Q: Can you share the first time an opportunity—like a residency, pop-up, or an exhibition, made you feel like a real artist? What was that moment like for you?

A: The first time I truly felt like an artist wasn’t in a solo project—it was in a collaboration. A French designer reached out to work with me for her graduate thesis on fashion and culture. At first, it was surreal. We were from such different places, but we connected so easily. We’d call each other to talk about raw ideas, scribbled notes, little cultural things—how áo dài wraps around the body, how French fashion carries centuries of symbolism, or how education feels in Vietnam versus in France. We weren’t trying to be “perfect” artists. We just wanted to learn. From each other. With each other. She brought her world, I brought mine. I shared my works and stories—she wove them into her silhouettes, textures, and runway pieces.

My name ended up on the collection stamp. I got interviewed about my art, and it felt like my voice was being heard in a whole new language—fashion. Everything about it was smooth and honest. No ego. Just two young creatives, curious and open, holding space for each other. And somewhere in that process—between the late-night notes and fabric swatches—I looked at what we made and thought: This is real. I’m not just making art. I’m part of something larger. That was the first time I said to myself, Liễu, you’re really an artist.

Q: Can you share a recent project or experience that helped reignite your passion during a creative block? What about it sparked new possibilities for your work?

A: There was a quiet moment during We Laugh Cry Together while layering a printing plate onto voile, which unexpectedly pulled me out of a creative block. I had been sitting with questions about care, repetition, and memory, but I felt like I was circling the same gestures, unsure what came next. What changed things wasn’t dramatic; it was when I found one of my grandmother’s old handkerchiefs folded inside a tin. I remembered her using it to wrap rice balls for me. I ran it through the press with a soft etched tray pattern, and suddenly something opened. The act felt like collaboration with her memory. That piece didn’t feel like an artwork; it felt like a conversation. 

What sparked new possibilities was realizing I didn’t have to create new symbols; I could reveal them. Domestic labor, family objects, shared meals; these were already full of meaning. Since then, my work has leaned deeper into slowness, into holding space for invisible rituals. I stopped worrying about invention and started listening again. That shift allowed more tenderness and risk to come through.

Q: Have you ever stumbled on a creative boost by accident - something small that unexpectedly changed how you make art? If not, is there something new you’re curious to explore?

A: Yes, modeling for a friend’s collection unexpectedly shifted something for me. I wasn’t behind the camera, or at the sketching table, or by the press. I was in the frame. At first it felt awkward. I didn’t know where to place my hands. But then I realized I was holding space for someone else’s vision. I was being seen, not just seeing. That small role gave me a chance to look from another position: as a stylist, as a designer, as a material, even. I began noticing how light moved across fabric, how garments hold memory differently when worn. It made me reconsider the body in my work, not just as absence or trace, but as present, relational.

Now, I’m curious about how art can be worn, moved with, lived in. Not just displayed. Maybe that’s a next direction: more porous lines between print, clothing, ritual, and care. Not performance in a staged way, but in how everyday gestures—folding, wrapping, touching can carry meaning. I don’t have answers yet, but I’m paying attention.

Q: How do you define ‘success’ as an artist, and has that definition changed since you first began pursuing your craft?

A: I used to think being an artist meant I had to suffer for the work, thinking too hard, feeling everything too much, pushing myself without pause. I thought success was about intensity, or recognition, or making something that hurt enough to mean something. But that definition’s softened. Now, I see success as finding happiness in the act of making.

In being present with the process; sculpting not just the work, but myself alongside it. It’s about staying honest, listening to what I need, even if that means resting. Letting slowness, care, and joy be part of the rhythm. I’ve learned that it’s okay to not always be producing, or proving. Sometimes the most meaningful part is simply creating in a way that keeps me close to myself. That feels like a kind of success I want to grow with.

Q: What would you tell an artist chasing their first big break? What mindset or approach made all the difference when you were in their shoes?

A: I’d say don’t rush the arrival. Big breaks look different for everyone, and sometimes they’re not loud at all. Mine came in quiet forms: a message from someone who saw themselves in my work, a friend inviting me to collaborate, moments that didn’t look like “success” from the outside, but felt real inside.

What made a difference for me wasn’t chasing after something big; it was staying close to what felt true. Learning to listen to my pace, my curiosities, and not comparing timelines. I spent time experimenting, not knowing where things would lead, and letting small projects teach me something about care, about attention, about how I want to exist in my work. Also: surround yourself with people who see you beyond your output. Make things even when no one is watching. Rest when you need to. And don’t forget to enjoy the in-between moments; hey're not just the lead-up, they are the work.