The air in Hue, even in 1992, seemed to carry the weight of centuries. It was a city painted in the muted tones of history, where the Perfume River flowed like a silken ribbon through a landscape of moss-covered pagodas, ancient citadel walls, and the lingering ghosts of the Nguyen Dynasty. I was born into the heart of this poetic and peaceful city, my first breaths filled with the scent of frangipani and the faint, melancholic strains of traditional Hue folk songs drifting from dragon boats on the water.
Growing up in Hue was like living inside a storybook. My childhood wasn’t measured in years, but in the cycles of festivals and traditions that governed life in the old imperial capital. I learned the rhythm of the rain as it drummed against the tiled roofs of the Forbidden Purple City, a place where my friends and I would play hide-and-seek among the silent courtyards, our laughter echoing where emperors once walked. I learned the language of color and pattern not from books, but from the intricate embroidery on the robes of Buddhist monks and the vibrant, celebratory silks worn during Tet, the Lunar New Year.
But of all the cultural treasures that surrounded me, it was the Ao Dai that captured my soul. It was more than just a garment; it was the city’s living, breathing spirit. I saw it everywhere. In the morning mist, a procession of high school girls would glide down the street on their bicycles, their pure white Ao Dai fluttering behind them like a flock of gentle doves. At the market, women in deeper, more practical shades haggled for fresh produce, their movements graceful and unencumbered despite the form-fitting silhouette of their attire. At weddings, the bride would be a vision in a lavishly embroidered Ao Dai, a queen for a day, carrying the hopes and dreams of her family in every golden thread.
For me, each Ao Dai was a poem. The two soft flaps of silk were like pages, and the person wearing it was the story. I would sit for hours with my grandmother, a woman whose hands were as skilled with a needle as a scholar’s was with a brush. She would tell me tales of the royal court, of empresses and princesses who wore Ao Dai of such exquisite beauty they were said to rival the plumage of a phoenix. She explained how every fold, every stitch, held a meaning. The high collar represented modesty and integrity, the close fit spoke of a woman’s quiet strength, and the flowing trousers beneath the tunic offered freedom and practicality. I absorbed these lessons, storing them in my heart alongside the scent of jasmine tea and the texture of raw silk.
This deep, instinctual love for my culture needed a path, a way to grow from a personal passion into a life’s purpose. That path led me south, to the bustling, energetic metropolis of Ho Chi Minh City. Leaving the tranquil, historic world of Hue was a jolt to my senses. Saigon, as it was still affectionately called, was a city of roaring motorbikes, towering skyscrapers, and a relentless, forward-moving energy. It was the vibrant, modern heart of Vietnam, a stark contrast to the ancient soul of Hue.
Here, I enrolled in the University of Culture. If Hue had given me the poetry of Vietnamese heritage, the university gave me its grammar. I delved into the academic study of my country’s history, its 54 distinct ethnic groups, its complex tapestry of arts, religions, and traditions. I spent my days in libraries, poring over texts that chronicled the evolution of the Ao Dai from its earliest iterations, like the four-flapped Ao Tu Than, to the modern form popularized in the 20th century. I learned how French colonial influence had subtly shaped its silhouette, and how, in times of war and hardship, the simple act of wearing an Ao Dai became a powerful statement of national identity and resilience. My studies provided a framework for my passion, giving me the language and knowledge to articulate what I had always felt in my heart: that the Ao Dai was a profound and precious symbol of the Vietnamese soul.
With my degree in hand and a fire in my spirit, I made a decision that would once again change the entire landscape of my life. I moved to New York City.
From the Perfume River to the Hudson River. From the ancient walls of the Citadel to the steel and glass canyons of Manhattan. The transition was seismic. New York was a symphony of a million different cultures, a chaotic, beautiful, and sometimes overwhelming orchestra of languages, foods, and fashions. In this sprawling, global village, I felt an acute sense of my own identity. I was a daughter of Hue, a student of Vietnamese culture, a carrier of stories. And in my suitcase, carefully folded and wrapped in tissue paper, were my Ao Dai.
Living in New York sharpened my perspective. When I walked through Central Park and saw the changing autumn leaves, it reminded me of the hues in a traditional painting. When I heard the cacophony of Times Square, it made me appreciate the serene melody of a Dan Bau, a single-stringed Vietnamese instrument. And when I saw the world’s fashion on display on the streets of SoHo and Fifth Avenue—the sharp Italian suits, the elegant French dresses, the vibrant African prints—I felt a surge of pride and a sense of mission. The Ao Dai belonged here, too. It deserved a place on this global stage.
