ECHOES IN MOTION w/Thang Dao

Thang Dao is a choreographer whose work is more than movement—it is memory in motion, a bridge between past and present, tradition and innovation. Through his artistry, he not only preserves Vietnamese dance and the expressions of ethnic minorities but also redefines them, ensuring their stories continue to breathe and evolve. In this conversation, Thang shares the weight of history, the fluidity of identity, and the profound role dance plays in shaping both personal and collective narratives.

ALLIÉ: Your choreography often embodies a sense of remembrance, honoring both personal and cultural histories. As a Vietnamese American artist, how does dance serve as an act of preservation and reclamation for you? Are there specific movements or motifs in your work that feel like echoes of the past?

THANG: Yes, dance for me is both a vessel of preservation and an act of reclamation. As a Vietnamese-American artist, I navigate a space where history is often fragmented. From my experience, displacement is always fragmented—stories lost in translation, cultural nuances diluted by time and distance. Through choreography, I’m able to reclaim these narratives—not as fixed relics, but as living, breathing experiences that evolve with each performance.

There are movements in my work that feel like echoes of the past—gestures that reference cultural posturing, or how a group of people moves. I see these gestures within my own community, particularly among women. I grew up watching my mother, my sister, and the women around me. In my community, the women are in charge. They are the caretakers. It’s a matriarchal society. From that society, you can observe these communal postures—cultural movements of a people—like a bowed head, a soft yet persistent reach, the controlled release of breath. These are movements that hold weight, embodying both reverence and resistance. And I see that in the women of my community—reverence and resistance, constantly, even in their silence.

I often work with undulating spines and passive postures because I find there is an active passivity in them. It’s not domineering. The women are active, but also passive and gentle in a way. I try to deconstruct and reimagine these qualities through a contemporary lens, allowing cultural memory to exist within abstraction.

Beyond movement, dance becomes a form of preservation through the act of gathering—in rehearsal, in performance. I create spaces where stories can be shared, where collective memory can be honored. Even when the past feels distant, the body remembers. And in that remembering, dance becomes a way of ensuring that what was once lost is never truly gone.

ALLIÉ: Having left Vietnam at a young age, your journey has been one of displacement and discovery. How has the experience of exile influenced your artistic vocabulary, and in what ways do you find yourself weaving themes of longing and belonging into your work?

THANG: I left Vietnam at a very young age, so that meant I was constantly negotiating my sense of identity between two cultures—one that was inherited and one that I had to assimilate into. I'm really good at assimilation. That experience of displacement has deeply shaped my artistic vocabulary—not just in the themes I explore, but in the way I construct movement.

There’s this binary fusion of Western forms and Eastern movement—bodily gestures that carry a different weight. There’s a fluidity in my choreography that reflects a constant search, a state of in-betweenness. Much like my own journey of belonging, I don’t think I’ve found my exact identity, and I don’t think I ever will, because I navigate between these two spaces.

Longing and belonging surface in my work through the body’s relationship to space, weight, and rhythm. I often create movements that embody a push-and-pull dynamic, where dancers seem to be reaching for something just out of grasp, or navigating an invisible tension between presence and absence.

I'm drawn to motifs of migration, impermanence, and memory. We carry our histories within us, even as we move forward. That’s why, for me, ballet can be difficult—it comes from a very different vocabulary. It doesn’t always reflect the meaning or essence of diasporic experiences. It’s just... really difficult.

At the same time, I see dance as a communal act—a way to build temporary homes. Even if just for the duration of a performance, you feel at home for an hour or so, if you can access that space. The stage becomes a space where different narratives coexist, where bodies in motion articulate both displacement and unity.

Whether consciously or subconsciously, I think my work always grapples with dualities—translating personal and collective histories into movement that resonates beyond my own experience. I think it both transpires and transcends. That’s the beauty of dance—it can take us there without words. It moves us in a way that language can’t quite describe.

So, I think balancing innovation and tradition is an ongoing dialogue—one that requires both deep respect for the past and the space to reimagine it. I don’t see tradition as something to be merely preserved in its original form. I think tradition gives us a set of tools—it reminds us. That’s what tradition is: to anchor us. But the whole point of being anchored is so that you can move—move and grow.

ALLIÉ: Your dedication to preserving Vietnamese dance and the traditions of other ethnic minorities goes beyond choreography—it is a form of storytelling, activism, and cultural continuity. How do you balance innovation with tradition, and what responsibility do you feel as a custodian of these art forms?
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THANG: Balancing tradition and innovation is, I think, the space of excitement, right? Balance is so valuable—if you can understand where that is. I was watching something—maybe on Instagram or TikTok—where a teacher was talking about the distance between 'knowing' and 'not knowing’... the space in between. She said that space is where learning happens. And I think balance exists in that same space between not knowing and knowing.

I love that space because the journey through it can be long, arduous, and frustrating—but that’s where learning has the most impact and where the most growth happens. For me, learning how to balance means truly understanding tradition, and then being able to depart from it through innovation. Innovation is a journey. It's new, it's alive—it's creative life. And tradition is set, it's static. But if you don’t really understand tradition, it’s hard to depart from it in a meaningful way. That’s the balance for me—it’s the space where I can keep learning.

