In part two of our oral history with Bui Huu Hung, we explore the challenges and missed opportunities faced by Vietnamese art in the global market. Despite its distinct cultural and artistic identity, the lack of professional galleries, proper valuation, and institutional support has left Vietnamese art struggling to gain its rightful place. Join us as Bui Huu Hung discusses the critical gaps in the market and how these hurdles continue to hold back the full potential of Vietnamese art on the world stage.
Read Part 1 and Part 3 of the interview here.
D: You mentioned that Vietnamese art once stood out in Southeast Asia and was even better received in some parts of the world than Chinese art, yet it later lost momentum due to disruptions. In your view, what were the key moments or decisions that caused Vietnam to fall behind in the global art scene?
BHH: I’ll put it this way: from around 1990 to 1996, Vietnamese art was thriving compared to other Southeast Asian countries. It was a standout. In Taiwan, contemporary music was strong, but in painting, people always mentioned Vietnam. And yet, there was another major player—China.
China’s Avant-Garde artists were known internationally, largely because their work was politically charged. Their first wave of Avant-Garde art was directly tied to politics. Vietnamese artists, on the other hand, had no political themes. Their art was gentle. Yet, people saw something fresh in it. And this was reflected in market value.
For example, when the Avant-Garde movement first brought Vietnamese and Chinese art abroad, their prices weren’t too different. The Chinese were ahead by just a couple of years. At that time, the Chinese Avant-Garde paintings were selling for $20,000–$25,000, while the Vietnamese Avant-Garde pieces were selling for $7,000–$15,000. The world saw both as emerging movements of similar artistic value.
The French, in particular, were drawn to Vietnamese art because they saw traces of their own artistic heritage in it. It was nostalgic, familiar. And the French have a strong revolutionary spirit; they preferred art for art’s sake rather than overtly political messages. To them, politicized art was often seen as mere propaganda. At the time, Impressionism and the pursuit of beauty in art were still highly valued, so Vietnamese paintings were well received in France, even in parts of the U.S.—sometimes more so than Chinese art.
But the way China managed its artistic development was different. They moved quickly and consistently. They never stopped pushing forward. Vietnam, however, faced many disruptions.
And that’s just part of our fate as a nation. Some call it bad luck, some call it timing. Politicians and cultural scholars say our moment hadn’t come yet—our vận hadn’t arrived. Vận, as in destiny.
D: On a similar note, what challenges did you face as an artist in Vietnam?
BHH: The biggest challenge is actually the system. The system and the mindset of people after the war—people who endured immense hardship during and after the war, carrying the weight of past suffering. Before the Vietnam War, there were some relatively developed areas, but the majority of people lived in poverty, in extreme hardship. During the war, both sides survived on aid, on foreign support to sustain the conflict.
What makes art in Vietnam particularly difficult—and what many artists struggle with—is precisely the system of society. It’s not that everyone is the same, but society lost its foundation, and it never had a strong one to begin with. The roots were outdated. So, there’s a lack of international standards—no valuation companies, no institutions for evaluating art, and no established group of scholars specializing in art theory and research. We don’t have that. So, Vietnamese people have to build it themselves.
D: Do you feel that Vietnamese artists receive support from galleries, organizations, or government programs in terms of opportunities to grow as an artist?
BHH: No, they’re not. The government is always in a state of either breaking things apart or trying to put them back together.
Development never occurs smoothly—it’s always turbulent, always a kind of revolution. After the war, there was an immense need to rebuild and push forward in all directions. Thus, there was never steady, peaceful development—it’s been a series of revolutions, changes, and experiments. Stability never took root, and the mindset never stabilised either. The system is in constant flux, always being reshaped, never truly stable.
Look at China—they seem chaotic, but in reality, they are incredibly stable. They went through hardships, but once they opened up, their foundation remained solid. They haven’t had as many drastic upheavals as Vietnam. People think China went through many revolutions, but in fact, they didn’t go through nearly as many as we did.
The mindset shaped by war embodies a sense of urgency. In every aspect of life, people prioritize the immediate over sustainability—they concentrate on the present, the now. This mindset fails to establish a stable foundation. And it lacks professionalism. True professionalism means having a structured system. When the system fails, foreign organizations can’t operate effectively; they simply don’t have the opportunity to work. Abroad, they train artists in management, valuation, and countless other disciplines. Here? You’re molded into a “good painter” with technical skills, but barely any education in the broader ecosystem of art. So, the education is shallow and scattered. People are forced to study subjects that shouldn’t be mandatory for specialised schools. Everything is spread too thin, and as a result, there’s no solid training foundation. There’s no established artistic tradition either—Vietnam never really had that. From the feudal era to the war, art education and management never existed. There were no museum systems, no archives, no institutions dedicated to the arts or architecture. It’s been hollow from the beginning, and even after the war, it hasn’t had the chance to fully develop.