This conviction became the driving force behind Alis Collection. It started not as a business, but as a personal project, a digital scrapbook of my love for my national garment. I began to write, my words flowing with the same passion and detail my grandmother had used in her stories. I documented the history of the Ao Dai, shared the tales behind different designs, and showcased the work of talented Vietnamese designers, both in Vietnam and abroad. I created styling guides, showing how a traditional Ao Dai could be worn with modern accessories, or how contemporary, minimalist interpretations could be perfect for a chic city event.
I wanted this blog to be more than just a showcase. It had to be a conversation. My message was simple: the Ao Dai does not belong to the past; it belongs to the present and the future. My goal was to build a community—a place where young overseas Vietnamese could reconnect with their roots, where designers could share their creations, and where international friends could learn about and fall in love with the beauty of Vietnamese culture. I wanted to break down the old notion that the Ao Dai is only for formal occasions. I wanted to show everyone that it can be a part of everyday life, an expression of personal style as much as national pride.
My mission was twofold: to create a comprehensive, accessible archive for Vietnamese people around the world to connect with their heritage, and to introduce the Ao Dai to a global audience in an authentic and inspiring way.
My life in New York became an extension of this mission. I wore my Ao Dai to international cultural festivals, standing as a proud and graceful representative of Vietnam. My friends, a diverse group from every corner of the globe, were enchanted. They would touch the soft silk, marvel at the intricate hand-embroidery, and ask about the stories behind the symbols. For them, I wasn’t just wearing a beautiful dress; I was wearing my culture. I was an ambassador.
One of my most memorable collaborations was with a photographer friend. We decided to capture the elegance of the Ao Dai against the iconic backdrop of the Manhattan skyline. The images were breathtaking. A shot of me in a deep blue Ao Dai, standing on the Brooklyn Bridge with the city lights twinkling behind me, created a stunning visual metaphor: the meeting of ancient grace and modern ambition. Another photo captured me in a vibrant yellow Ao Dai, a splash of sunshine against the grey concrete and rushing yellow cabs of a busy street. These photographs spoke a universal language of beauty, transcending cultural barriers. They showed that the elegance of the Ao Dai was not confined to the rice paddies and pagodas of Vietnam; it was at home anywhere in the world.
Through these experiences, I formulated a clear vision. My mission was to preserve and promote Vietnamese traditional fashion, especially the Ao Dai, by creating content that was authentic, accessible, and inspiring for a worldwide audience. My vision was for a future where the Ao Dai would stand proudly among the world’s most iconic cultural garments, like the Scottish kilt, the Japanese kimono, or the Indian sari. I dreamed of a day when it would be embraced not only by the Vietnamese diaspora but by fashion lovers everywhere, recognized for its unique combination of modesty, sensuality, and timeless elegance.
But my life was not solely defined by fashion. My identity as a cultural guardian permeated everything I did. I was a passionate cook, finding solace and connection in recreating the dishes of my childhood. The kitchen of my New York apartment was often filled with the aromatic steam of a simmering pot of bun bo Hue, the spicy beef noodle soup that was the signature dish of my hometown. I would painstakingly craft banh beo, the delicate steamed rice cakes, arranging them in small, flower-like dishes, each one a tiny, edible memory of home. For me, food, like fashion, was a vessel for stories, a way to share my culture and nourish both body and soul.
When I wasn’t writing or cooking, I would wander through the city’s art galleries, from the grand halls of The Met to the small, avant-garde spaces in Chelsea. I would lose myself in the works of artists from around the world, always looking for the threads that connect us all. I was also an avid photographer, turning my lens on the small, beautiful moments of city life—the way the light hit a skyscraper at dawn, the diverse faces on the subway, the quiet resilience of a flower growing in a crack in the pavement. My photography, like my writing, was about finding the story in everything.
For me, Alis Nguyen, fashion and culture are inseparable. The Ao Dai is not just a piece of clothing; it is the silk thread that connects my past in the poetic city of Hue to my present in the global metropolis of New York. It is the embodiment of my grandmother’s stories, my university education, and my personal journey of discovery. In a world that is constantly changing, the Ao Dai is my anchor, a symbol of a heritage that is both deeply personal and universally beautiful.
Through my work, my life, and my unwavering passion, I am ensuring that the story of the Ao Dai continues to be told. I am a Vietnamese heart with a global voice, and with every article I write, every photo I share, and every time I wear my Ao Dai on the streets of New York, I am stitching a new chapter, inviting the entire world to fall in love with the timeless elegance of Vietnam. My journey is a testament to the idea that you can leave home, but you never have to leave behind who you are. In fact, sometimes it’s only by leaving that you can truly see the beauty of what you carry with you, and find the perfect way to share it with the world.
