Bordering the Temple of Literature in Hanoi is Nguyễn Thái Học Boulevard, where a number of art shops sit side by side. Among them, tourists and visitors can find an endless supply of varying iterations of socialist iconography, gold-plated replicas of Đông Sơn drums, and faux-impressionist paintings of colonial Indochina. In Mũi Né, a 127-room resort unironically called The Anam Mui Ne boasts its Indochine allure with “Indochine Charm. Modern Luxury” on its home page. Throughout the resort are paintings depicting women in traditional áo dài and scenes of tranquil fishing villages, gesturing toward the bucolic past of Vietnam. In Saigon, numerous cafes and eateries are decorated in encaustic cement tiles with intricate floral, pastel designs, while brandishing French names and wrought iron railings on their balconies.
Tourists walking on Hanoi's Hàng Gai Street, famous for its range of arts and crafts shop. Photo via Expedia.
If you live in Vietnam, none of this comes as a surprise. In fact, it might even be expected, understood as an homage to a bygone era. But if you’ve never been to Vietnam, such imagery might evoke scenes from Régis Wargnier’s Indochine (1992) or Jean-Jacques Annaud’s adaptation of Marguerite Duras’s L’Amant (1992), films that have long captured the imagination of foreign audiences and helped shape a sanitized vision of Indochine, now repackaged and romanticized as Indochic. While these films didn’t invent the Indochinese style, they certainly helped in propagating it to a larger audience. And it is evident that throughout the country, such conjurings of this aesthetic language are part of a longer repertoire of codes that don’t only refer to a certain time period, but also to class stratification, self image, and cultural heritage. The pervasiveness of this aesthetic, and the aura around its revival, prompts a critical inquiry into how postcolonial Vietnam negotiates a visual regime inherited from colonial rule, one that continues to structure artistic production, shape market expectations, and mediate the nation’s cultural self-representation in a global context.
The roots and expressions of the Indochinese style
On the right is an ad for the Foire de Hanoi in 1932, trade fair highlighting local enterprises.
To explore the origins of this phenomenon, it is necessary to examine the roots of the Indochinese style itself. Broadly categorized as French colonial style, this aesthetic extended beyond architecture into studio art, interior design, and colonial cultural sensibilities more generally. Its foundations were intricately linked to French colonial policies, notably Albert Sarraut’s mise en valeur initiative. Sarraut, Governor-General of French Indochina from 1912 to 1914, actively promoted the preservation and development of “indigenous arts.” For example, he supported French art scholar George Groslier’s initiatives aimed at safeguarding Cambodian cultural traditions, including the establishment of the National Museum of Cambodia.
In 1921, Ernest Hébrard (1875–1933) was appointed the head of the Indochina Architecture and Town Planning Service, and would become the central figure in the architectural formulation of French Indochina. Hébrard’s aspiration to devise a distinctly “local” style for the colony resulted in a fundamentally syncretic approach, structurally inspired by various Asian architectural traditions rather than directly replicating any specific Indochinese vernacular. Completed in 1928, one of the finest examples of this style is the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building in Hanoi, which vividly illustrates Hébrard's synthesis of architectural elements. Nevertheless, this methodological approach drew criticism for its perceived lack of authenticity.
The building that currently houses the Ministry of Foreign Affairs was built in 1928. Photo via Visit Ba Đình.
Parallel to these architectural developments was the founding of L'École des Beaux-Arts de l’Indochine (EBAI) in 1925, under the directorship of French painter Victor Tardieu. Established along similar lines to the École Nationale des Beaux-Arts d’Alger (founded in 1843), EBAI cultivated a cohort of Vietnamese artists who would profoundly shape local artistic discourses. Prominent French figures also included artists such as Paul Jouve (1878–1973), designer of the Indochine 1000 piastre note, and writers such as Pierre Loti (1850–1923), author of Un Pélerin d'Angkor (1912), while Vietnamese artists, who graduated from the EBAI included: Bùi Xuân Phái (1920–1988), most known for his scenes of Hanoi’s old quarters; Tô Ngọc Vân (1906–1954), whose seminal work ‘Thiếu nữ bên hoa huệ’ (1943) exemplified Indochinese sensibilities; Mai Trung Thứ (1906–1980), whose “Mona Lisa” is now well beloved; and Lê Thị Lựu (1911–1988), one of the first female graduates of the school most recognized for her portraitures; and more. These were just some of the early key figures who introduced and established the visual and cultural lexicon, which would later be labeled, “chim, hoa, cá, gái” (birds, flowers, fish, women), or the prominent subject matter emblematic of this style.
