Hanoi is one of those places that bewitches you, it has a soul that bears itself through sight and sound and feeling that is captivating - it is a place that is defined by movement that holds you still in within chaos. This city demands your attention, and I am more than happy to oblige.

Iconography makes itself known in a country, even down to the city there are symbols of that place that tell a story.

Usually they are fairly ordinary at first glance until you notice a pattern emerge. You'll start seeing these objects everywhere spanning city and situation only for the day to come where you too have formed your own fondness and relationship with this object. When you return home you will think of it wistfully, maybe you see one in your own city and think if its new meaning in your life now that you are a part of its story.

The tiny plastic stool that finds its way into every nook and cranny of daily life is so ubiquitous in Vietnam that I couldn’t possibly see one now and not think of sitting upon one on the side of some random cramped street while scooters race past and some lovingly mean woman feeds me bún chà out of the pot she has over an open flame. My happy place.

I love the way context changes the meaning of something as simple as a flower. That where you are in the world the interaction with that thing becomes altered and it turns into a new way to have an exchange with others and yourself.

For me a flower is an offering, something freely given by nature and then we offer it in turn to the ones we love. An offering of celebration, mourning, of prayer. Flowers are scattered throughout Hanoi. You can follow their journey from the markets they are sold at, as your eye catches on altars in store fronts and in homes, sitting next to incense burning on the side of a road. Hanoi is filled to the brim with noise and motion and sensation, and through it all - the quiet sound of an offering softly flows through it all.