Traces of Her ❥ The Story Behind the Title

When people ask me what Traces of Her is about, I usually give the short answer: it's inspired by my grandmother.

But the longer answer is a little more complicated.

I grew up with my grandmother in Vietnam, and like many grandchildren, I only knew her as Bà [my grandmother]. To me, she was simply the person who was always there. She fanned me during power outages to help me sleep in the heat, watched Chinese dramas with me, prepared my favorite meals, and quietly took care of all the little things that made me feel loved and safe. She always seemed to know what I needed, even before I said a word.

It wasn't until I got older that I realized I knew almost nothing about the woman she had been before becoming all of those things.

Who was she when she was my age?

What did she dream about?

What made her laugh?

Did she have close friends she couldn't stop talking to? Did she ever feel stubborn, adventurous, or even a little rebellious?

Those are questions I can no longer ask.

That realization stayed with me. It made me think about how easily we see our grandparents only through the roles they've had in our lives. We forget that they were once young too. They had dreams, fears, friendships, moments of joy, and countless ordinary days that shaped who they became.

Traces of Her grew from that curiosity.

The paintings in this exhibition are not portraits of my grandmother, nor are they attempts to recreate history. They are moments I imagine she might have lived

❥ small, quiet scenes that could have existed somewhere in the past.

In a way, these paintings are not about finding the answers, but about giving space to the stories that may have never been told.

Perhaps I will never truly know who my grandmother was beyond the memories I have of her. But in my imagination, I create moments she might have lived, thoughts she might have carried, and stories she might have kept within herself.

Maybe these imagined fragments are another way of keeping her presence alive.

Imagining the World My Grandmother Once Lived In

The women in my paintings are not portraits of my grandmother.

They are my way of imagining the world she once lived in - the people she met, the women she shared her life with, and the everyday moments that shaped her memories.

Because I only knew my grandmother as Bà, I never had the chance to see the life she had before becoming my grandmother. I never saw the streets she walked through when she was young, the conversations she had with friends, the relationships she built, or the small moments that became part of her story.

Through my paintings, I try to imagine those invisible parts of her life.

I imagine her surrounded by sisters, friends, neighbors, and other people from her generation. People who laughed together, shared stories, helped each other, disagreed, dreamed, and simply lived their everyday lives.

When I look at old photographs of Vietnamese people from the early 20th century, I often wonder about the moments that existed beyond the photograph.

What happened before this moment?

What happened afterwards?

Who were these people when nobody was watching?

Many historical images show Vietnamese women in a very specific way: elegant, quiet, and composed. These images preserve a certain beauty, but they only capture one side of life.

I wanted to imagine the moments that were not recorded.

Women talking together.

Women looking lost in thought.

Women showing emotions that are not always gentle or perfect.

❥ Women simply being themselves.

Because my grandmother and the people of her generation were not just figures from the past. They were individuals with their own personalities, feelings, dreams, and stories.

The women and scenes in my paintings are imagined, but they are inspired by a real longing, to understand the life my grandmother once had and the world that shaped her.

Maybe I can never know all of her stories.

But through these imagined moments, I can keep traces of them alive.

Finding My Own Voice

Painting has always been a part of me.

But for a long time, it was something I kept private.

Growing up in a Vietnamese family, I understood why education meant so much. My parents and grandparents had experienced uncertainty in ways I never had. To them, a university degree represented stability, security, and opportunities they had worked hard to give the next generation.

I understood that.

So before allowing myself to fully pursue art, I first wanted to give my family that sense of security.

I completed my Bachelor's degree. Then my Master's degree.

Only after reaching those milestones did I finally feel ready to share my paintings with the world.

Not because my passion for art had suddenly appeared, but because I finally felt I had earned the freedom to follow it.

Looking back, I realise that I wasn't choosing between art and education.

Education became the foundation that gave me the confidence, and perhaps also gave my family the reassurance, to let me choose a less predictable path.

When I started painting the imagined stories of my grandmother and her generation, I also began reconnecting with a part of myself that had quietly waited for years.

Creating Traces of Her became more than preparing for my first exhibition.

It became the moment I stopped hiding this part of who I am.

For the first time, I allowed myself to stand in front of my paintings and simply say:

❥ This is my work. This is my story.

From the First Painting to the First Exhibition

I started working on this series in 2024.

At first, I simply wanted to paint stories inspired by my grandmother and the world she once lived in. I didn't know where the series would lead, or whether it would ever become an exhibition.

With every painting, I learned something new.

I became more confident with colour, composition, and storytelling. Every canvas taught me something different, and every painting carries its own emotion. Some feel quiet and nostalgic, while others feel playful, thoughtful, or full of life.

Looking back now, I realise that the series grew alongside me as an artist.

As the exhibition came closer, however, excitement slowly turned into nervousness.

After spending so much time painting these works in the privacy of my studio, I suddenly had to imagine strangers standing in front of them. What if nobody connected with them? What if they didn't understand what I was trying to say?

Those thoughts stayed with me until the opening day.

But something changed as soon as the first visitors arrived.

The moment I started talking to people, my nervousness slowly disappeared.

For the first time, I was able to openly share my paintings with complete strangers. I could explain the stories behind them, answer questions, and hear what they saw in the works.

What surprised me most was that everyone experienced the paintings differently.

Some people told me they felt a sense of calm while looking at them.

Others connected with the stories because they reminded them of their own grandparents or family memories. A few visitors became emotional as they spoke about grandmothers they deeply loved and missed.

Some simply walked into the gallery, spent time quietly looking at the paintings, and before leaving, thanked me for brightening their day.

Others stood in front of a painting much longer than I expected, noticing details I thought only I would see.

Those conversations became one of my favourite parts of the exhibition.

They reminded me that once a painting leaves the studio, it no longer belongs only to the artist. Every visitor brings their own memories, experiences, and emotions, creating a new story that I could never have imagined myself.

That was one of the greatest gifts of my very first exhibition.

More Than an Exhibition

When I started painting Traces of Her, I thought I was searching for the stories of my grandmother.

Along the way, I realised that these paintings had become something much bigger.

They became conversations.

Not only between me and my grandmother, but also between strangers and their own memories.

Throughout the exhibition, I met people from many different backgrounds. Some had never been to Vietnam. Some had no connection to Vietnamese culture at all. Yet many of them still found something familiar in the paintings.

Some were reminded of their own grandmother.

Others thought about someone they had lost.

Some simply told me that the paintings made them slow down for a moment.

I think that is what I hope my work can do.

We live in a world that constantly asks us to move faster, achieve more, and think about what comes next. We often forget to appreciate the quiet moments that make up our lives.

A conversation over tea.

A walk through nature.

The comfort of sitting beside someone without saying much.

A memory we didn't realise we were carrying until something brought it back.

These are the moments I want to paint.

Not because they are extraordinary, but because they are easy to overlook.

Perhaps we can never truly know the lives our grandparents once lived.

But we can choose to be curious.

We can ask more questions while we still can.

We can listen a little longer.

We can appreciate the people around us before they become memories.

If someone leaves one of my exhibitions feeling a little calmer, calling a family member they haven't spoken to in a while, or simply noticing the beauty in an ordinary moment, then I feel that the paintings have already fulfilled their purpose.

For me, Traces of Her was never about finding all the answers.

It was about learning to cherish the stories we have, to imagine the ones we don't, and to remember that every life, no matter how ordinary it may seem, is worth preserving.