Cultural embroidery under Tu Thi Temple

Historical records reveal that Tu Thi Communal House was originally part of Yen Thai Village, Tien Tuc Commune, Tho Xuong District, Hoai Đuc Prefecture, Hanoi Province. Built in 1891 by artisans from Quat Dong embroidery village (Thuong Tin) who had relocated to Ke Cho, the house has undergone multiple restorations over its 134-year history. Though altered in many ways, it has retained an intimate sense of belonging. In October 2012, the site was officially designated a National Historical and Cultural Monument. The communal house’s name is boldly inscribed on a lacquered horizontal board above the entrance: Tu Đình Thị (繡亭市), which roughly translates to “Embroidered Communal House Market”—a distinctive feature that sets it apart from the myriad temples and communal houses of Hanoi’s 36 guild streets.

The designation “Thi” (market) speaks to the site’s original purpose: the communal house once served as both a showroom and a marketplace for embroidered works. While the front hall bustled with the trade of exquisite textiles, the rear sanctuary—home to the altar honouring the craft’s founder—remained a secluded space of reverence. In the present programme, the main hall (Dai Dinh) serves as both a source of artistic inspiration and a rotating exhibition space showcasing the refined techniques of silk dyeing with natural plant pigments. It also houses a library of embroidery art books, meticulously curated and personally transported to Hanoi from Hoi An by Pham Ngoc Tram.

“The Meo Meo Atelier space I have created here is an extension of my inner world,” Tram reflects. “On this occasion, I wish to open it up for others to see and experience. Each tool, each painting, each photograph is a treasured companion, carrying its own story—marking the ten-year journey of Meo Meo Atelier. For that reason, bringing my workshop to Dinh Tu Thi would not be complete without my ‘teammates.’ It is also an opportunity to share and recount the profound narratives of my pursuit of embroidery, with all who love and appreciate this art.”

After being welcomed with a sumptuous meal of fish cakes at the Hoan Hoa villa on Duong Thanh Street, Pham Ngoc Tram personally accompanied me to her workshop. Stepping inside, I was immediately struck by the kaleidoscopic beauty of the space—an artistic sanctuary where dozens of meticulously arranged flower baskets adorned three long tables. Each delicate silk thread, hand-formulated and dyed by Tram herself in Hoi An, shimmered ethereally. The warm golden hues stemmed from Buddleja officinalis and Fibraurea recisa, while the rich browns and deep reds were derived from Biancaea sappan and Rubia tinctorum. Even a single raw material—Carthamus tinctorius—had the remarkable ability to transform into a spectrum of colours, from golden yellow to vibrant red and soft pink. Amidst the intoxicating fragrance of the flower baskets we had gathered on our way back, a rustic, affectionate scent of wild grass lingered in the air.

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Drawing upon the extensive research of renowned scholars, including Medicinal Plants of Vietnam by Dr Do Tat Loi, Ngoc Tram has curated a distinctive dyeing portfolio, using the fragrant flowers and leaves surrounding her home in Hoi An. The result is a colour palette that not only reflects Vietnam’s rich biodiversity but also stands as a testament to its natural beauty. It would be no exaggeration to call Tram one of the pioneers in mapping out raw material sources in Vietnam, effectively localising this ancient art of natural dyeing.

Seated before an embroidery frame, I found myself absorbed in quiet reverence. As a researcher of Vietnam’s historic textiles and costumes, I have longed to immerse myself in the intricate techniques of our ancestors. Tram, as expected, demonstrated them with finesse. With nearly a decade of practice and an extraordinary depth of knowledge gained through years of field research in northern embroidery villages, she has chosen to revive the age-old motif of Two Dragons Playing with a Pearl, rendered in pure silk in the traditional Hanoi-Bac Ninh style. According to this technique, the bodies of the four sacred creatures—the dragon, unicorn, turtle, and phoenix—are first sculpted using layers of cotton or loose straw. These forms are then bound with finely spun paper or straw threads, secured in evenly spaced notches across the cotton base. Once the framework is set, the entire design is meticulously embroidered with spun silk or silk infused with a subtle metallic sheen. Craftsmen refer to this method as “filling cotton and tying meat”, though I jokingly call it “tying a loaf”. Mastering such a technique cannot be done within the confines of a craft village—Tram’s journey has taken her far beyond, collecting and studying embroidered relics, many over a century old, which have borne the passage of time.

This meticulous process allows Tram to deconstruct each layer of embroidery without the need to actively dismantle the artefacts—an approach akin to learning a foreign language, where one must grasp phonemes, syntax, and phonetics before truly engaging with native speakers. In this case, the natives are the old master artisans. This notion bears a certain parallel to the legendary tale of Le Cong Hanh, the revered founder of Vietnamese embroidery. According to folklore, he was a mandarin of the Le Dynasty, sent as an envoy to China, where he was challenged by the Ming emperor and subsequently imprisoned in a high tower. With nothing but time at his disposal, he began unpicking the embroidered panels and ornate parasols that decorated his quarters, carefully studying their construction. As the story goes, he later devised a daring escape, fashioning the parasols into makeshift wings and gliding to safety. This very legend later inspired chapter 54, The Flying Envoy, of the once-famous comic series Than Dong Dat Viet. Having earned the respect of the Ming emperor, he was swiftly granted permission to return home, where he passed down the sacred knowledge of embossed embroidery and Northern-style parasol-making to the artisans of Quat Dong embroidery village—an enduring legacy that has withstood the test of time.

