Ho Chi Minh City young adults carve out silence amid resonance of chisel on wood

This is not chaotic noise but the steady cadence of mindfulness, a beat that pulls participants inward.

For many, wood carving offers a rare kind of calm.

“Wood is alive,” said Vo Thanh Tai, founder of the Cui Lu wood-carving studio. 

“It has grain, texture, scent—and it pushes back. 

"You must listen, respond, and accept mistakes, much as we do as we grow.”

Seated around a long wooden table, Huynh Viet Tan, 35, glanced at his partner before turning to the rough wood blank in front of him. 

Together, they were tracing a favorite photograph—a sunny-day memory—onto the grain.

They wanted to preserve the image as a keepsake.

“We love this photo. We want to carve it on wood to keep our memory close,” Tan said.

The process began with a digital trace. 

Studio staff simplified the image’s contours, printed it on paper, then guided patrons in transferring it to the wood.

At first, their carving strokes were tentative.

But as Tan steadied the block and his partner sketched, the space filled with soft laughter and the gentle clink of tools.

"We both gained a memory—and we made something uniquely ours," he said.

Nearby, Hoang Thai and Tu Tran, both 23, hesitated over what to draw. 

The decision proved harder than the carving itself.

After several erasures, they settled on a playful mix: seahorses for their shared zodiac sign, whales for their mutual fondness, and squid, fish, and shellfish for their love of seafood.

Thai, a marketing major, admits patience is not his strength, but hours of carving left him more energized than tired.

“It’s more engaging than exhausting,” he said.

Tran, home from her studies in Australia, came for a short visit and stayed longer than planned, drawn in by the quiet focus.

“I thought I’d do it just for fun,” she said. 

“But this is therapeutic in a way I never expected. I’ll come back for sure.”

For 25-year-old Lam Xuan, the workshop offered an escape from her usual weekends of coffee and scrolling through her phone. 

In the wood-scented air, she worked the chisel slowly through the blank.

“I want something new,” she said. 

“Instead of the usual coffee runs, I need a way to relieve stress and create something meaningful.”

Carving requires patience: choosing the wood, sketching the design, and letting the chisel guide one's focus. 

Many describe the sound of carving as a kind of breathing—a hypnotic rhythm that makes hours vanish.

After three or four hours, participants finish their pieces, seal the surface, and leave with a handcrafted memento—and a pause in time that feels wholly their own.

“People come in chasing all sorts of feelings—curiosity, stress, even escape from social media,” said Tai, the founder. 

“But hours later, you see softness in their eyes. 

"Not joy exactly, but the relief of doing something just for yourself, without sharing it.”

He remembers one silent participant who, after finishing, paused and said, “It’s been a while since I wasn’t thinking of anyone else or trying to be something. Just… carving.”

“That moment,” Tai said, “is as though they stitched a small fragment of themselves back together.”

Nguyen Thanh Dung, the studio manager, said the aim is to make art intimate and accessible in a city short on quiet spaces.

“No one expects perfection when they come here. ‘Imperfect’ is the point,” he said. 

“And each person, from children to seniors, brings a story—and that’s what makes these hours so rich.”