Jennifer Yang (JY): A look through my diary entries confirms that we met on Thursday the 25th of January. It was my third day in Hanoi, and I distinctly remember the experience of locating and navigating Matca as a building. There is this verticality to its structure: a specialty café entices at entry level, and the smell of roasting coffee beans wafts up the stairwell to the exhibition space. Above is the office, where we first talked over cups of hot earl grey tea…warming our fingers in what felt like freezing air temperatures. Hanoi’s winter…In the levels above: an Airbnb and an open dining space with a small balcony overlooking the Hồ Chí Minh Museum just opposite.

In that communal room, I recall seeing a lightbox installation of a photograph picturing a street scene of Hanoi at night—the work of a Belgian photographer, Wouter Vanhees, as you tell me. I couldn’t help but notice a self-consciousness about Matca’s physical location. How did Matca find itself here?

Hà Đào (HD): It was indeed a freezing day when we met. The short Hanoi winter can be unforgiving; this factor must have in part shaped the locals’ stern, grumpy front. The building where Matca is located was built from scratch in 2019, conceptualised by our co-founder Linh Pham. It takes the form of a typical tube house with a narrow facade and upward expansion—a testament to Vietnamese resourcefulness in the face of limited land resources. A photographer by day and avid guitar collector by night, Linh was also the mastermind behind its structure, running businesses like the café and Airbnb alongside to sustain this inherently unprofitable project. While the central location in the political heart of Vietnam could be an advantage, the daily view to the grand historical legacy acts as a reminder of the social climate where we operate. This is fitting because photography is a relational practice; a photograph cannot be divorced from its material conditions of creation and dissemination.

How did we find ourselves here? Long story short, it was more fortune than strategic growth. Matca first emerged as an online journal in late 2016, covering happenings in the local scene that fly under the radar. Being on the ground, we could zoom in on the contemporary landscape, extending beyond images of war iconised by the Western press and pictorialist impressions of a bucolic country upheld by both the national photography association and the tourism industry.

As a rookie, Matca became an excuse for me to contact other practitioners, including ones from different generations or disciplines. Reaching out was the first step to mapping a scene that was small, divided into camps, and rarely appeared in art history scholarship. Almost all stories required knocking on doors and conducting in-person interviews with photographers, almost never in their studios but more often in cafes and beer gardens. The early days of writing and commissioning articles have driven home the point that the Internet offers a very narrow slice of reality. For a while, I took pride in our “original content,” following in the footsteps of the Self-Reliant Literary Association (Tự Lực văn đoàn), a homegrown literary movement in French-colonised Vietnam that prioritised new writings by Vietnamese authors over the translation of well-known texts.

Under a similar ethos of filling the gaps, when the space became available, we tried our hands at everything including exhibitions, workshops, screenings, artist talks, portfolio reviews, residencies…we keep things open for both practical and conceptual reasons, allowing for changes in focus and scale. Although Matca already had a social media following by then, hosting physical events gave me a much clearer idea about our audiences. Having a space is an extreme privilege that puts Matca on the map in many senses. Personally, it helps me stay rooted.

JY: Can we explore this imperative to “stay rooted”? As opposed to being “rootless”? What does it mean to stay connected to roots, or to find our roots? I’m also thinking of a certain protectionist, nationalistic lingo which preaches a unitary identity, sovereignty, or self-sufficiency—remember your roots! What is the moment of origin we are referring to here? What are the (proverbial) roots, or rather, what is the soil?

HD: As cheesy as it sounds, I have lived almost my entire life in Hanoi, but it wasn’t until picking up a camera that I started reckoning with my ignorance about my own country. My first photo gig in 2017 was to assist a foreign photojournalist on a rather sensitive story about the state of religious freedom among the H’Mong communities. For ten days, we rode motorbikes through dirt roads and mountain passes in Northern Vietnam, interviewing many people who faced persecution for their beliefs. After that trip, the need to rub elbows with those from different backgrounds and to take notice of sociopolitical issues as they play out gained greater urgency. The decision to pursue photography and continue living in the country thus happened simultaneously, although there were and still are no tangible career prospects.