The Indochine style utilized locally sourced natural materials such as wood, lacquer, rattan, bamboo, and baked bricks, and incorporated motifs like dragons, turtles, phoenixes, cranes, and diverse floral patterns. The color palette — characterized by neutral and warm hues, beige, cream, yellow, orange, black, brown, and white — embodied a nostalgic aesthetic tailored to accommodate tropical climatic conditions. Architectural features such as wide eaves, screened balconies, and strategic window and ventilation placements facilitated climate control and comfort. In Saigon, the Phương Nam Mansion is among one of the best examples with its tiled roof, colonnaded façade, covered balconies, and wrought iron balustrades.
Phương Nam Mansion in HCMC in 2019 before being greenlit for conservation works. Photo via Người Lao Động.
Nearing the mid-century, this style was no longer seen as new, but as Vietnamese. For the ordinary person, aside from shophouses in the city, or traditional wooden houses in more rural areas, this simply was how official buildings and upscale private residences looked. It was often used in villas, like the ones found in Đà Lạt and Nha Trang. This feeling of heritage was doubly enforced by the fact that, from the 1940s, modernist architecture arrived in Vietnam, producing an entirely different conversation about novelty and contemporary sensibilities. This was especially true in the south where there was a rapid expansion of modernist construction after the first Indochina War and World War II. Architects, both local and foreign, adapted modernist principles with climate-conscious innovations. Iconic buildings such as the Independence Palace (formerly Norodom Palace), rebuilt in 1962, epitomized this modernist aesthetic and moment of transition, thereby positioning Indochinese style as charmingly historical rather than contemporary.
From Indochinese to Indochic, a performable social signal
The resurgence of Indochinese style, now Indochic, as an aspirational style emerged prominently in the early 2000s, correlating with Vietnam’s rapid economic growth and easing of post-war austerity measures. With economic reforms initiated in 1986, transitioning Vietnam towards a socialist-oriented market economy, GDP per capita rose dramatically, from just US$235.65 in 1985 to US$430.19 in 1986 and US$585.30 in 1987. The trend continued upward throughout the 2011–2024 period, reaching US$4,346.77 in 2023 and around US$4,649 in 2024. This economic shift not only transformed material living standards but also gave rise to a new aesthetic consciousness among the burgeoning middle and upper classes. No longer was the austerity of Neubau sentimentality the lingo du jour, but it was the intentional return to old world charm in the form of colonial minimalist decadence.
Indochic, therefore, re-emerged not merely as an architectural style but as a form of self-fashioning, a visual assertion of cultivated taste and social mobility, made possible only by the temporal distance between its initial conception and its later absence. It offered the newly affluent a sanitized version of history, absent of colonial exploitation and labor regimes, one that evoked heritage without consequence. Space and light were still important considerations for buildings, but so were paintings of bucolic rice paddy scenes, populated with women in domestic spaces, and wooden fishing boats that also serve as family homes. And we can’t forget the heritage vases and courtyard bonsai. As the style re-emerged, its meanings also shifted. It became retro, even aspirational, undeniably chic, and now, air-conditioned.
Bucolic embroidery works inside a store in Hanoi. Photo via Expedia.
More than a revival of aesthetic motifs, this new Indochic marked a transformation in class performance. With newfound prosperity, Vietnam’s rising middle class eagerly signaled their upward mobility by adopting what appeared to be markers of inherited taste. The look of “old money” became performable, accessible, and desirable — even if few could claim direct lineage to the colonial elite. Indochic, thus, asserted a “tasteful” nod to cultural sophistication and continuity with an idealized past, which more often than not results in an aimless parody of ahistorical amnesia. Sure, you might not have been a wealthy heiress of businessmen or plantation owners like Éliane in Indochine, but you can certainly dress and decorate your house as if you were.
