in traditional homes.

Traditional furniture in the altar house.

If the contemporary block is quite simply furnished and designed with straight lines, white walls, and perpendicularity, the altar house is on the other end of the spectrum. Intricately carved columns, reliefs and animist motifs in bamboo and wood make up the majority of the architectural features.

Have a closer look at this interesting contrast via the photos below:

[Photos by Hoang Le via ArchDaily]

Who says a single person can't nest?

Leave it to a world-weary poet to take inspiration from a bird when constructing a riverside dwelling in the delta town of Cao Lãnh. After living in the busy city, the single man returned to his hometown in Đồng Tháp to be closer to relatives and asked Tad.atelier architects to build him a home that allowed him to commune with nature and himself. 

The poet proposed the concept of home channeling a bird's nest. In the same way a bird creates a cozy roost out of available scraps and bits of trash, fabrics and organic matter, the architects relied on repurposed building materials. The wooden structure, for example, was reused from the frame of an old house in the area while much of the furniture is second-hand. And once the building was complete, spare wood was used to assemble a small hut beside the river. 

Because of a recently completed road, Tân Thuận Tây Village is being transformed into a residential area. This poet, however, wanted his home to retain the area's rustic charm. Thus, the new dwelling was constructed according to a slope design typical to the area and used construction techniques familiar to the traditional workmanship of the Delta. The resulting structure's wood and earthen materials feel as if they've stood along the meandering river for quite some time.

Because the home has only one occupant, its 50 square meters could be creatively used. The large communal space that opens up to the plant-filled veranda occupies the majority of the property. Dividers are used to partition off the home's more private areas while retaining the atmosphere of a humble shack to foster creativity.

Have a look at more of the design plan and photos below:

[Photos via arch.daily]

In the middle of nowhere Bảo Lộc, perched on the side of an alternative national road is the wooden carapace of Nguyen Coffee, a veritable “Noah’s ark” welcoming travelers in for a short break to enjoy its drinks and spectacular view of the Đá Bàn Stream below. 

Designed by Bảo Lộc-based The Bloom Architects, this cafe has a location not unlike other nature coffee shops in Đà Lạt and the surrounding environs — right on the side of a hill. Nguyen Coffee’s emphasis on rustic materials, however, is a stylistic choice that helps it stand out, thanks to a towering wooden roof made of woven wooden strips.

The roof structure is made of three layers: a transparent corrugated iron layer to temper sunlight intensity while allowing some natural light in, another iron layer that protects patrons from the elements, and a ceiling made of natural wood that helps reduce the noises, provides insulation, and creates interesting lighting patterns.

Have a look at the Bảo Lộc coffee stop below:

[Photos by Hiroyuki Oki via ArchDaily]

A humble production hut built with recycled bottles, local timber, thatched roof and simple granito concrete floors is used as a bottling facility for drinking water.

The traditional structure invites guests to observe the process and learn more about the simple steps that can be taken to more responsibly consume water and reduce plastic waste and its associated production costs. 

Designed by architects Chi.Arch, the bright building stands in a forested area of the luxury Ninh Vân Bay resort underscoring the facility's role in preserving nature. In addition to providing a hygienic space to produce clean water in glass bottles, it features large glass windows and a seating area for visitors to observe the production line and machines and learn more about the efforts.

The simple, natural wood aesthetic blends into the surrounding landscape filled with trees that form a natural buffer against erosion into the nearby ocean. Located directly next to the resort's tennis court, it aims to draw the attention of curious guests. Microscopes, television screens and other teaching equipment offer more information on the bottling process and its importance to more holistic sustainability efforts.

[Photos by Thanh Pham via ArchDaily]

Cement, air, water, sand, and gravel: concrete is a simple material. Same for glass, that spread of super-heated quartz sand. 

But these basic building blocks rest at the center, if not also the core, of this coffee shop in Gò Vấp district. Sawadeesign Studio said it wanted the bare concrete to support an industrialist design that doesn't promote "flashy and glossy" beauty.

The building makes a bright impression on the busy street corner. 

The Katinat location found at 196 Lê Văn Thọ Street doesn't let its minimalist vibe interfere with function, however. The glass facade provides for a complete view of the world outside and the large, uncluttered open space allows for ventilation. Glass and steel overhangs further help to block out onerous sun rays. 

During the day, the Katinat appears much simpler, perhaps even resembling an unfinished building. 

While the cafe might not quite compel patrons to travel across the city, it is another entry into the seemingly stalemate war between industrial coffee shops, vintage coffee shops, plant-filled garden cafes, and innocuous chains occupy the middle-ground while niche entries like pet cafes, cottegecore outposts and Victorian teahouse throwbacks watch from the sidelines.

A spartan interior prime for hours of solitude. 

Separate rooms and natural divides should make it easy to isolate loquacious parties from quieter guests.

The concrete sidewalk notably transitions smoothly to the coffee shop's walls. 

Metallic chairs with leather cushions.

The industrial, rough-hewn exterior mimics the vibes found inside. 

Anyone passing will notice the conventional ordering area and signboards. 

[Photos by HLrStudio via ArchDaily]