It’s not until today that we see The Girl with the Pearl Earring reimagined — not just as an Asian body, but a queer one. That is one of the works of artist Thom Nguyen in his first solo exhibition—Nước | Water Resistance—during his residency at A. Farm, a Saigon-based artist residency.
Thom Nguyen, despite having a name that is unmistakenly Vietnamese, admitted that it was easier to be and act like an American growing up in the States. Only recently, has he begun to fully claim the complexity of being both: Vietnamese and American.
But two things Thom always knew about himself, even at a young age are: he is queer and he is an artist.
Coming back to Vietnam for a three-month artist residency, it is visible to Thom how the queer community in Vietnam is still very much currently dealing with “visibility, refusal, adaptation and resistance”.
Before the opening of Nước | Water Resistance, I met with Thom Nguyen at A. Farm to reflect on his journey as an artist, as a queer body, and as a Vietnamese–American finding his place between two worlds.
Nga: Were you born in the US? Or were you born here and spent most of your life in the US?
Thom: I left when I was four so I spent most of my life in the U.S. My parents wanted better opportunities for us—college, something they never had access to. They really nurtured our love for education.
I used to come back to Vietnam every other year mostly for vacations. Over the last 10–15 years, I’ve watched the country evolve and started seeing a new side of Vietnam—technologically capable, fast-growing, young, and full of energy. It no longer feels like we’re rebuilding.
There was a time when it felt like we were still trying to find our footing. Now, there’s a stronger sense of confidence. A sense of modernity that’s firmly arrived.
Nga: Do you think you would have seen this side of Vietnam if it weren’t for this three-months residency? It feels like this is the longest stretch you've stayed here. And considering that the exhibition’s theme is a reflection on the nation, would you say that what you’re seeing now is different from what you used to associate with Vietnam?
Thom: Before this, I only ever came as a tourist. My experience was limited to service interactions, resorts, and beach vacations. I didn’t really spend time with the community that way.
But being here for this residency changed that. It gave me the space to engage, to see how the community has grown and emerged.
What surprised me most was how many queer people are here, especially queer artists. There’s a vibrant drag scene, musical theatre — a whole creative ecosystem that tourists wouldn’t normally see.
And then there’s the intersectionality — being queer and half-Vietnamese. That’s an even more specific, often more marginalized group. And yet, they’ve found ways to gather, to take up space, to own who they are.
What’s still catching up is broader societal acceptance or rather, acknowledgement. Queerness isn’t fully accepted. Yet, there’s acknowledgement and that’s the next step.
Nga: I remember Truong Tan who was considered to be the first openly gay Vietnamese artist and even though he came out 30 years ago, still, visibility doesn’t quite translate to acceptance. People see them, but they’re not fully embraced. I think the next step really has to be acceptance.
But at the same time, the queer community in Saigon is much more visible than in the North. Do you think that visibility is still limited because of a lack of societal acceptance and that's why the community remains somewhat underground?
Thom: I think anywhere where queer people exist, there’s going to be some resistance — because society doesn’t see it as normal. But that’s changing. It's becoming more normalized as we see more representation in culture, in pop culture. Still, there’s always a bit of pushback.
Just being queer is already an act of resistance — because it means being true to yourself, unapologetically. It means refusing to hide any part of who you are.
Some of my models — they spend hours doing drag makeup before coming to the studio. And they’ll say, “You know what? I’m going to take the metro like this — full face on. I don’t care what people think.” That, to me, is powerful. They might get a few awkward looks, but they’re not afraid. They’re not bullied.
And compared to other places where society tends to be more conservative I think Vietnam is more open in that sense. There’s a kind of cultural fluidity. We’ve embraced technology, pop culture—it’s seeped into our way of being.
And it’s not just modern influence. Queerness has a place in Vietnamese history too. Before Chinese colonization, there were traces of dual-gendered spirits — people embodying both masculine and feminine energies. There’s a ritualistic, spiritual history to it. It’s been here all along.
Nga: Was there any story from the models during this residency that stood out to you most?
Thom: I’d say the drag queens. They really hold up queer spaces.
It’s one thing to have a gay bar where people hang out — but when there’s a drag show, the space transforms. It draws people in. It becomes a visible safe space.
They’re performers but also nurturers. There’s a whole lineage: drag moms, drag grandmothers, passing down craft and art to the next generation, building a culture, keeping it alive.
But at the same time, they carry this quiet anxiety. They’re doing so much to uplift the community, yet they’re not fairly compensated. Many of these spaces take advantage of their labor. It’s disheartening because what they’re doing is real, powerful, necessary.
They should be paid more. We should be paying to attend these shows, not expecting them for free. They’re artists just like musicians, dancers, actors. They have to do it all. I think that moment of recognizing how much they give, and how little they’re given in return really stayed with me.
Nga: I also saw in your exhibition introduction you mentioned four key ideas: visibility, refusal, adaptation, and resistance. Because while queerness is a visible and constant form of resistance, I’m curious how you see refusal and adaptation as part of that. Could you clarify more on refusal and adaptation?
Thom: They’re both deeply intertwined with survival.
