Nguyen Gia Tri, « Trois Femmes » (Three Women), 1934, or the solemn austerity of a manifesto

A large-scale oil on canvas (116 x 90 cm) of unique beauty, stands as a manifesto in the history of Vietnamese painting.

An icon.

Signed and dated lower right. Signed again with an imposing “TRI” on the reverse.

It s provenance is particularly well-documented. The painting was exhibited in 1935 at the SADEAI (Société Annamite d’Encouragement à l’Art et à l’Industrie) under the title « La visite » (The Visit), a title later revised by Nguyễn Gia Trí and his close friend Le Pho. Later on he gifted the painting to the latter.

I discovered and acquired it in 2000. It had been mounted on a board and was leaning against the wall in Le Pho’s studio at the top floor of his apartment, 235 bis rue de Vaugirard in Paris. Le Pho issued a signed certificate affirming its authenticity (« This painting is by Nguyen Gia Tri »). Dated July 10, 2000.

My dear friend Jean Volang chose to offer the painting a new stretcher and frame, as a tribute to his lifelong friend and fellow, Gia Tri. The two had spent several years in Hong Kong, united in their fierce nationalist convictions, far from the grip of communist orthodoxy. Together, we brought  the painting to Marin’s framer in Arcueil, Jean’s favorite, in the nearby southern suburbs of Paris. I asked him to inscribe his initials on the frame. I can still picture him, with a mischievous smile, carefully writing: « I, the undersigned Jean Volang, painter, of 167 Rue de Vaugirard, Paris 75015, certify that this painting is indeed by my friend Nguyen Gia Tri. Paris, June 21, 2000. Jean Volang. »

Parisian connoisseurs will recognise, with a smile, the poetic significance of Rue de Vaugirard and its addresses – 82, 167 and 235 bis – as the royal path of Vietnamese painting.

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The painting was a highlights of the landmark 2002 exhibition, « La Fleur du pêcher et l’oiseau d’azur », dedicated to the arts of Vietnam, which I curated at the Royal Museum of Mariemont. On that occasion, the work was the subject of a meticulous technical analysis by Céline Talon (see catalogue pp. 156–159). More on this later.

My friend, the collector Philippe Damas, later acquired it. It became one of the centerpieces of his collection and featured prominently i n the Christie’s sale in Hong Kong on March 29, 2025. During the preview at the Henderson Tower, I had the honor and quiet joy of watching the finest collectors pause and freeze in awe before it. It remains one of life’s fondest memories one always cherishes. Seeing it fetch over two million U.S. dollars after an spirited battle among Vietnamese bidders was the ultimate affirmation—the triumph of a cause and of the ideals we once fought for. 

« Trois Femmes » expression of an inner austerity.

It was a solemn austerity that could only be conveyed through brush and canvas. Neither gouache and ink on silk, which Gia Tri never pursued, nor lacquer, his lifelong vocation, would have allowed for such a tormented execution, but up in masses of color and layered thickness.

The technical analysis carried out at Mariemont shows the following :

« The fabric appears to be a blend of linen and cotton fibers rather than pure linen. It is very fine and loosely woven. These « mixed » canvases are less expensive than linen alone but are also much more fragile and can damage the paint layer over time. Cotton fibers relax when moistened and retighten as they dry. Linen fibers, on the other hand, move in the opposite direction; they become tauter when exposed to moisture. These contradictory movements of the two types of fibers subject the paint layer to shearing by its support. Another problem is that the canvas is thin and lacks body, so it cannot support the weight of thickly applied paint.

