This is the feeling I experience when thinking about Vietnam from afar. One must tread carefully when asking, “What is Vietnam?” A small mistake risks falling into hyperreality.
Is it possible to live in reality, apart from hyperreality?
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In 1863, after the Huế court signed the Treaty of Nhâm Tuất (1862), ceding to France three eastern provinces of Southern Vietnam (Gia Định, Định Tường, Biên Hòa) and Côn Lôn Island, Emperor Tự Đức still hoped to redeem them. The court therefore sent Phan Thanh Giản as chief envoy, accompanied by Phạm Phú Thứ, Ngụy Khắc Đản, and others, to France and Spain.
It is a sorrowful story; one no one likes to revisit. Reading Vietnamese history from that period feels overwhelmingly bleak. And yet, I found myself drawn to the portrait of a young man within the delegation.
A young man named Diệu. Twenty years old. Almost entirely unknown, leaving nothing in the historical record but his name and a single photograph. He was merely an attendant who accompanied the diplomatic mission to France.
I was captivated by his eyes. There is something clear and eager in them, the glimmer of youth sparking against the heavy gloom of the time. In his small, quiet presence, I see the reflection of the entire nation: ordinary people with dreams and passions of their own, swept into the tide of immense upheaval.
In events that seem to belong only to emperors and officials, what roles and memories remain for the nameless? They are both witnesses and those who bear the long echo of consequence.
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The elephant skeleton carries its own meaning as well. The elephant, once a symbol of strength, authority, and the martial spirit of the imperial army, linked to many victories throughout the Lý, Trần, and Nguyễn dynasties, appears here only as the remains of a power that has faded. It evokes the late nineteenth century, when the country faced the loss of Southern Vietnam and the court stood powerless before foreign pressure.
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This painting is now exhibited in Denmark and is not available in the US.
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Reflections blur into green depths, as if memory itself is submerged in moss and murmur.