Staying rooted for me is not an abstract concept, it simply means continually (un)learning about Vietnam and engaging with the interesting yet by no means romantic realities of carving out a photography practice in this specific locale. Is the term “to be in the field,” meaning to scout and shoot on location, related to our rice farming tradition? There are definitely some similarities, such as the laborious nature and negotiation with external forces.

To run an independent space in Hanoi is to participate in a cultural scene defined by the lack of things: funding, infrastructure, manpower, freedom. In the beginning, I had this naive idea that whatever we lacked in materials could be made up with goodwill and artistic merit: despite the standard white-cube look, the usual setup just included a projector and some plastic stools. Always looming on the horizon, censorship does impact our operation, but I don’t want to paint a simplistic picture of artists vs. the state.

With the country opening up following the Đổi Mới (Renovation) campaign in 1986, exhibiting internationally became an option that allowed artists to skip the burdensome permit application process while appealing to audiences with more social capital and buying power. As told in the book Don’t call it Art!, because of their avant-garde works, a group of Vietnamese contemporary artists in the 90s had to deal with the discrepancy between being celebrated abroad and being regarded as outcasts at home. With cyberspace and calls for diversity everywhere, it is now easier for artworks to travel beyond national borders and for artists to gain more economic mobility. However, at this stage, I choose to speak first and foremost to the Vietnamese audience in both my personal practice and community initiatives. This means being aware of and responsible for the consequences that might entail.

JY: Is it useful to invoke Édouard Glissant’s formulation of the rhizome and the multiplicity of the root, in the Caribbean context? Roots can form part of dynamic, enmeshed, and mobile systems of relation that are essential for survival.

HD: It reminds me of Yen Vu’s piece Mangrove as Archive. Her closing remark is particularly thought-provoking: “We might thrive based on similarity, but our real strength is our ability to remember and think ecologically, globally. To suggest the mangrove as archive is to refer to its store of histories, but also to this modality of existence beyond oneself and one’s history.” I wonder if there exists a possibility for me—us—to have an identity outside that of the nation.

JY: You acknowledge the privilege of having a physical space—of being on the map (often in a literal sense, in being Google-able, visitable…). After our meeting, I went on to visit a number of spaces across Hanoi and Saigon. 3năm, a photographic collective whose members you work with often, had just moved into a new building: I was surprised to learn that they are constantly on the move, in an awkward position as a “house-sitter” occupying a property only until it is sold, their address changing at the whim of the real estate market. Á Space and Sàn Art were incredibly difficult to find (I had to hitch a ride on an elevator with an apartment resident to get to the sixth floor where the latter is located!). Both, I hear, have occasional run-ins with the police. There is a real sense of activities taking place in a clandestine manner. Spaces come and go. Ươm announced its closure before I had the chance to visit!

What is your understanding of the possibility for longevity and sustainable long-term work in Hanoi and/or Vietnam more broadly? I wonder in what ways does Matca’s work exceed the perimeters of a physical building? How does a text like Yen Vu’s Mangrove as Archive come into being?

HD: For the past five odd years, largely interrupted by the pandemic, we fumbled around with an operational model for this 40m² space. Initially, it felt only logical to host exhibitions because photographers needed to show, and audiences needed to see photographs. Existing galleries had a lukewarm attitude towards the medium, very few photographers lived off of selling prints, and collecting photography was an activity reserved for tourists and hotels. While we enjoyed working with photographers to curate and promote their works, we had no personal interest nor skill in dealing. The first shows we hosted drew traffic and media attention, and perhaps some intangible reward for the photographers, but exhibitions without sales are simply unsustainable. At the same time, as more and more people I considered my seniors left photography when real life settled in, concerns regarding the short-lived career started to grow. Are we living on borrowed time? Doubts wax and wane, but at times there is a big wave that swallows me whole.

