Ai mua? Ai bán?

Ai mua? Ai bán? is a sound work drawing from both legend and lived experience. Inspired by the enduring myth of the Tô Lịch River and the ancient rhythms of commerce that once pulsed through the city, the work navigates the tensions between prosperity, erasure, and resilience across centuries of transformation.

In the year 1010, King Lý Thái Tổ moved his court to Thăng Long, only to face repeated failures in fortifying the citadel—the walls crumbling each time they were raised. In desperation, the king turned to spiritual intervention, calling upon his people to offer prayers to Long Đỗ, guardian deity of the land. The myth tells of a white horse emerging from the temple, its path guiding the construction of a strong, enduring wall. The temple was thereafter named Bạch Mã—White Horse Temple—designated as the Eastern Sentry of the capital. Long Đỗ was enshrined as Thành Hoàng, the presiding spirit of Thăng Long, whose blessing ushered in a period of prosperity.

With Long Đỗ’s protection, the Red River became a vital trade artery and the Tô Lịch River transformed into a bustling urban waterway. Markets flourished: Chợ Gạo, Chợ Bạch Mã, Chợ Cầu Đông, Chợ Bưởi, Chợ Cầu Giấy, Chợ Ngọc Hà, and Chợ Dừa all thrived, giving rise to the name Kẻ Chợ, or “The Market People,” for what is now Hanoi’s Old Quarter. As one saying from the time goes: “Giàu thú quê không bằng ngồi lê Kẻ Chợ”—“Being rich in the countryside pales in comparison to being a beggar in Kẻ Chợ.”

But the city’s rhythm shifted in 1882, when French colonial forces claimed Hanoi and transformed it into the capital of Indochina. The ancient Thăng Long Citadel was dismantled, replaced by colonial infrastructure—bridges, roads, and a vast underground sewage system—submerging layers of indigenous architecture, commerce, and cosmology beneath a new order.

At the centre of Ai mua? Ai bán? is a sculptural form modeled after the baskets carried by Hanoi’s street vendors. This form anchors the immersive installation, which weaves together the nocturnal chorus of food sellers, fragments of oral histories, and atmospheric city soundscapes. The resulting experience collapses temporal distance, inviting audiences to drift between the pre-colonial, the colonial, and the contemporary.

Nguyen’s sound work becomes a vessel for both mourning and memory, echoing with the voices of a trading culture that once animated the riverbanks. It serves as a haunting tribute to the city’s commercial heritage, while foregrounding the silenced stories of displacement and transformation.