In the spring of 2025, I began my sabbatical year with a journey to Vietnam. The final meeting of the Theatre in Palm project I had been working on as a project manager in the last 3 years took place in Thessaloniki, and from Athens I flew to Saigon. My plan was simple: spend three months in Asia without any fixed plan or itinerary. The only point of reference was a long-anticipated meeting with Natalia Kraevskaia, who in 1990, together with her artist husband Vũ Dân Tân, established what is considered the first private art space in Hanoi: Salon Natasha. I arrived in Hanoi at the end of May. Natalia lives in a newly built apartment block, very close to the Long Bien bridge. From the 14th floor you can take in sweeping views of the city. Natalia is an independent curator and art writer specializing in Vietnamese contemporary art. Over her career she has organized and curated numerous exhibitions in Vietnam, Australia, Canada, Germany, Finland, Macau, and Russia. She holds a PhD in Philology and has published more than 130 texts on linguistics, ethnography, art theory, and the art and culture of Vietnam. She is also the author of Nostalgia towards Exploration. Essays on Contemporary Art in Vietnam (2005). We spent two enchanting hours together. Of course, we spoke about art in domestic spaces and what it meant to run a gallery out of one’s own home, reflecting on the personal, artistic and emotional dimensions of running a home-based art space, on expectations and disappointments, on hospitality as cultural practice, and on what remains after such a project comes to an end.
Jean-Lorin: Salon Natasha operated outside institutional frameworks and state-run venues at a moment when independent, concept-driven art initiatives were still rare in Vietnam. As a domestic gallery, the space hosted exhibitions, artist talks, discussions, screenings, and informal gatherings, blurring the boundary between private and public, hospitality and artistic production, and everyday life and exhibition-making — a constellation of concerns very familiar to me. Tell me about the beginings.
Natalia: Well, for Vũ Dân Tân home was also his working space. He was sitting near the entry, close to a big door that was usually half open. You know, in Hanoi old houses there are no front walls, only wooden pieces that you can move. At night they become the wall, during the daytime you remove them. No glass, nothing. So he was sitting in this entry space, working, producing his art, and other artists were coming. It was a place of gatherings. Actually, his idea was very different from mine. I am more structured, I prefer clear and pure things. For me, if you show art, it should be a gallery, something like that. But he didn’t like this idea. He wanted to keep it as a house, even in everyday life. People were coming, they were looking for art, but he would put his shoes in the middle of the room to show that this is a private space. So the interior was not really design, but rather a display of things as in a home. Many paintings on the walls, objects, and so on. Artists came and went. We were not a collective, there was no fixed group over the years. People appeared, then disappeared. They exhibited their art, they came with ideas, they made projects.
Jean-Lorin: Who made the curatorial choices?
Natalia: I once discussed about this with a friend. She said: no, if it’s really a transparent place, anybody should decide. But in fact, only a few people decided what would happen. Me, one French artist who lived here at that time, and my husband. My husband was flexible, but he had one condition: there should be no violence. No violent works. He didn’t like violence in any form. Gore, bloody stuff, even protest against violence. He followed this belief and strategy: if you hit me on one cheek, I will give you the other. Otherwise, it was quite free. We showed different artists, including one of the first openly homosexual artists. At that time we were younger and more brave. We showed his work on the walls. He was censored elsewhere. The content was sexual, very graphic, very provocative. Later he became famous and exhibited internationally. But nothing happened here. Nobody told us anything.
Jean-Lorin: Did you ever feel that hidden people from the authorities could be in the audience?
Natalia: Yes, it could be. But you know, our house was a private place. We had no sign, we were not registered, nothing like that. But everybody knew where it was. It’s very central, maybe 300 meters from the lake. When we made exhibitions, people came. Usually in Vietnam you need authorization for exhibitions. You apply two weeks in advance, provide photos, and get permission. But we were a private home, and honestly, we didn’t even know we should apply. We thought everything was allowed. In fifteen years, only twice we received a letter saying we should ask for authorization. Each time it ended well. Once it was before New Year, the Year of the Cat. One artist wanted to exhibit paintings of cats. I said: perfect, Year of the Cat, you go with cats to the office, it’s very safe. And of course, we got the permission immediately. So I can’t say we had troubles.
Jean-Lorin: So you practically ignored the authorities?
