Feb 2016 · Film Photography / FM2 · Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam
I found this place by accident.
No map.
No recommendation.
Just walking.
The afternoon in Ho Chi Minh City was loud —
motorbikes weaving through traffic,
street vendors calling out,
heat rising from the pavement like steam.
Everything felt fast.
So when I stepped into the bookstore on Lê Lợi Street,
the world suddenly softened.
The air was cooler.
Quieter.
Almost suspended.
Not until later on I found out that it was a famous bookstore.
Shelves slightly crowded.
Books stacked without perfect order.
A faint smell of paper and dust.
But something about it felt safe.
Like time moved differently inside.
Then I looked up.
And saw the ceiling.
Beams crossing over beams.
Lines repeating into the distance.
Light falling through the gaps like slow water.
The structure felt endless.
Almost like walking inside a drawing.
Black.
White.
Shadow.
Light.
Nothing extra.
Just rhythm.
I didn’t photograph the books.
I didn’t photograph the people.
I photographed this.
Because somehow,
this empty geometry felt closer to how I felt inside at that moment.
Travel, for me, has never really been about landmarks.
It’s about these pauses.
These small, unnoticed corners.
Moments when you stop moving
and simply stand there
looking up.
Breathing.
Film felt right for this scene.
Digital might have been too clean.
Too precise.
But film carries grain.
Imperfections.
A softness at the edges.
Like memory.
Like the way we actually remember spaces —
not sharp,
but textured.
When I see this image now,
I don’t immediately think of Vietnam.
I think of quiet.
Of being alone without feeling lonely.
Of wandering into a place with no purpose
and leaving with something you didn’t know you were looking for.
Maybe that’s what bookstores always give me.
Not answers.
Just space.
Space to slow down.
Space to think.
Space between the lines of light.