I don’t want to know everything. I don’t want to get to that place of certainty, like, 'I know it.' I want to stay in the place where I think, 'Oh, there’s more to learn. I’ll take this route—oh, okay—and then I’ll go over here, because there’s more to learn there too.' I think that mindset is critical for any artist. Reaching a destination isn’t really our goal—it’s about learning through the space in between.

As a choreographer, I feel a responsibility to honor the roots of Vietnamese dance. I spent ten years searching for dance in Vietnam and couldn't find a single lead to any of the dances from different ethnic minorities. But during my last trip, I was introduced to someone who opened a door for me. I visited the conservatory and saw students learning modern ballet and character dance. Then I saw a class dedicated to folk dance—dance of the people.

It turns out the conservatory had preserved 20 different dances from various ethnic minority groups. There are 54 ethnic minority groups in Vietnam, so the preservation of 20 is an incredible number—especially since I couldn’t even find one in over ten years of searching. I don’t know much about them yet, but this is now my next area of interest. I understand Western forms—that’s what I’ve studied for the past 20 years. But now, I feel my eyes opening. Seeing that the conservatory has preserved these traditional forms makes me wonder what else might exist outside of the institution. If I can locate those dances within the communities and compare them with the versions preserved in the conservatory, I might be able to trace more.

Yes, I think it’s very critical for me as an artist. I want to understand. It’s that balance again. I’m anchored in Western form, but I know almost nothing about Vietnamese dance in Vietnam. That space in between is wide—and it’s full of opportunities for me to learn. And I think part of this approach is an act of storytelling and a way to understand my identity, and my homeland—from which I’ve long been disconnected.

ALLIÉ: Many of your works explore fluidity, resilience, and transformation, much like the ocean that carried so many Vietnamese refugees to new lands. What role does water—both literal and metaphorical—play in your choreography, and how does it shape the way you approach movement?
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THANG: There are many representations of water in my choreography across different pieces. For some reason, water is deeply connected to my experience. I’ve always felt tied to it—through the boat, through the journey. My mom used to tell me stories—though I don’t remember them myself—about how I almost died. Traveling to Thailand, I was emaciated from being in the ocean for weeks, hungry and fragile. I was just a frail kid. So I think water, in all its forms, has become an integral metaphor in my work.

As a Vietnamese American, the ocean holds a deep, almost mythological significance. It is both a passage and a barrier—a source of life and a reminder of loss. So many refugees, including my own family, crossed vast waters in search of safety, chasing a dream, looking for freedom. That history lingers in my consciousness.

In my choreography, water manifests as fluidity, resilience, and transformation. I'm drawn to movements that ebb and flow, that resist rigidity. I often work with undulating spines, shifting weight, and continuous motion—bodies moving as if caught in a current. The body shapes and reshapes itself, like a wave enveloping a form—surrendering to momentum rather than forcing control.

There’s a sense of yielding, but never weakness—an adaptability that mirrors the way water finds its path through any obstacle.

Metaphorically, water also represents identity in flux. It reflects displacement, but also renewal—how we are constantly reshaping ourselves. Ultimately, water reminds me that nothing is fixed. Transformation is inevitable. Whether in moments of stillness or surging intensity, I see dance as an ocean of possibilities.

So, I think that’s why I’m so drawn to fluid and constant motion. It’s quiet, but it can also be deadly. Water is a powerful metaphor—a concept and a theme. It holds space for so much. For me, water is where endless possibilities for dance reside.

ALLIÉ: With a career shaped by intention and exploration, is there a story you have yet to tell through dance—one that lingers in your mind, waiting to take form? If so, what is its essence, and what do you hope audiences will feel when they witness it?

THANG: Yes, there’s one project I would love to research and create. It involves studying the different dances from the various ethnic groups that make up Vietnam. What I’d like to do is tie it to the Autumn Festival. It’s a way to preserve culture, but also to insert history—to highlight the makeup of the Vietnamese people.

I believe in community and storytelling, and this would reflect not only my identity, but also the identities of the 54 other ethnic minorities in Vietnam—showing how we are actually more connected than we are separated. I think the Autumn Festival is a perfect space for this, because it’s celebratory, and there’s so much room for imagination.

You know, the Western world has The Nutcracker—you go into the Land of Sweets. Well, I think we can do that, too, with the Autumn Festival. We can enter that world and transcend reality, stepping into a mythical, magical space where all these different groups are represented through dance. We can explore what their dances mean in the context of the festival.

I think it would be beautiful for the community, especially for children—to grow up with a better understanding of their identity and the diversity that makes up Vietnam. It’s a way for us not to remain ignorant of who we are. Vietnam isn’t made up of just one group of people—it’s made up of 54 different ethnic groups, and we are all connected.

I’m part of the majority group, but I recognize there are 54 others, and we are linked—through tradition, food, clothing, and our shared experiences during the war. Even though we have cultural differences, we are still deeply connected. ∎​

Find & follow Thang on Instagram: @tawndu