A Fat Purple Fig

It is so hot here, the rising sun feels coercive. When it appears, the temperature is a number that will not be repeated until midnight, or thereabouts, so a creeping dread accompanies the mercury rising. A silent voice entreats, ‘Leave. Leave now. Get out and do something’.

I have not been as brave in this country as I expected to be. Or, more to the point, I did not anticipate needing to be brave at all. In my imagination, I am the Fiona of Thailand in 2007, hailing tuk-tuks, failing at haggling, scoffing street food, and practicing my Thai on delighted locals. The Fiona of Vietnam in 2023 is a little lost. I have forgotten to smile.

I pre-examine the online menu at Highlands Coffee, the largest chain in Vietnam, and head to their nearest store. A small opening, between scooters, that leads to the entrance door, is so narrow, I almost walk straight past. Thank goodness I don’t – there’s no telling how far I might have walked for the sake of looking natural. At the counter, I know exactly where to point, and am soon sat at a window seat, buzzer at the ready. I busy myself watching an employee in a red shirt whose sole task is to park and retrieve scooters.

Caffeinated, I head for the Museum of Fine Arts, as suggested by our coffee guru. According to Quynh, the main building was once the home of Hui Bon Hoa, a Chinese-born trader who rose from simple beginnings to become the wealthiest man in Vietnam. Uncle Hỏa, as he is known, fathered many sons and one treasured daughter, whom he imprisoned. According to legend, Uncle Hỏa could not part with his daughter’s body after her death, and her spirit now haunts the museum. I later discover Uncle Hỏa died before the building was constructed, but I don’t suppose spirits just move away during renovations.

The main building is beautiful. I don’t know it yet, but I will be here for hours.

I am enthralled by the high ceilings and stained-glass windows, the French doors, the pillars and cornices, the wrought iron balustrades.

The building is designed around a central courtyard, so exploring it means traversing a square perimeter of hallways on each level, wandering in and out of the individual rooms that house artworks grouped loosely by theme. It is so hot and steamy that my body is damp, and I mop my face regularly with one of my dad’s cotton handkerchiefs. It is quiet, though, and despite there being other visitors, I mostly inhabit the rooms alone.

A story of Vietnam begins to unfold through its art.

I am so taken with a painting of a Vietnamese soldier holding a child, I circle back to it later, to take a close-up. I will later regret not having taken clearer images of the information panels, to better honour the artist.

Some artworks I love for no particular reason…

…whilst my reason for liking others, such as Ta Duy Doan’s ‘Female welder marking work points’, is particular indeed.

Duong Dinh Chien’s ‘Nhớ Lại’ or ‘Trying to recollect memories’ elicits a tear, and not for the first time. ‘I hear you,’ I want to tell him. Recalling memories, and trying to making sense of them, is a perplexing game. To be fair, this exact piece of music was playing at the time (Shazam), and I am prone to bouts of music sentimentality.

Vietnamese culture has great respect for the elderly, and this thread can be seen as strongly as the that of suffering. These sculptures of older Vietnamese women are especially evocative. The frailty and stoicism of ‘A Mother Joins the Resistance’ makes me sigh out loud. She has figured out the answer, that one, to putting one foot in front of the other.

Two rooms have been devoted to Nguyễn Sáng, whose painting ‘Thanh Nien Thanh Dong’ or ‘Youth of the City’ has been declared a National Treasure. It is an arresting painting, and I find myself looking at it for some time. He has painted ‘Go Home!’ on it in English and, I discover later, also in Vietnamese.

Even better is this article written about his death, which paints its own portrait of a man with ‘ferocious eyes’, marked by loss and recognised for being ‘a little bit naughty’, who drank wine all day before his paintings, before embarking on a frenzy of completion. The description of mourning reads:

‘In the yard, some artists who came to see him off were drunk, sometimes crying and laughing like crazy. There is nothing more painful than that. One person grabbed the other’s shoulder, both were drunk, and said: “You killed him!” while the other couldn’t answer. Just cried.’

Moving to different floors is as lovely as walking amongst the artworks.

Here is ‘Night in the Basement’, and ‘Getting out of the rain’.

The outdoor sculptures are captivating. If a plaque has been omitted from a photograph, it is because I am literally blinded by the light, or my eyes are stinging from perspiration salt, or the salt of tears. I don’t suppose it matters. The children are crushing.

I move to the second building, which is as beautiful as the first. It is quieter here, with the hum of portable air-conditioners providing a sound constant. In some rooms, they are surrounded by damp circles of carpet, demonstrating a commitment to staying cool over floor preservation. The artworks are displayed here with less cohesion, and are often uncredited. There are fewer favourites, but this makes locating them all the more satisfying.

Finally, I make my way over to building three. Isn’t she a beauty? As I step inside, I am welcomed by an oxymoron that makes me smile.

My footsteps herald my arrival, but I am completely alone. Some staircases are blocked by padlocked metal gates, extended across their bases, and cleaning supplies are tucked unexpectedly in alcoves and around corners. Small rooms contain displays-in-waiting, and cabinet glass is marked with a thousand fingerprints. I grow my collection of tile images, brazen in my solitude:

It is also much dimmer in here, lit mostly by a sun wedging its way through hundreds of louvres in the closed French doors. I enjoy spotting the less-cared-for, out-of-view side of the neighbouring building.

In the uppermost rooms, which house sculptures, I see some favourites in bronze; a deer, a peach-shaped incense holder, steampunk vibes.

I also fancy I meet the trader’s daughter, flickering across my screen as I try to capture the feeling of being in this shadowy oasis, hidden from the noise and bustle of the city.

It makes sense. In the estate of 99 doors, this floor would have been my choice too.