Aesthetic cues extended beyond architecture to vintage áo dài silhouettes, mid-century design elements, and brand identity, all feeding into a curated performance of taste, discernment, and nostalgic authenticity, but done ironically without that direct lineage. It is a performance, in other words, of a form of self-fashioned social belonging, which, if done successfully, can separate the gaudy from the simplistic, or conversely, muddle tradition with off-sighted experimentation. Truly, we can’t all be the queen of Saigon. In some cases, it is hard to tell if one execution is a cultivated homage to history or merely a decontextualized mimicry of hollowed-out orientalist motifs.
The private estate where Éliane (Catherine Deneuve) lives with her foster daughter Camille (Phạm Linh Đan) in Indochine (1992). Image via Sài Gòn Vi Vu.
Regardless, contemporary interior design companies and luxury businesses frequently deploy these visual codes, perpetuating Indochic as an aesthetic synonymous with luxury, and cultural heritage as a brand. Part of the issue here is that, historically, the development of Indochine style coincided with profound societal transformations within Vietnam, marking a transitional period from feudal traditions towards modernity, underscored by the expansion of educational and healthcare infrastructures. Thus, in some ways, it was rather revolutionary to the extent that it challenged pre-existing norms not by way of visual violence, but through mediation between idealism and material reality.
Much like the myth of a more balanced colonial hybridity, the insidiousness of the style’s revival has less to do with its purported harmony than with the logic of subordination of aesthetic norms, vis-à-vis the deficiency of indigenous sensibilities that needed intervention and renovation in the first place. Put differently, its drive toward harmony is achieved only through the framework of recognizable European forms, meanwhile, subjecting its unresolved tensions into the decorative elements, such as dragon mosaics, and lotus flowers in the crown molding.
Indochic in quotidian life and the art market
In miền Tây, where I am from, it is common to encounter newly constructed homes adorned with tiled verandas, Corinthian columns, Greco-style pediments, arched windows with decorative keystones, and occasionally even faux-mansard roofs. For locals, prolonged exposure and cultural sedimentation have rendered this architectural vocabulary part of the everyday vernacular. There are, of course, more contemporary-looking houses in the region and throughout the country. However, the trend tends to lean in this direction of more heritage-looking houses, and it is quite easy to spot the nouveau riche, where many of the mentioned elements are overstated and mixed with neo-Baroque motifs, bordering on camp. In many of these places, rather than performing an imagined fantasy derived from a colonial mindset, Indochinese motifs have genuinely become heritage, fully vernacularized, and not disparagingly so.
Ninh Hiệp Village in Gia Lâm, Hanoi, whose urban center is decked out in rows of new European-style villas and sculptures. Photo via Dân Trí.
Yet, authenticity remains a pertinent concern. While indulging in colonial aesthetics, this saveur indochinois, is not inherently problematic, but a critical perspective must recognize the complex historical and social implications associated with such representations, including parallels with the romanticization of American southern plantation architecture — a troubling analogy, yet illustrative of the underlying cultural violence inherent in such aesthetic codes. This is perhaps where one might find some dark humor in the onslaught of Indochic as a desirable measure for social and cultural stability. As the style emerged not merely as an aesthetic indulgence, but as a complex interplay between colonial imposition and local reinterpretation. More precisely, it is emblematic of the reassurance of class and aesthetic stratification, however in a context where that is very much praised and applauded, and at a time when inequality is ever more concerning.
Colorful travel posters showcasing different tourism locations, 20th century.
