Preface

“Across the curve of the earth, there are women getting up before dawn, in the blackness before the point of light, in the twilight before sunrise; there are women rising earlier than men and children to break the ice, to start the stove, to put up the pap, the coffee, the rice, to iron the pants, to boil water for tea, to wash the children for school, to pull the vegetables and start the walk to market, to run to catch the bus for the work that is paid. I don’t know when most women sleep. In big cities at dawn women are traveling home after cleaning offices all night, or waxing the halls of hospitals, or sitting up with the old and sick and frightened at the hour when death is supposed to do its work.

In minimal light I see her, over and over, her inner clock pushing her out of bed with her heavy and maybe painful limbs, her breath breathing life into her stove, her house, her family, taking the last cold swatch of night on her body, meeting the sudden leap of the rising sun.

... They have tried to tell me that this woman – politicized by intersecting forces – doesn’t think and reflect on her life. That her ideas are not real ideas like those of Karl Marx and Simone de Beauvoir. That her calculations, her spiritual philosophy, her gifts for law and ethics, her daily emergency political decisions are merely instinctual or conditioned reactions. That only certain kinds of people can make theory...”

—Adrienne Rich, Notes Towards a Politics of Location (1984)

Adrienne Rich’s words illuminate the twilight world of women’s invisible labor—the ache of limbs heavy with exhaustion, the intimate rhythm of breath that rekindles the fire of the hearth, the careful repetition of small, seemingly mundane, gestures that sustain homes, communities, and life itself. This is not metaphor but lived, corporeal truth: a body moving through cycles of fatigue and renewal, a body that labors, nourishes, and endures, a body that gives itself over to the continuity of care. In these recurrences, women turn dawn into morning light, silence into song, invisibility into pulse. They map time not by clocks but by hearths, by children’s steps, by the tilt of the sun on the walls. Their labor is both routine and ritual, intimate yet world-making, fleeting yet indelible—a testimony written not on paper but in breath, in bone, in fire and blood. And yet, as Rich reminds us, such embodied knowledge has so often been dismissed: denied the status of thought, of philosophy, of theory. The daily calculations of survival, the ethics of care, and the improvisational politics of women’s lives have been cast as instinct rather than intellect, as reaction rather than reflection. To dwell on women’s labor, then, is also to ask: what kinds of knowledge are granted the name of theory, and what is lost when the wisdom of kitchens, markets, and night shifts is excluded from the canon of thought?

Womb of Fire – Dạ Lửa arises from this terrain of quiet persistence. In Vietnamese, the words lửa (fire) and máu (blood) flow as inseparable currents. Lửa is the hearth—bếp lửa—around which stories, songs, and sustenance gather, as it is the passion and vitality of those who share it.

Máu is the blood—dòng máu—of generations whose sacrifice and resilience courses through one's veins. Yet, in Vietnamese, máu also carries the pulse of intensity, a fiery determination, a spirit that is bold, unrestrained, and alive. Placed together, lửa and máu name a force both intimate and collective, tender yet unyielding: the fire and lifeblood of women’s creativity, struggle, and endurance.

This energy flows through the one hundred small works gathered in the exhibition. Each work—whether historical or newly commissioned—stands as a testament to the personal process of exploration between artwork and artist. In some, delicate brushstrokes trace the memory of hands long at labor; in others, sculptural forms coil, leap, or rest like quiet exhalations of spirit. Elsewhere, words unfold across the page as fragments of diary and research entwine, while moving images linger on gestures, voices, and landscapes that refuse to fade. The artists—rooted in Vietnam, dispersed across continents, living in the shadow or light of history—imbue even the smallest objects with life, desire, and defiance.

The intimate scale of the works creates a field in which the intensity of lửa–máu is magnified. A single stitch in a textile can carry the weight of a story, a painted line can hold a memory, a fragment of paper or clay can pulse with ancestral energy. In this way, the exhibition embodies the principle that small is beautiful: that creative force is not always monumental, but that it accumulates, sparks, and spreads, shaping perception with subtlety and precision.

