The preference for light skin is widespread in Vietnam. It is discernible from the mere sight of Saigon’s streets during the day, when the majority of riders are covered up — in hoodies, jackets, jeans, pants, and masks — for protection against UV radiation, but also to prevent tanning under the blistering sun. Especially more so for women, light skin is often associated with beauty and social status, so protection against the sun has become more than a health concern.
But when did this preference for light skin begin? On one hand, it is tempting to think that its roots lie within colonialism and white supremacy; that light skin is desired via its proximity to whiteness. But while the sentiment behind such a perspective is not entirely untrue, the history of Vietnam's preference for light skin is considerably more complex. Colonial dynamics certainly reshaped and reinforced existing biases, but the preference for lighter skin predates French colonial rule. And while the same bias no doubt continues to exist today, its manifestation in modern times is also quite different from that of a century ago. Both then and now, light skin signifies social status via its proximity to modernity — the difference, however, lies in the kind of modernity envisaged. While the preference for light skin exists broadly across genders, the standard is considerably less rigid and pervasive for men. As a disclaimer, this piece focuses exclusively on women, largely due to the bias towards women of existing scholarship on the history of cosmetics and beauty in Vietnam.
Perceptions of skin color during colonial Vietnam
In pre-colonial society, the preference for light skin was largely a product of class dynamics. Darker skin signified exposure to the sun under long days of labor, while lighter skin signified upper class privilege and leisure. In exemplifying the beauty that was associated with light skin, the poet Nguyễn Du describes the protagonist of the legendary Tale of Kiều as possessing skin as white as snow.
Under French colonial rule, the preference for light skin continued to persist, but under different terms. Colonialism did not so much create or displace the existing bias as it did complicate and reconfigure it by layering a logic of whiteness on top of what existed before.
The front cover of the Ngày Nay volume published on July 26, 1936.
Cosmetics and the skincare industry is one site in which such dynamics were, and continue to be, most visible. As the historian Christina Firpo explains in her recent book Beauty and the Nation — a thorough scholarly account of the development of beauty culture in colonial Vietnam which this section draws heavily from — mass-market cosmetics were popularized only in the 1920s and 1930s, both in Vietnam and around the world. The boom in the cosmetics industry could be attributed to a number of factors such as the development of new technologies for better and more consistent products, a shift in public perception of cosmetics away from its association with sex work, as well as innovations in transportation which allowed goods to travel around the world. It should be noted, though, that forms of skincare existed in pre-colonial Vietnam as well. For instance, women often used a concoction containing rice powder to whiten their skin, as per Sino-Vietnamese medical tradition.
“Crème Siamoise,” Phụ Nữ Tân Văn, May 16, 1929
Cosmetics gained significant traction in colonial Vietnam because it offered an avenue for self-expression for women. This was significant especially at a time when women sought to challenge traditional gender norms. In addition to challenging polygamy and the expectation of chastity for widows, women also began to reject the idea of arranged marriages and seek out romantic love instead.
Cosmetics during the mid-late colonial era entailed a range of different products: lipstick, mascara, perfume, as well as powder and skincare products such as cream. Together, these elements constituted the aesthetic of the “modern girl.” In reality, however, only elites could reliably afford such cosmetic products, except perhaps for lipstick. Most cosmetics were likely manufactured at homes and local pharmacies. Regardless, the mere advertisement of such cosmetics commodities — most of them European, some Japanese — carried immense social force, for advertisements in newspapers and magazines were powerful sites of meaning-making with respect to gender and womanhood.
The cosmetics industry burgeoned in colonial Vietnam precisely by capitalizing on this appetite for social change with respect to gender norms and a yearning for modernity, as epitomized in the caricature of the “modern girl.” And skincare products were of course no exception to this. In one telling advertisement, Firpo points out, the Swiss brand Tokalon “assured women that men were fascinated by smooth white skin and promised that Tokalon cream would lead men to fall in love with them.” As Khanh Tran writes in a previous Saigoneer article, “well-off women in Vietnam cherished good, fair skin over any painted visage”
‘Tokalon,‘ Phong Hóa, October 26, 1934
Interestingly, even while targeting a Vietnamese audience, cosmetic brands most often featured white European models. As Christina Firpo explains, “In some cases it is possible that the companies simply never converted their original European advertisements for the local market, but it is likely that many deliberately used European models to capitalize on their associations with white prestige.” Firpo points out that even Vietnamese-owned businesses, such as the beauty institute Mỹ Viện Amy, featured French women to promote its products.
“Mỹ Viện Amy,” Ngày Nay, September 7, 1940
While the preference for light skin long predated French colonial rule, the terms through which lightness was made legible were shifting. Lightness was no longer legible only through class, but was now also being read through the lens of western modernity and proximity to whiteness, though, of course, the two were by no means fully separable.
The present
While the preference for light skin persists today, it is abundantly clear that beauty ideals are now increasingly modeled after women of East Asia — especially, of Korea. As NPR correspondent Elise Hu writes in her book Flawless: Lessons in Looks and Culture from the K-Beauty Capital, “the modern Asian face is increasingly defined by a Korean beauty standard, with Southeast Asian women especially looking toward Korea for the latest and most advanced beauty products and procedures.” This modern face is defined by ideals of clear, pearl-white skin, a V-shaped jawline, a high and slender nose bridge, and double eyelids — facial features around which now globally famous industries of skincare and plastic surgery have developed.
