Dancer Vu Ngoc Khai: The Shape of Movement

When working with Vietnamese cultural symbols, I carefully research colours and techniques, ensuring that the organisers commit to sourcing high-quality materials. The bamboo baskets in Do were crafted by artisans—each bamboo strip polished and stained a rich reddish-brown, with rope woven to form skirts and hats. The conical hat in Non was meticulously constructed from over 20 pieces, its outer layer hand-painted by the artist. Every detail is considered to achieve the highest artistic effect, ensuring the audience experiences the work as seamlessly as possible.

In movement, I focus on fluidity and spirals, creating a sense of continuous transformation. This draws the viewer in, making the motion feel endless and immersive.

What does contemporary dance mean to Vu Ngoc Khai? What can you express through it that other art forms cannot?

My journey has taken me from ballet and neoclassical to modern and, ultimately, contemporary dance. What sets contemporary apart is that it constantly demands growth—there is always more to learn. With classical dance, once you master the technique, the form is complete. But contemporary dance is in perpetual evolution. Imagine having two arms and two legs—by simply shifting the direction and rhythm of one hand, an entirely new image emerges. Now picture 100 dancers doing this simultaneously, like a living musical score—it becomes something entirely different.

Contemporary dance operates on multiple levels. The skeleton moves, the muscles contract and release, the nervous system shifts, emotions flow—each element forming an intricate composition. The dancer then integrates these movements with a given theme, be it colour, cultural symbolism, or mood. When all these components align, contemporary dance unites mind, intellect, meaning, spirit, and form. If my focus wavers, even slightly, the audience will feel it—like a meal missing its essential seasoning. It just wouldn’t be complete.

In some of your productions, you take on the roles of producer, choreographer, and performer. How do these roles compare? What advantages come with balancing multiple responsibilities?

At first, I took on multiple roles out of necessity—producing a performance is costly, and resources were limited. Over time, I realised that each position presents its own complexities. The demands are distinct, the challenges unique. At times, I would lose my rhythm—while editing, I’d suddenly remember a looming production deadline, or mid-rehearsal, I’d feel the music didn’t quite fit. But changing the music meant altering the choreography, costumes, and props. What I learned was the importance of teamwork, deadlines, and structured workflows. As a choreographer, I have to make decisive choices—knowing when to let go of perfection so that the next production can be stronger. If I push too hard, the entire team risks burnout. In art, making a decision that shapes the future is never easy.

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Despite critical acclaim and international success, you are still perceived as somewhat “academic” by the Vietnamese public, even though your themes are familiar and community-focused. Why do you think that is?

I haven’t had many opportunities to stage productions in Vietnam. There are two main reasons. First, investors and sponsors remain hesitant—dance is not as commercially appealing as other art forms and requires significant effort. Second, my works are intricate and take time to develop. But today, everything is expected to be instant, and sometimes I can’t meet that demand.

After 13 years abroad, studying and working in Europe, how do you see the changes in Vietnam’s art scene? Have there been positive and negative shifts?

State-funded productions still follow old methods—not in terms of themes, but in their approach. Take love, for example—it’s a universal subject, always relevant. But if the mindset remains unchanged, the storytelling does too. Many recognise that neighbouring countries have innovated in the arts, yet discussions often don’t progress beyond that.

Meanwhile, independent groups are thriving. They are active, achieving success, and engaging in international exchanges. The world is discovering Vietnamese dance not only through diplomatic efforts but also through contemporary performance itself.

Having worked with international artists on global stages, what are your thoughts on the potential of Vietnamese dancers? What is their greatest limitation? Can we hope for Vietnamese contemporary dance to rival that of Japan and Korea?

At one time, I believed younger generations would have greater opportunities to engage with the world—that with today’s openness, they would surpass us. But if things continue as they are, it will be difficult to reach the level of Japan or Korea. We are too reluctant to push ourselves, too hesitant to study. And that, more than anything, holds us back.

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Do you think Vietnam has the right artistic foundation for contemporary dance talent to flourish? What can be done to improve this?

Vietnam has many dancers, but not many dance performers. To evolve into a performer, one must engage with other artistic disciplines. Study painting to understand shape and colour. Study music to grasp sound and atmosphere. Study photography to master perspective and distance. Study anatomy for insight into the human body. Study psychology to explore emotions and the mind.

Do you believe all contemporary dance works must convey a message?

Yes. Every piece reflects the choreographer’s perspective, layered with meaning and intent. A painter may focus on colour and movement, a musician on breath and muted sound, a writer on the poetry of motion, while a worker may see their own life in it. The world is embracing contemporary dance as a cinematic experience.

“Art for art’s sake” versus “art for life’s sake”—where do you stand?

I believe art should be for everyone. Artists must live, and to do so, they need an audience. The audience is the catalyst that shapes the work. If a piece isn’t created for the audience, then it exists only for the artist. Dance is a performing art—it must be made for those who watch it.

Vu Ngoc Khai, with so many acclaimed performances, do you have a lifelong dream project? If so, what would it be?

I don’t create works for myself. I create them because they carry a message, evoke emotion, and ultimately, belong to the audience.

Recently, I’ve been focusing on Vietnamese society and culture because I want to see more Vietnamese-made works—“Made in Vietnam” in every sense. That is my ambition. The scale varies depending on the project’s needs. In October 2023, I spent two months in Korea collaborating with the Vietnamese community on Nhang Troi, a piece about migration. It required immense effort and funding for travel and accommodation. Meanwhile, Non was completed in just 20 days.

Ultimately, a five-minute piece requires less preparation than a full-length production. I will continue to create for as long as I can.

Beyond performing and teaching contemporary dance, you and your colleagues founded the 1648 Kilometre Project, organising long-term community programmes for those with disabilities, including limb differences, hearing and visual impairments, and autism. Can you tell us more about these initiatives?

These projects hold deep meaning for us. Dance isn’t just for performance—it is for life. When people with disabilities engage with movement through contemporary dance techniques, it activates different body mechanisms, helping them navigate walking, standing, sitting, or even falling. Music relaxes the nervous system. Painting becomes a medium for expressing emotions.

We all recognise that those facing physical challenges or financial hardship primarily need material support. I don’t have money to give, but my colleagues and I have artistic resources to share—resources that promote mental well-being. Our hope is that these contributions help ensure that no one in this community is seen as “lacking.”

In addition to your work in dance, Vu Ngoc Khai, you collaborate with artists in music, puppetry, and photography to support young people’s emotional well-being and mental health. Where did this idea come from, and what impact have these initiatives had so far?

While working in Europe, we engaged with many different communities through art. I came to realise that access to psychological support is something of a luxury in our country. Young people, in particular, are highly susceptible to emotional shifts, and if these are negative, they can shape the course of their lives.

Art is also often seen as a luxury for those with fewer resources. Yet in places like Naples, Italy, the opposite is true. There, in times of hunger and despair, people turn to creation—moulding clay, carving stone, extracting pigments from flowers and grass to paint. These acts of making help them overcome hardship. That changed my perspective on art entirely. Today, 1648 Kilometres continues this work, connecting young people with artists and with each other.

An artist celebrated for his personal achievements, admired at the height of his career—or one who creates a profound, positive impact on society. Which path resonates with you more?

Any artist who is admired or outstanding comes from a community and is recognised by society. Different art forms leave different marks—music, painting, film, each shaping audiences in their own way. As a contemporary dance artist, I work in performance, so creating a positive impact on the community and society is what I do, and what I will continue to do.

This article was originally published in Tatler Vietnam, December 2024 issue.

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