D: How would you describe the state of art galleries in Vietnam today, especially in terms of professionalism and their role in supporting artists?
BHH: In Vietnam, there still aren’t any truly professional galleries. The development began 30 years ago, perhaps even longer. When the first galleries started appearing, and even when the first seemingly professional galleries emerged, they didn’t operate with the mindset of a true gallery. And when it comes to gallery operations—managing artists, promoting, organizing exhibitions, structuring different levels of engagement—none of that truly exists. A valuation system is missing. Specifically, valuation in terms of money. This is something Vietnam fundamentally lacks. So, everything is fragmented, unstable, and this applies to other fields as well. It’s the same for antiques, artworks, and valuable objects in museums. Vietnam is missing something crucial: appraisal institutions. Financial appraisal. Banks don’t get involved. There are no professional appraisal companies. The only kind of appraisal that exists is identifying who created the piece. If it’s an antique, they can say how old it is and whether it’s authentic. But as for determining its monetary value—there’s nothing.
D: The next question I already know the answer to, but I still have to ask. Have you had the opportunity to exhibit your works abroad? And how has that experience influenced your career?
BHH: Of course, it had an impact! Before my generation, many famous Vietnamese painters exhibited their works, but only a select few had the opportunity to showcase their art abroad. This was before 1954—actually, around the 1950s—when the French were still in Vietnam. At that time, exhibitions were mostly for the French audience, organized by the French Union. But after the war, those activities stopped.
One particularly notable event was my exhibition with Uncle Thái (Le Hong Thai), Uncle Tân (Truong Tan), and Curator Veronika (Veronika Radulovic). It was held domestically, but it was the first time a foreign presence appeared in a Hanoi exhibition after 1954. I joined the exhibition. From 1954 until the 1990s, there wasn’t a single exhibition involving foreign artists. But once international involvement resumed, the idea of bringing Vietnamese artworks abroad started taking shape.
The early exhibitions from Vietnam had certain limitations—they were often more politically driven, focused on cultural diplomacy rather than professional artistic exchange. But for the artists, it was an entirely new horizon. Many spent their entire lives painting without ever having the chance to exhibit internationally. Even some of the most renowned painters—like Bui Xuan Phai—never set foot outside Vietnam. Nguyễn Sáng never traveled abroad either. Bui Xuan Nhi was one of the few who went to Japan, while some older painters had the chance to visit France.
A slightly younger generation—including Nguyen Tu Nghiem, Nguyen Sang, and Bui Xuan Phai—were only invited abroad after Vietnam’s reunification. But even then, some never made it. By the time the Doi Moi period arrived in 1986, both Sang and Phai had already passed away.
I was incredibly lucky to have exhibited abroad early—by the 1990s, I was already showing my work internationally. That gave me a tremendous sense of motivation.
At first, I was overwhelmed. When I arrived in Paris for the first time, I visited numerous exhibitions and spoke with many professional artists there. My initial reaction was pure shock—my work felt so small compared to the vast international art scene. It was humbling. But after traveling across Europe and reflecting, I realised something: I was fortunate.
What does it mean to be fortunate? To be in untouched territory – land nobody has mined or noticed. Our advantage is territorial. Regional advantage, you might say. Like ethnic or geographical privilege. Vietnamese art remains scarcely visible in global markets compared to Africa or other developing regions. Yet this obscurity breeds curiosity – it sparks interest among researchers and even casual art lovers.
Our emotions, our paintings attract attention. But professionally? We feel microscopic against the vast art market.
Then time passed, and I realized: our luck lies precisely in this regional void. My technique resembles no one’s. My works feel unprecedented. This distinct beauty carved us a market niche. That’s real fortune.
That’s one kind of luck. But there’s another kind that doesn’t fully arrive—it stops halfway.
We haven’t broken into those elite circles, the major leagues – the big museum tier. The higher echelons still overlook us. And that’s partly our fault—Vietnamese artists, dealers, and cultural representatives. Not the world’s fault! We can’t blame them.
Because our strength is there. Our distinctiveness. That singular Vietnamese spirit, that Eastern soul in our work—it intrigues people, even excites some.
Yet we’ve failed to build what China, ASEAN, or Japan did: a solid foundation, a visible sector in the global art’s landscape. That’s where we’ve lost out. Even now, that recognition still eludes us.
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to be continued.