Natalia: Yes. And they ignored us back. We were sure we didn’t do anything bad. We were not rebellious. I had more educational ideas in mind, my husband wanted to introduce experimental art. But I don’t think they understood this. When they came, they saw shoes in the room, people sitting, drinking. Artists come at ten and start drinking. So it was unclear what this place really was. Not a gallery.
Jean-Lorin: Did you offer drinks and snacks to the audience?
Natalia: Drinks and food were always important at gatherings and openings. Artists visited every day. Drinks were provided. It’s difficult to imagine the early 90s here. The drink was homemade Vietnamese alcohol, like vodka, prepared with plants, brown like cognac, very strong. My husband said it was good for your health. In winter it warms you, in summer you get drunk and forget the heat. For openings we had the same alcohol. Never wine, nothing fancy, just a lot of it. Everybody could drink as much as they wanted. Some small traditional food. That’s all. My husband called it a salon because it was not only for exhibitions. You could just come, sit, talk, look for books. Something between a home, a library, and a conversation space.
Jean-Lorin: How did you feel about always having guests?
Natalia: I was open to having guests. We shared them. Some came to talk to me, some to my husband. Otherwise we would never have produced anything. My husband was very productive. He woke up at six, painted, composed music. I am a scholar, I went to conferences. I don’t know how we managed. Now I couldn’t do it anymore. Back then we could do many things easily.
Jean-Lorin: How was the artistic milieu in the 90’s?
Natalia: It was an exciting time because at that moment there were no private galleries in Hanoi. After us, the next private space opened in 1993. They called themselves galleries, but they were mostly shops selling paintings. You never saw the artists. Later, in the late 90s, alternative places began to appear, mostly focused on performance. But at that time, there were none. For us, it was exciting, and for artists and public too. Openings were very crowded. People stood in the street, blocking traffic. Police came and asked: what is this? We said: birthday party. Somehow we managed. Today, many of these places disappear. I recently attended an artist talk by a Thai curator who had a similar space in the early 90s. Someone asked her why these spaces no longer exist. She said that now there are many institutional places doing similar things. Performance has become a canon. It is more prestigious for artists to participate there. So many independent places close. In Hanoi as well, there were more such spaces ten years ago than now. The movement doesn’t really develop.
Jean-Lorin: Is it due the capitalism?
Natalia: Yes, the market. If a project doesn’t make money, it cannot exist anymore. We also closed. I didn’t want to, but my husband insisted already from 2000. Commercial galleries appeared, you know with big, white walls. They could sell artworks better than us, even though they didn’t have international connections like we had. The mindframe of the clients matters. In an established place, people think art should be expensive. Our place didn’t look like that. Artists also began to move elsewhere. We closed in time. Every project sells something, but selling doesn’t always mean money. We sold atmosphere, a vibe. We could exist only because the place was private. If it had been rented, impossible. Money from my husband’s sales supported things like framing works. At first we took 10 percent commission, later 20. Early 90’s paintings that now cost 10,000 dollars were sold for 30 dollars. Without private space, it wouldn’t have worked.
Jean-Lorin: Were there similar places elsewhere?
Natalia: In Vietnam, there was a place called Nha San opened in 1998, in a private house on stilts from northern minorities. They didn’t operate regularly, only for events. They were more of a collective. We were not. They mostly showed installations and performances.
Jean-Lorin: How did you advertise events?
Natalia: Word of mouth. We also sent paper invitations, photocopied on colored paper. We sent them by post.
Jean-Lorin: Did you have a logo?
Natalia: No special logo. We had cards that changed all the time.
Jean-Lorin: How did you feel about you being the image of a project, with your name on the title? How did you feel about it?
Natalia: I don’t know… what to tell you. From one side, you know, let’s say like now everybody knows this Asia Art Archive. They made a big project, they archived all activity of Salon Natasha for four years. This somehow gives you satisfaction, that yes, I made something important for that time, for art development. From another side, finally… because we began this project with other expectations. I think we were too romantic. We expected that the artists around us would really become a kind of collective or community, like something special, and everybody would go the same road. But then… I don’t know. My husband, he never discussed this, but me, I was disappointed by many things. You do a lot of things for some artists and then a kind of betrayal from the artists. I know this happens everywhere, but I expected other things.
Jean-Lorin: So you expected more support from other people?
Natalia: Yes. More support, more enthusiasm also.
Jean-Lorin: Do you think that because it was your home, it would be possible to bring other people with the same spirit?
Natalia: Yes, I thought so. But maybe it didn’t happen because of the time, because of the market economy coming, everybody looking how to earn money. I don’t know. I have no answer. Maybe it’s just life, organized like that.
