In the embrace of Ho Chi Minh City, I grew up basking in the harsh sunlight and laughter among the vibrant fabric stalls of An Dong Market in District 5. Running behind my mother, the heat and faint scent of fabric dye clung to me, nurturing my artistry. With every thread, every pattern, I listened to the whispers of generations past, their joys and struggles, intricately draped colors and patterns into the daily fabric of our lives. As I left my home and grew older, I began to understand that my roots and memories are, in many ways, woven from fabric.
Fabric has always been there, silently witnessing life’s most intimate moments. It holds us when we are first welcomed into the world, cradling us in warmth and love, and it is there when we take our final breaths, shrouding us in the quiet dignity of farewell. I remember how fabric gently cradled my grandparents’ last smiles, their faces softened by time and memory, as if the woven cloth had absorbed their essence. I watched as fabric wrapped my sister’s first born child, a fragile reminder of life’s precious beginnings. The vibrant patterns of cloth that once danced in the marketplace now echo in my art, carrying with them the weight of my heritage, the joy of creation, and the comfort of continuity. Fabric, for me, transcends beyond material—it is life itself, it connects generations, binding us to our past, and weaving us into the future.