Furthermore, we can see that the back of the canvas is coated with a fairly matte, thick, brick-red undercoat. This preparation teaches us several things: first of all, since it extends to the very end of the turnover edges, we can assume that it was originally a larger-format canvas, prepared with a red ground layer, which the artist later « recycled ». He reduced the format and prepared the other side with a color more suited to the new composition (indeed, the ground layer of Three Women is an off-white). This desire to recycle, combined with the ‘choice’ of a second-rate canvas, suggests that the artist faced some difficulty affording better-quality materials […] this discrepancy cannot be attributed to a shortage of art supplies, but rather to personal financial constraints” (p.157)

And :

« If we now compare Nguyễn Gia Trí’s painting technique with that of Joseph Inguimberty, we can observe a few similarities—such as the use of very thick layers, the treatment of figures in color masses, and certain character postures…However, Nguyễn Gia Trí’s execution appears far more tormented and impulsive than Inguimberty’s. It is no longer the near-systematic application of a pictorial method (background tone, shadows, highlights), but rather the expression of an artist who repeatedly returns to his work, seemingly never satisfied with the outcome. What is most striking is that while individual details reveal this sense of reworking and hesitation, the overall composition remains static, timeless, and balanced. One should also note that the color palette is much more limited, and the regular interplay of warm and cool tones is no longer a concern at all. » (p.158)

The technical analysis confirms it: this is a Gia Tri working with limited material means, but driven by will and conviction.

Between the whites of the hands, faces, one foot, and two of the dresses, and the blacks of the hair, headpieces, one dress, fragments of a round box, and a post, unfolds a grey background and a green central area. The composition is structured around a double triangle: the first formed by the three women’s heads; the second by the two upper heads and the shoes of the woman on the left.

The three women dominate the scene with their presence, both symbolic and allusive. From left to right, we are meant to see Tonkin—determined and composed; Annam—austere and attentive; and Cochinchina—immature and unpredictable. These reflect Gia Tri’s own vision at the time: a deeply committed Tonkinese nationalist (born in Ha Tay), who passionately and courageously advocated for the reunification of these three regions, divided by French colonial administration, and for the independence of the whole.

None of the three women smiles. There are no seductive poses, no modern ao dai, no contemporary headwear, no jewelry or ornamentation. None of the aesthetic features found in the work of many of his contemporaries.

Three women, three attitudes: a close group, yet not a united one.

The « Tonkin-woman » appears pensive, not engaging with the other two. Her shoulders lean forward—she leads the scene. While her left hand rests on the bench, her right seems poised to begin a conversation. Barefoot, she disregards all formalities.

The Annamite woman seems attentive, inquisitive—calm, serene, or perhaps restrained. One hand lies languidly on her knee, the other gently placed on a round box… decorative.

The adolescent from Cochinchina seems neither involved in the exchange nor even interested in the conversation. Pressed against the Annamite woman, she merely braids her hair.

The piece of furniture (bed, bench, divan?)—more pedestal than seat—a round box, and a column to the right (both partially shown) frame the trio in the foreground. In the background, a more elusive message: a diffuse horizon centers the composition, which is opened up by a vast, somber sky.

Gia Trí’s personal preferences, moral, cultural, and sometimes unjust, are unmistakable here. Tonkin, proud and dominant; Cochinchina, infantilized, seen as unready for the struggle—she, the French colony, submissive and dependent. Annam, self-important, marked by mental rigidity. Only Tonkin matters—cradle of the motherland, historical point of origin, and starting place of the Nam tiến (the southward expansion).

In 1934, Nguyễn Gia Trí expresses here what would become a lifelong battle, making « Trois Femmes » a major pictorial manifesto in the history of Vietnam..

Was this manifesto identified with SADEAI in 1935, under the (deliberate?) banality of its title at the time?

IIf so, were the subtleties of contemporary Vietnamese nationalism deciphered? Is the artist-activist then more of a « VNQDD » (Việt-nam Quốc-dân Đảng) tendency, founded in 1927, than a Tự lực văn đoàn (Autonomous Literary Group) tendency, of which he was one of the founders in 1933.

Revolutionary nationalism, or the assertion of a new identity?

The greatness of art is never to beg for truth—especially in Vietnam, in 1934.

Jean-François Hubert