Adaptation is something we in the queer community do constantly, especially through code-switching. Within our chosen communities, among our friends, we can be visible. But with family, especially in more conservative households, it’s different.
Many people I’ve met are out to their communities, but not to their families. So they live in a kind of in-between space — balancing safety and truth. That’s adaptation. You still fear rejection, even disownment.
For me, the hardest part was coming out to my family. There’s a generational gap. My mom once asked me if being gay was contagious. In her mind, queerness was something foreign, a “white disease.” She thought maybe I became gay by being around too many white people.
So for me, adaptation was also education: slowly helping her understand what queerness is.
Queerness isn’t a disease, or a lifestyle. It’s not something you choose. What you do choose is how to express it.
And even now, that code-switching persists, especially in Vietnam, where the family space and friendship space still feel like two separate worlds.
Then there’s refusal. Within that code-switching, there’s a refusal of the self. You hide part of who you are, even from those closest to you: your mom, your dad, your siblings.
And by refusing to share it with them, in some ways, you begin to refuse it within yourself. Refusal becomes internalized. That’s the quiet pain many carry — being half-seen, even by your own blood.
Nga: Many of the works in Nước use the language of European portraiture. Art history has long been Eurocentric — so by placing Vietnamese queerness into that predominantly white, European space, are you aiming to reclaim it? At the same time, do you ever feel conflicted that Vietnamese art has to grow through the lens of European traditions?
Thom: I see it more as a playful, even humorous, interaction with European art rather than submission to it.
It’s also the tradition I know best, something I studied deeply, and what I’m most fluent in.
But I think of this as a transition. A way to build a bridge, a connection to power, to presence. When I look at Vietnamese or Asian portraiture, it often centers on family: mother and child, grandparents, generational intimacy. That kind of imagery is harder to translate within queer narratives, especially here in Asia, where queer family structures are rarely visible.
So the connection isn’t as direct. But I’m still exploring ways to elevate Vietnamese identity through traditional material. For example, I take traditional forms: ink painting, silk, seal chops and I inject queerness into them.
These are mediums where you’d never expect to see anything overtly queer. So by inserting queerness into those spaces, I’m saying: This too is legitimate. This too belongs.
It becomes a playful, but also radical dialogue about queer visibility in tradition.
Growing up, most of the portraits I painted in the U.S. were of my white friends. Rarely did I paint Asian faces. So this became an opportunity to paint Asian faces, queer bodies, and bring them into the light. To offer representation where it’s long been missing.
Nga: We talked about traditional mediums in art and you mentioned wanting art to feel more playful. But in Vietnam, where censorship remains strict, do you think playfulness becomes a risky move, especially when working with traditional formats or video?
Thom: I think it becomes risky when you take yourself too seriously.
A lot of artists push hard to make overt political statements. Early on, I thought I wanted to do that too to speak directly about resistance. But over time, I realized: You don’t have to be literal to be powerful. Just being yourself, openly and that’s already resistance. Visibility itself carries weight.
Censorship is a barrier. But it’s also part of the artist’s role to find creative ways to stretch it. There are other ways to say “We’re here.” Ways that are softer, more layered and that don’t reduce us to pain, war, or trauma.
To me that's also a form of quiet, persistent resistance. And honestly, I think every artist needs something to resist. Because resistance invites dialogue.
Nga: Is the question of what makes us uniquely Vietnamese something you’ve always explored? Or is it more of a recent journey for you?
Thom: It’s definitely more recent. For the longest time, I studied Western art in a Western university. I only knew famous Western artists. It’s only in the last few years that I started connecting with the Vietnamese and broader Asian diaspora of artists. So I’m learning as I go.
And in doing that, I’ve found a deeper connection to my own identity: finally being true to myself, no longer relying on Western structures to communicate who I am.
Nga: Because you said you were deeply immersed in Western art before — was there a moment that made you want to understand your own identity more?
Thom: It really started with conversations with my sister as we were asking each other what it means to be Vietnamese.
In the States, you have to code-switch constantly. You’re negotiating between your family, your friends, your culture, your surroundings. For a long time, it felt easier to just be American.
But coming back to Vietnam more often, I’ve felt this shift: No, I’m actually Vietnamese.
Especially when it comes to food. Food is such a deep part of our identity. I’ve even thought about how food could be an artistic medium with how you might express culture through flavor, memory, ingredients. Especially street food where all structures break down.
You’ll see the rich, the poor, the famous, the unknown — all sharing space, all sitting down at the same plastic tables.It’s the great equalizer. When you sit outside, gnawing on a chicken leg with a friend — that’s real comfort, real connection. If someone can do that in front of you, you know you’re friends.
Nga: That reminds me of this one Anthony Bourdain episode in Hanoi, where he shared bun cha with Obama. Afterwards, everyone called that place “Bun Cha Obama.” They even framed the whole table setup.
Thom: Yes! I saw that, it’s so cute. Moments like that really made me reflect on my own Vietnamese-ness — something I had for a while refused living in the States because I wanted to be more American because it's closer to power.
But now, being here, I want to be closer to my community. Closer to my roots, my heritage. And that Vietnamese-ness is what makes me unique.