Elsewhere, this humor extends in far more impactful ways. In Vietnam’s contemporary art market, for example, early 20th-century masters continue to overshadow contemporary Vietnamese artists, simply because their visual languages have already been well rehearsed. International auction houses frequently spotlight Vietnamese ceramics and lacquer works, reinforcing colonial tendencies to valorize these objects as artifacts rather than recognizing ongoing artistic innovation. Between April to August of this year alone, there have been no fewer than twenty contemporary art show openings, just in Saigon. At the same time, little attention has been given to these shows, with buyers privileging works that “look” more stereotypically Vietnamese, by which, more often than not, means Indochinese. This continued perception inadvertently positions Vietnamese creative capacity as suspended within a Euro-American cinematic narrative, in which an object must seemingly have been produced by some unnamed master in a hidden village specializing in lacquer of, say, Quảng Trị, rather than an MFA-trained artist in residence at the Guggenheim, as an example. Surely there is a form of existence that lies beyond chinoiserie à la Vietnamienne.
‘Portrait de Mademoiselle Phuong’ by Mai Trung Thứ was sold in an auction in 2021 for US$3.1 million.
‘Mère et enfant’ by Lê Thị Lựu fetched EUR529,200 in 2022.
From personal interviews with local contemporary artists and gallery visits, it’s evident that many are fed up with the particular demand to perform this kind of Indochinese craft-like art making. To some of these artists, it reduces their individual practice to that of a nameless coolie, performing traditional roles and producing traditional wares. There is no doubt that Vietnamese traditional craft has had a storied past, but one can only play so much with the codes of Bát Tràng ceramics in contemporary art before the entire endeavor falls back into kitsch. In my view, the reluctance of these artists to fall into these ethnic-art labor paradigms has less to do with their individual egos than it does about the broader pervasiveness and power which the Indochinese aesthetic regime has on Vietnam cultural tastes and production — a power that is undeniable, but too arrestingly captive for it to offer aesthetic novelty, for those who are seeking expressive liberation rather than sedimentation. At the same time, because of how well-received this style is to both foreigners and Vietnamese people, it cannot simply be ignored or cast off as though it does not exist, even if, to some, the style signals a kind of cultural stagnation or lack of futural imagination.
The complexities behind engaging with Indochic
So, what can be done? If heritage styles allow individuals to fashion themselves as discerning consumer subjects with a particular attunement to personality and sense of judgement, what really is the problem? Surely, a discerning consumer, even if it is just a style, is better than a non-discerning one, no? But here is precisely where we encounter the dilemma: the Indochic style is less about the reconstruction of a style than a re-enactment of it. To that end, the idea of the possibility of reclaiming a colonial aesthetic as purely one’s own is no less than a consumerist fantasy. That is, unless it can somehow be radically re-imagined to accommodate the realities that currently exist within contemporary Vietnamese society.
Personally, I find the discourse of “reclaiming” these aesthetics is equally fraught, since such terminology would imply a dispossession and appropriation inconsistent with Vietnam’s historical adaptation and negotiation of these styles. There is nothing to “reclaim.” The style was never “taken” away from the Vietnamese, in any sense, but it was more so the case that the country simply had moved on to other forms of self-expression.
Inside a cafe in central Saigon, where the theme is Indochinese-inspired.
Vietnam is a country like any other, in the sense that its consumptive practices were well in-line with global developments, particularly during the second half of the 20th century. The country’s liberation from French control gave way to an onslaught of novel values, which were later disseminated within its larger cultural sphere, and the arrival of modernism was overwhelmingly welcomed, and undoubtedly prolific in Vietnam. Because of this, rather than “reclaim,” I would like to pose if it may be possible to, instead, “retro-fit” the Indochinese style, as a formal renovation?
I pose this question not only in response to the persistence of the style, as evidenced by its fad-like return, but also in relation to the bearing it has on our capacity to critically visualize the future image of Vietnam. After all, this aesthetic emerged directly from complex historical interactions, despite unequal colonial conditions, and to use it as part of the country’s promotional image can’t (and probably won’t) entirely harm its future earning potential in the tourism sector, right? Still, the persistence of Indochic as a cultural marker today extends beyond surface aesthetics, embedding itself deeply within class identities and social structures. All told, “French colonial style” does indeed sound much better than “tropical plantation-core.”
French travel posters of the 3 territories under French rule, Tonkin, Annam, and Cochinchine.
