Most artists are known for their elegant companionship with pristine white canvases, oil paints, and fine brushes. But not him. His artistic journey has always involved saws, chisels, and lacquer—a traditional Vietnamese paint feared even by professionals for its toxicity and high risk of causing allergies or skin burns.
A visual artist who, for over 50 years, has quietly toiled away at countless unglamorous, unnamed tasks outside of pure painting. A man who has never once opened a gallery of his own, yet who devotes every second, every heartbeat, to a sacred love for the art of puppetry. That is artist and former Director of the Vietnam National Puppetry Theatre, Ngô Quỳnh Giao.
A Life Devoted to Puppetry
It was a misty autumn afternoon, the air sharp and nostalgic, when I finally had the chance to sit down with artist Quỳnh Giao after many postponed meetings. Now well into his 80s, he remains immersed in his plans and performances. To him, this so-called “retirement” period is not one to be wasted. Though his official career may be winding down, his ambitions are still full to the brim.
He shared with me his current project: the creation of a brand-new water puppetry troupe. Single-handedly, he juggles everything—casting actors, designing puppets, building stages, directing shows—striving to form a truly professional ensemble. At times, the overwhelming workload makes him feel like a lone Don Quixote battling windmills—an invisible enemy formed by countless unnamed anxieties. Exhaustion comes easily.
Many have asked him, “You’re old now. Why not rest? Why shoulder all this work?” He responds without hesitation:
“As long as my hands can still work, my eyes can still see, and my mind is still bursting with ideas—I will never give up puppetry.”
A Rare, Gentle Soul
Each conversation with him leaves me with a different emotion. In my heart, he is always a genuine artist, a steadfast beacon of integrity in an era where true and false are hard to distinguish. A man who lives for his puppets more than for himself. I cherish him as one would a rare gem.
Perhaps the reason I love speaking with him is because, in a world so loud and frantic, he feels like a calm oasis—untouched by material pursuits, offering those who encounter him a deep sense of peace and clarity.
A Life in Puppets
Born in 1942, Ngô Quỳnh Giao has dedicated more than 55 years to puppetry. He has handcrafted over 4,000 puppets, using traditional methods alone—no machines, no shortcuts. The “artist’s blood” runs through his veins; he inherited it from his father, renowned painter Ngô Mạnh Quỳnh, who founded Hanoi’s first puppetry troupe and developed a unique performance style known as “Electric Puppetry.”
Though the name sounds modern, it simply involved synchronizing puppet movements with pre-recorded voice tapes—an approach borrowed from film dubbing techniques. Back then, recorders were hand-cranked using steel wire. Giao grew up helping his father crank tapes, painting puppet faces, and even cuddling with puppets as he fell asleep. Somewhere along the way, he fell in love with them.
To him, puppets are not inanimate. They are living companions.
Breathing Soul Into Wood
His voice softened as he looked into the past:
“Because I eat and sleep with puppets, to me they have souls. They feel sadness, disappointment, even resentment. I believe a puppet designer doesn’t just give them form—they give them character, spirit. Maybe I’m obsessed, but they even appear in my dreams. Once, while sick and working on puppets for an Andersen show, I had to pause. That night, I dreamt the Little Mermaid came to me crying, urging me to give her life. I woke up in a sweat, got up despite my fever, and worked until she was complete.”
“I was exhausted—but in return, I saw their smiles in my dreams. And that, to me, was the greatest reward.”
If someone else had said this, I might have doubted them. But coming from Quỳnh Giao, I believed every word.
A Humble Sanctuary
I’ve visited his “workshop” many times at the Vietnam National Puppetry Theatre. I used to imagine a sleek, artistic space—at least something polished for a former director. But it was nothing of the sort.
His studio is hidden in a sunken corner of the theatre compound. Damp walls peel away in patches; moss carpets the floor, making every step slippery. The scent of mold mixes with lacquer, stinging the nose. It’s far from glamorous.