It goes without saying that beauty ideals vary among individuals. At the same time, however, the broad enthusiasm for “K-Beauty” in Vietnam is not difficult to discern. One need only look at the leading fashion magazines such as Elle Vietnam and Đẹp Magazine to observe this, where articles and images of Korean stars, such as Jennie of Black Pink, are frequently featured. Behind this lies the significant influence of Korean cultural and economic capital: the soaring popularity of K-pop and K-dramas, as well as the fact that Korean brands constitute the highest share of Vietnam's beauty and personal care market (more broadly, Korea is once again Vietnam’s largest foreign direct investor, as of this year). What set the stage for this shift was Vietnam's integration into the global economy following the Đổi Mới period, in conjunction with the subsequent rise of Hallyu, or the “Korean Wave”' which began in the late 1990s and has escalated dramatically since the 2010s.
Jisoo, a member of K-pop group Blackpink, on the cover of Elle Vietnam's September 2023 issue.
In Vietnam, the ideal skin complexion that so many desire during the decades after Đổi Mới, epitomized by Korean skincare, is perhaps best encapsulated by the word “sáng,” or brightness. The prominence of this word should be evident to anyone who has spent time cruising through shopping malls or surfing online in search of skincare products. It should be said that the emphasis on brightness is not ubiquitous across different geographies — as a start, we can note that the phrase “bright skin” itself already feels awkward in English. In comparing the websites of higher-end skincare brands across Vietnam, Korea, and the US, the same product is marketed differently on their Vietnamese websites, often centering its effects for brightening.
Kiehl’s Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution
Take, for instance, one of Kiehl’s bestsellers in Vietnam. While its English name is “Kiehl's Clearly Corrective Dark Spot Solution,” on Kiehl’s Vietnamese site, the same product is advertised as a “brightening” serum, explicitly invoking the word sáng. The Korean brand Innisfree’s bestseller in Vietnam, “Cherry Blossom Glow Tone-Up Cream,” again features the word sáng in the SEO product title on its Vietnamese website. To be sure, “glow,” of course means bright too, but the difference is that the Korean name for the product transliterates the word “glow,” mainly for the purpose of manufacturing a kind of scientificity associated with English in Korea. One can find the word sáng peppered throughout the online stores of other major cosmetics brands like L'Oréal Paris, as well as Vietnamese-owned brands like Cocoon. Clearly, there is a kind of craze over sáng within the world of skincare.
Innisfree Cherry Blossom Glow Tone Up Cream
On one level, “brightening” is simply an alias or moniker for “whitening.” But the semantic difference between the two terms is significant and worth reflecting upon. The sociologist Thuy Linh Nguyen Tu writes, “sáng refers not to a skin color, but to a quality, a luminousness that radiates from the skin.” In contrast to a notion of fairness or even softness, sáng signifies a kind of strength that radiates from within, a quality not wholly reducible to the realm of aesthetics. This is evident from the fact, for instance, that sáng can also be used to describe brightness with regards to intelligence or even one’s future. During her visit to Vietnam, she recalls frequently encountering the phrase “sáng, sạch, đẹp” as a descriptor for ideal skin complexion — a mantra that, fascinatingly, echoes “xanh, sạch, đẹp,” a slogan that is oft-repeated by urban developers.
If colonial-era advertisements featured European women to invoke the allure of western modernity, sáng points towards a different set of aspirations. It reflects a yearning for what sociologist Kimberly Kay Hoang calls “pan-Asian modernity”: aspirations for modernity that looks not to the west, but elsewhere in Asia for inspiration, especially as the influence and power of East Asia continues to rise, both regionally and globally, while the West’s is in slow decline. From this perspective, it becomes possible to read sáng not simply as a norm for beauty, but as a reflection of broader ideals for Vietnam’s socioeconomic posture. If sáng signifies whiteness, it is, as Linh writes, “surely whiteness of a different color.”
Trần Thị Thu Ngân on the cover of Harper's Bazaar Vietnam's November 2016 issue.
A comparative perspective of the present day and colonial era shows us the ways in which beauty ideals for skin are both shaped, and made sense of, by forces larger than “mere” aesthetics and beauty. Both then and now, the preference for light skin has persisted through its signification of social status, though the conception of modernity underpinning it has since shifted.
To end on a personal note: I myself am a Korean with tanner skin than most Koreans — a product of having lived in Vietnam for many years — and I feel entirely comfortable with this fact. In writing this piece, I’ve thought about why. Personally, I’d like to think of it as evidence of a rejection on my part of colorism as a form of social bias and discrimination. But if I’m being honest, I think my comfort speaks more so to two things: firstly, my gender as a man, which offers more lenience with respect to standards for skincare; and secondly, my socioeconomic class, in large part constituted by my position within Vietnamese society as a Korean — which places me firmly within the very sphere of modernity that sáng aspires for, thus, in a rather twisted way, making the need to signify it through light skin somewhat obsolete. I am doubtful that I would’ve felt as comfortable with my tan skin had I lived and grown up in Korea, for instance. From this perspective, my rejection of light skin is not a feat, but rather a feature of a deeper issue, of which colorism is one manifestation. Of course skin tone should not determine how one is perceived or judged. But when we say that colorism is a problem, we should be clear-sighted: the problem lies not so much in the fact that skin tone is used as an indicator of status, but in the fact that a hierarchy of social status — organized around rubrics of race, class, and modernity — exists at all.