With tourism surging by a record-breaking 6 million visitors in the first quarter of 2025 alone, that image of “France’s former eastern territory” is not negligible, as mere self-promotion. Vietnamese people are proud of their history of anti-colonial resistance, but they are also equally proud of the material culture that was produced during the colonial period. Listen, I am not here to take away anyone’s rêve d’Asie. I think it is possibly one of the most intentional and functional design conventions of the 20th century. Not to mention, tourists will, unhesitantly, continue to want to experience that romanticized perle d’orient, to revel in their fantasy of a Chinese junk sailing through the emerald waters of Hạ Long Bay, while sporting in white linen and giant sun hats. And who am I to stop them?
Vincent Pérez as Jean-Baptiste on a sampan in Hạ Long Bay in Indochine (1992). Image via Sài Gòn Vi Vu.
At a certain point, there are only so many ways to insist that in relation to national identity, even something so seemingly inconsequential as hotel designs or souvenir trinkets is not, well, so inconsequential. Furthermore, it may even be necessary to consider how the same cultural apparatuses that have allowed for the ideals of Vietnamese feminized beauty in the 1920s French travel posters, may not be so separate from the fashioning of the female body in major airline advertisements. Today’s Vietnam is much more futuristic than many would believe, but it is not certain that this modern Vietnam is well understood, especially against the prevalence of Indochic’s apparent charm. Southeast Asia as a whole can’t indefinitely remain the antithetical untamed wilderness of East Asia.
All hope is not lost, however. There are signs of what I consider thoughtful reconsiderations — not of Indochinese motifs per se, but of its core tenets: air-flow, natural light, usage of local materials, and a minimalist sensibility rooted in ecological responsiveness rather than decorative excess. Contemporary Vietnamese architects are increasingly revisiting traditional building techniques and indigenous materials, not as a return to heritage for heritage’s sake, but as part of broader conversations around sustainability, climate adaptation, and cultural continuity. Names like Thanh Hà Nguyễn, Võ Trọng Nghĩa, and Phạm Thị Mỹ An come to mind. Their projects, often situated in both urban and rural contexts, offer compelling alternatives to the commercialized Indochic revival. The homage, in these cases, emerges not through codified pastiche or nostalgic mimicry, but through abstraction, restraint, and environmental intelligence. These architects reinterpret climatic logic, overhangs for shade, cross-ventilation for airflow, and porous boundaries between inside and outside, while sidestepping the heavy-handed romanticism that characterizes so much of the Indochic visual regime. In doing so, they point to a future where tradition informs innovation, and where architectural memory is engaged not as spectacle, but as living practice.
“Urban Farming Office” by Võ Trọng Nghĩa Architects. Photo via Kiến Việt.
“Tropical Suburb House” by MM++ Architects. Photo via MM++ Architects.
Elsewhere, contemporary artists are becoming increasingly vocal about their uneasy relationship to the Indochina tropes that continue to dominate expectations, particularly when such expectations are tethered to commercial viability. For some, the decision to conform is strategic rather than aspirational, made under the unrelenting pressure to sell to both domestic and international buyers whose taste remains conditioned by a colonial gaze. Others resist altogether, refusing to participate in a system that demands they package their identity through a retro-Orientalist frame. Popular contemporary art institutions in Saigon are emblematic of this tension, often staging exhibitions that walk the line between market appeal and conceptual critique. The stakes are not merely aesthetic, but structural: who gets visibility, who receives institutional support, and which narratives get elevated in the global circulation of Vietnamese art.
Ultimately, while Indochine-era travel posters may rightfully inhabit souvenir shops near Hồ Chí Minh City's central post office, small boutiques in Hanoi’s Old Quarter, or the exposed brick walls of a coffee shop in Hội An, there remains a need to draw a clear distinction between nostalgic marketing and genuine historical engagement. The challenge is not in disavowing the visual language wholesale, but in learning how to mine it critically, unpacking its ideological underpinnings while embracing the possibilities for artistic evolution, cultural agency, and sustainable reinterpretation. To engage with Indochic today is not to revive the past uncritically, but to imagine how its forms might be retooled ethically, and with attention to the histories they contain.