But perhaps that is exactly what makes it so sacred—because in this modest space, day by day, a man gives life to puppets, one by one, with his bare hands, boundless imagination, and a heart that refuses to rest.
In a modest 20-square-meter room, this retired director has sat quietly for over 50 years, meticulously crafting puppets without a single complaint. I once asked, “Why don’t you request funding to renovate this space? It really isn’t fit for proper work.” Artist Quỳnh Giao looked at me with a gentle smile and said:
“I never proposed it. When you’re devoted to art, you can create anywhere. It’s better to use funding to improve the theater—where there are visitors—or to support the troupe members’ lives. No one visits this room anyway. And being tucked away like this gives me the peace I need to create.”
I glanced at the rain-soaked floor, water seeping in from a leaky roof. “But won’t the moisture ruin the puppets?” I asked. He chuckled, “This is nothing. I remember times when the water rose to my knees during heavy rain. I waded through it to keep up with the puppet show deadlines. Once, I was so focused on painting that I felt something cold and slippery at my feet—it turned out a snake had followed the floodwater inside and was coiling around my leg! I still get chills thinking about it. And when a sudden leak dripped down, I’d rush to cradle the puppets in my arms so the paint wouldn’t blur, carrying them outside in a panic…”
After six grueling months preparing puppets for an Andersen production, Quỳnh Giao suffered a near-fatal heart attack. Doctors said the illness stemmed from overwork and cold seeping into his lungs and heart. He had to undergo surgery to implant a cardiac device to support his heartbeat. Colleagues affectionately nicknamed him “Iron Heart” and “The Man from Heaven.”
The Man from Heaven
Indeed, “The Man from Heaven” suits him. Few directors are as humble or forgiving as Quỳnh Giao. During tough times at the Vietnam National Puppetry Theatre, he turned a blind eye to performers moonlighting as mooncake sellers or bicycle repairers just to support their families—sometimes arriving at the theater only moments before curtain call. Miraculously, the shows always went on.
The more I learned about this artist—with his wavy silver hair, oddly reminiscent of piano legend Van Cliburn—the more I admired him. Not just for his passion or character, but for the poetic, romantic charm he exudes. In his eyes, everything holds beauty, depending on how you look at it.
Knowing he had spent over a decade in Czechoslovakia, I asked, “What left the strongest impression on you about Czech women?” Expecting him to praise their beauty, I was surprised when he said, grinning mischievously:
“Czech women are very cultured. I still remember, back when I was studying there, a girl knocked on my dorm room door to borrow toilet paper. I thought it was urgent, so I handed her a roll. But she hesitated, stared at it for a while, then handed it back.
I told her, ‘Please take it—I have more!’ But she replied, ‘Thank you, but I’m not used to this kind. I prefer the one with flower borders.’ Then she said she’d ask someone else.
That’s what I mean—sometimes, refinement appears in the most unexpected ways.”
e laughed again, and the smile lit up the rainy courtyard. In the distance, students were tinkering with the puppet stage near the thủy đình, the traditional water stage, adjusting wooden puppets strewn across the floor.
A Life in Service, Not for Show
Quỳnh Giao shook my hand tightly before rushing off. It seemed his entire being was in constant motion. A young performer whispered to me, “He’s going to buy lunch for the whole troupe. Sometimes he treats everyone to a grand meal—all from his own pocket. He always reminds us to work with the heart of a true artist.”
Touched, I called after him, “How’s your heart these days?”
He turned, waved, and replied,
“I forgot about it long ago.”
His thin, hurried figure faded into the misty rain. I found myself wondering: “When will he finally rest and enjoy the peace he deserves?” But then I remembered the spark in his eyes, the joy in his voice when he talked about puppetry—and I realized:
For him, working hard for his passion is peace.
Huyen Vu
Original link: http://hoasymanhquynh.org/con-trai-truong-hoa-sy-manh-quynh-hoa-sy-ngo-quynh-giao-dau-dau-mot-trai-tim.html