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Speaking of modern embroidery, today’s craftsmen often favour glitter-covered, glossy, and thick silk, working with a low thread density that allows for quick execution and mass production. The resulting pieces, while affordable, lack the depth and intricacy of traditional techniques. Over time, the art of embroidering with fine silk thread has gradually faded into obscurity. Pham Ngoc Tram is one of the rare individuals determined to revive the traditional methods—embroidering not only with cotton and silk but also using silk dyed with natural pigments extracted from leaves, roots, and tree bark, some of which she painstakingly twists by hand. For Tram, each day spent embroidering within the hallowed walls of the communal house is a sacred ritual—an opportunity to immerse herself in the ancestral wisdom of her craft.

For me, witnessing this was nothing short of a privilege. Observing Tram at work, listening to her articulate age-old embroidery techniques in clear, accessible language, I was struck by the depth of her knowledge. These methods, so deeply rooted in tradition, would be near impossible to interpret in a modern context without having lived and breathed them as she has. The two of us became entirely absorbed, our conversations flowing seamlessly from discussions on needlework to the luminous qualities of spun silk. Originally, I had planned to stay only briefly—but without realising it, my two-week journey became intrinsically linked to the presence of Tu Thi communal house.

A friend of mine once opened a business directly opposite the communal house, yet she had never seen its doors open. That changed when Tram arrived. Suddenly, the number of visitors surged, so much so that even the temple keeper was taken aback. Contrary to the expectation of an ageing, tranquil space hidden beneath the communal house’s curved roof, the scene was alive with excitement. Tourists gathered, captivated by the sight of a young woman, gracefully bent over a silk screen, embroidering with such fluidity that it seemed as if she were painting a delicate watercolour. They watched in awe as she meticulously recreated the time-honoured techniques of stuffing cotton, spinning paper, and weaving silk baskets—the very methods used by Vietnamese artisans over a century ago to bring mythical dragons to life. The embroidered dragon’s body curved and rippled with such movement and vitality that it seemed poised to leap from the fabric at any moment.

It was then that visitors began to understand why Vietnamese embroidery once flourished on the international stage, standing proudly alongside masterpieces from Guangzhou, China, at prestigious Colonial exhibitions.

One particular detail that left a lasting impression was Tram’s approach to creating Two Dragons Playing with a Pearl. She chose to embroider one dragon in strict adherence to the ancient colour palette and shaping principles, while the other was infused with a contemporary aesthetic, coloured and interpreted through her artistic vision. This bold juxtaposition—one dragon steeped in history, the other a testament to modern creativity—embodied her passion for heritage embroidery. It was as if she had thrown a burst of vibrant colour into the subdued tones of an old street corner, breathing new life into a forgotten space.

The communal house, once a quiet relic amid the bustling market, had never even appeared on a digital map. Now, it was a fixture in newspapers, on television, and across radio broadcasts, buzzing with the sound of laughter, much like the first days of spring.

Following my arrival, my friends, too, were drawn to the space, compelled almost magnetically. They, too, found the communal house inviting—nothing like the solemn, distant structures they had imagined. One person stayed, then two, then three, then four, until, before we knew it, we had formed a small collective. We worked together in the main communal hall, or on some days, we put on traditional costumes and sang freely beneath the open sky.

It was then that I fully understood the profound role of the communal house in Vietnamese culture—not merely as a place of worship but as an inseparable part of the national spirit. Over time, its function had faded into the realm of belief and spirituality, disconnected from everyday life. Yet, in these moments, it was as if the communal house had returned to its original purpose—a space for community, creativity, and shared experience.

As more reporters arrived and more curious visitors stepped inside, it became clear that a seed of possibility had been planted. The story of the communal house in the alley was just beginning. How wonderful it would be if the local and Hanoi city governments recognised this potential—if they invested in structured development plans that would enable more artists to create within these historic spaces, merging heritage with contemporary art.

This, of course, requires flexibility. For instance, Cho Theu communal house need not be solely dedicated to embroidery but could embrace a broader spectrum of textile arts. Beyond traditional embroidery, it could showcase silk weaving, tailoring, and even fashion painting on garments, accessories, and footwear. More than just an act of cultural preservation, this would be an opportunity to unlock an entirely new creative economy—one that fuses spiritual tourism with artistic expression, safeguarding Vietnamese identity while allowing it to evolve.

In this way, we bring the past into the present—and from the past, we write the future.

Published from the original article in Tatler Vietnam, January 2025 issue.

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