Jean-Lorin: I guess you know about Apt Art, the Russian group that managed shows in flats in the 1980s. Were you impressed by them?
Natalia: Actually, only once in the 1980s I was in Moskow at a kind of closed exhibition. I was not really influenced. I was not in the art field at that time. I am a linguist by education. I was doing my PhD. I’m not so connected with contemporary rusian art. I’m more connected to art in Southeast Asia. I know Vietnamese art very well, I write about it a lot, I go to conferences. I know more artists, art historians and art spaces in Singapore, Thailand, in this area. Of course, I know people from Russian museums, like the Museum of Oriental Art, but I’m not really collaborating.
Jean-Lorin: APTART was quite a big movement in the 1980s.
Natalia: Yes, yes. Every country has something similar. In Southeast Asia, most of these places emerged in the 1990s: Thailand, Indonesia, Singapore. Not many places, and some existed only for a short time. In Indonesia, in Yogyakarta, there is art space Cemeti opened in the late 1980s that still exists and has transformed into Cemeti Institute for Art and Society. Very famous. Similar story to mine: a couple, both artists, an Indonesian man and a Dutch woman.
Jean-Lorin: Actually, I heard about Salon Natasha because I received an email when I started my research on this topic, about ten years ago. It was from a guy, I think from Malaysia. He sent me around ten projects from this area.
Natalia: Of course, in Southeast Asia everybody knows about it. Asian artists are connected through triennials and biennials. When you enter this circuit, you circulate and meet the same people again and again. Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Vietnam, they know each other.
Jean-Lorin: What can you tell me about the relationship between Vietnamese people and their homes. For example, in some countries like the UK, people are never invited to their neighbors’ homes. There is no hospitality, it’s not common. In Romania, it’s pretty easy. In Russia also, the same day you meet someone, you can be invited home. I interviewed a violinist from Vienna, of Russian origin, who has been organizing classical concerts in her home for ten years. She said she does this because of her Russian origins, where hospitality is natural.
Natalia: In Vietnam, people are also open, quite easy. This mentality helps to manage projects like shows at home. In London, for example, it’s almost impossible. Personally, I like to invite people home. I’m a bit lazy, I prefer people coming to me. Also because I have many books, many art materials. Some rooms are basically storage. Now my environment is not so nice because I am in the process of building a museum for my husband. The opening will be in the fall. Some furniture already moved there. I’m also making one room devoted to the memory of his father, who was a writer. I will bring books and documents there.
Jean-Lorin: How will Salon Natasha be represented in the museum?
Natalia: It will not be represented. No relation to Salon Natasha, only to my husband. No presentation of Salon Natasha or other people. I made this for him. After his death, he became quite a famous artist. I wanted to make everything for him. Salon Natasha is already archived in Asia Art Archive. All documents, exhibitions, everything is there, online since 2014. We planned to make a book with Nora Taylor, the supervisor of this archive, an American art historian, but it’s not done yet. To be honest, my disappointment with many artists is so big that I don’t want to make anything for anybody else. It’s a closed chapter. We will open the museum with an exhibition curated by a friend, Iola Lenzi an art historian, focused on my husband. The exhibition will be called something like Citizen of the World, coming from his works, from the term l’homme sans pays (a person without a country). Later, I plan to open the room devoted to his father, and to organize an exhibition of portraits of writers painted by my husband. Then I want to invite one conceptual artist from Hoi An to make a workshop related to literature and art. Some other artists will be involved, but only if it is related to the main figure, my husband.
Jean-Lorin: What stays with you from the experience of Salon Natasha?
Natalia: The beginning. The collectivism at the beginning. Artists supported each other. Someone made the floor, someone else helped with frames. This atmosphere is unforgettable. Also, what we achieved in Vietnam at that time. Artists were not aware that exhibitions could be connected by an idea or concept. Official exhibitions had titles like “Exhibition by Three Artists”, “Exhibition by Five Artists”. No topics. We collaborated with a French self-taught artist Eric Leroux who helped a lot. He suggested making exhibitions with concepts, like “Red and Yellow”. At first they thought it was only about colors, but then they discovered connections: the Vietnamese flag, symbols, meanings. That exhibition was one of the most successful.
The activities of Salon Natalia are comprehensively documented and archived by Asia Art Archive, resulting in an extensive online archive that includes exhibition documentation, texts and metadata.