After the gallery idea fizzled—in hindsight, it was a hastily borrowed model with little consideration of local viability—we shifted the priority to educational initiatives with the hope of nurturing emerging voices. Group critiques or short workshops over the weekend were low-cost activities that could provide a platform for seeing and discussing photography. Yen Vu’s aforementioned essay was part of Roots & Worlds, a mentorship programme of a bigger scale co-designed with our UK partner IC Visual Lab and made possible with funding from the British Council Vietnam in 2023. The title, inspired by Elizabeth Povinelli’s essay, hints at a photography approach that weaves together the personal and political. In class, we discussed methodologies to document and visualise complex emotions like nostalgia and grief. Outside of class, we shared our own journeys as practitioners and ways to navigate the less-than-straightforward photo world. After working online for nearly three months, we invested in a professional printer, arranged travels for participants outside of Hanoi, then spent five consecutive days editing, printing, and installing an open studio in-house at Matca. Thanks to their physical presence, the space thus became like a base camp, alive with laughter and tears.

To explore what is “at odds with dominant, and dominating, modes of being,” as Povinelli put it, is the raison d’être of the mentorship. Among other things, the takeaway from this experience for me is to turn back on the notion of a universally recognised masterpiece, instead cultivating a creative process that accommodates experimentation, necessary failures, and the “right to opacity,” to quote Glissant again. It’s one that requires the makers to be honest. Not the kind of honesty that the medium has been burdened with—the unrealistic expectation of representing some objective truth, but the sincere acknowledgment of our desire and making something that aligns with it.

JY: Can you identify the vectors of support (financial or otherwise)? I say vectors because I’m not just speaking of the sources of support, but also the trajectories of their movement, the lines they draw—how do they structure the scene and shape it; what are the outcomes, if any? Where do they entangle/come into friction, and what might those frictions/entanglements produce?

I want to know if you’re suggesting—possibly advocating for—a kind of horizontal connectivity across spaces, collectives, and individuals as a means of sustenance.

HD: Linh and I have our own photography practices, we sometimes collaborate on commissioned photography and video jobs. Like most independent organisations in a place without government support, we self-cover minimal overhead expenses and apply for grants for specific projects from a handful of Western countries interested in cultural exchange with Vietnam. A dollar can go a long way here and such funding has helped us tremendously in carrying out projects, but not without negotiation. For a generously sponsored project like Roots & Worlds, it was quite bold to tell the British Council that a final exhibition would and should not be the aim of a process-driven educational programme. We now see the emergence of city-scale festivals where a lot of exhibitions take place in a condensed time frame, in line with the national strategy for creative industry development. In celebration of art, I can’t help but ask if the precarious conditions of art production are being glossed over on purpose. We have had to draw the line and turn down a few funding opportunities where the institution’s agenda overrides that of the artist/art worker, which is no different from a form of labour outsourcing where art becomes a service.

Apart from cold hard cash, support in other forms is offered by grassroots organisations and individuals in the same boat. The awareness of a fragile existence does make mutual care imperative. I’m indebted to spaces including Manzi, Heritage Space, A Sông, Queer Forever!, Ươm, Reading Room, and -NEO, who have shared their venues, manpower, or food for thought. This list of advocates can extend beyond Vietnam and includes regional initiatives.

It’s true that most (including ourselves) operate in a clandestine manner and thus aren’t exactly accessible to lay visitors. Scarce resources aside, it could be described as a guerrilla tactic, which historically proved effective in combating more powerful forces. Positioning Matca among a network of local producers helps me take a long view and avoid feeling paralysed by relentless self-questioning. It’s important to be able to stay light-hearted when survival hangs heavy.

JY: We met at an interesting moment. You introduced yourself to me within the context of co-directing Matca. Our first conversation took place over Instagram. These days our professional lives seem to have co-opted social media as an outreach platform in lieu of a CV or a website. Often there isn’t space for multiple roles and identities to reveal themselves. In our emails over the Lunar New Year, you mentioned you were preparing to stage your solo exhibition at another art space in Hanoi: Manzi. As it happens, Manzi was the first space I visited in Vietnam. It was on the map as a “chic” art-space-slash-cafe, and I recall lounging upstairs, where a dense salon with works by local artists made for an intimate and, again, hybrid model that straddled lines between commercial gallery, educational space, and cafe. What was it like to stage a show at Manzi—one which would have emerged in separation from your work at Matca…does the distinction between these two modes of working blur?