Across these works, conversations unfold across centuries and histories, across oceans, across experiences of displacement and homecoming—without being constrained by binaries of past and present, homeland and diaspora, body and imagination. Some gestures echo the labor of mothers, aunts, and teachers; others imagine collective futures not yet written. Together, they form a network of sparks, where every mark, every material, every gesture contributes to the greater constellation of collective imagination.

In this gathering, the vitality of Vietnamese female artists is made visible not as spectacle, but as spirit: in the subtle shifts of form, the warmth of color, the rhythm of repetition, the tenderness of line. These are works born from the body, the mind, and the heart, yet also reaching beyond the individual into a shared lineage of lửa–máu. They remind us that passion and labor, history and imagination, care and audacity are inseparable, as fire and blood, heart and hand, memory and creation are.

Womb of Fire – Dạ Lửa is a living archive of these energies; a space where the invisible labor, the bodily wisdom, and the fiery inventiveness of Vietnamese women are concentrated and celebrated. Here, the small becomes immense, the quiet becomes radiant, and the sparks of individual voices merge into a shared blaze that continues to illuminate the present and future of art.

The year 2025 marks the centennial of the École Supérieure des Beaux-Arts de l'Indochine. While official histories may commemorate its founding with grand acts, Womb of Fire – Dạ Lửa positions itself differently: as an independent educational endeavor, a counter-archive that centers women’s voices and experiences. It asks what histories smolder in the margins, what fires continue to burn quietly even when unrecognized, what lessons lie in the small, the intimate, the overlooked.

Accompanying the exhibition is a long-term publication that extends this dialogue, with contributions from art historians, writers, poets, and the artists themselves. Their words gather alongside the artworks like wind feeding flame, spurring new terrains of thought and imagination.

We also wish to honor the many luminous women whose works do not appear here, whether due to time, space, or circumstance. Their absence is not a void but another kind of fire, simmering with energy beyond the reach of this project. It is important to acknowledge that there are by no means only one hundred Vietnamese female artists, nor does this gathering imply a fixed criterion of who may be counted as such. Rather, it is a gesture toward the boundless scope of women’s creativity, which cannot and should not be contained within a formal canon.

Womb of Fire – Dạ Lửa was conceived by Đỗ Tường Linh, Nguyễn Vũ Thiên An, and Carmen Cortizas Fontan. It is offered as a humble tribute, an admiring acknowledgment, and an expression of gratitude towards the persistence, care, and radiant energy of women artists across Vietnam and the diaspora.

Note: As a female curator and art worker engaged in the Vietnamese art scene since 2005, I have been continually inspired by the dedication, creativity, and courage of the women artists, thinkers, and creators who surround me. Their work and their persistence have given me not only ideas and vision but also friendship and trust—the kind of trust that makes an impossible project feel possible. It is through our shared conversations, late-night reflections, and moments of laughter that I found the courage to realize Womb of Fire – Dạ Lửa across many years. They taught me that care is labor, creativity is survival, and intimacy is a political act. I am profoundly grateful to my collaborators, Nguyễn Vũ Thiên An and Carmen Cortizas Fontan, Shyevin S’ng, Coca Huỳnh, Duc Ngo, Chi L. Nguyễn, Nguyễn Hoàng Thanh Huyền, Phan Thảo Nguyên, Nguyễn Vũ Việt Nga and Dương Nguyễn for believing in these sparks with me, for standing alongside me through the learning, the doubt, and the challenges, and for helping bring this exhibition to life as a testament to collective care, courage, and friendship.

Copyright Notice:

The content of this text is copyrighted by the initiating and creative team of the project Dạ Lửa – Womb of Fire. Any quotation or use must clearly cite the source: Dạ Lửa – Womb of Fire, 2025. Reproduction, modification, or distribution for commercial purposes in any form is strictly prohibited without prior written permission from the project team.