HD: While installing the show at Manzi, I was complimenting the technician who neatly put up the wall text, to which he asked: “Are you the artist?” I paused for a moment before being able to mumble a weak yes. The dual identity as artist-organiser used to trouble me but moving in and out of roles soon became second nature. This is not simplified by the fact that the (relatively novel) notion of the photographer as an artist has not yet solidified in a broader public imagination.

This show feels like homecoming. My very first work The Mirror was also shown at Manzi in a group exhibition. It was one thing for me to make an autobiographical work detailing a personal relationship, and another for a space to publicly present images of lesbian love with nudity. This series was shown again at a proper museum setting in Japan when I was given the Higashikawa award, but the humble presentation next to cafe goers will always hold a special place in my heart. Like many other young artists, I credit my growth partly thanks to their trust and support. It’s hard to explain to outsiders the risks and constant work behind the scenes to keep a space dedicated to contemporary practices like Manzi running since 2012. They have survived past the ten-year mark and even opened a new exhibition space, which is truly a feat.

This new space hosted my recent solo show. Co-opting the Internet expression If Heaven Awaits (2024) is based on Dung Hà, the legendary gangster from the port city of Hải Phòng. (There’s a Haiphong Road in Tsim Sha Tsui by the way.) Notorious for running illegal gambling rings, she was also known for her affairs with women and sudden death at age thirty-six by gunshot by her rival. Local news reported that “dressing like a man,” Dung Hà was seen riding downtown on an imported motorcycle, and on the back sat her girlfriend, a pretty girl next door whose long hair flowed in the wind. This all took place in the lead-up to the new millennium, a time of profound change as poverty-stricken Vietnam made the transition to a market economy, with homosexuality still classified as a crime and grouped amongst other supposed vices.

JY: Why tend to this particular figure of the gangster?

HA: I was interested in Dung Hà as a peculiar character who lived and loved on her own terms. The meeting with her nephew and the green light from him provided me with much needed encouragement to take on this endeavour, which was quite a shift from photography. The work took the form of a remade music video for a love ballad performed by the pop star Lam Trường, a national crush in the 90s. The music video format contained markers of time while pairing lesbian fantasy with heteronormative pop culture. I was able to cast a transguy with amazing physical similarities to Dung Hà, who revelled in the opportunity to play the legend, now imagined as a regretful ghost drifting through once familiar sites. Apart from the video, there are two crystal cubes laser-engraved with images of her final resting place, lavishly built as a tomb, and Đồ Sơn Casino (Vietnam’s first legal casino) was built in her hometown in 1995.

The cultural shortcut is what I really enjoyed about showing this work in Hanoi. As soon as visitors heard the music and saw the location, they knew what I was referring to. Sharing collective memory, even second-hand, can be so healing.

JY: How do you hold space for each aspect or category of the work you do, at Matca or elsewhere?

HA: Wearing multiple hats is the norm rather than the exception among independent art organisations, which run on a shoestring budget and a tiny team willing to volunteer their labour. There is no task too big or too small, from curating, publishing, writing grant proposals, to cutting fruit and taking out the trash. I honestly think I was prematurely given the role at the tender age of twenty-one, but Linh Pham was a fervent believer in learning by trial and error. As a born go-getter, he complements my cautious, overthinking tendency. When hitting a wall, we can always go for beer.

That said, there is definitely tension between keeping afloat a community project and an individual practice. Both are “jobs” that we have to invent for ourselves, but they require distinct sets of muscles, competing for time and mental space. Tension also exists in other factions, such as between “straight” photography and art, creative ambitions and livelihood, and independence and pressure to conform from family and society. Without a role model, creating one’s own definition of success is easy to say but hard to put into practice. Despite these challenges, the privilege to pursue an artistic practice is never lost on me. I accept these persistent dilemmas as the cost of freedom.