Yuzhou(Joe) Wu

I didn’t start out as a designer in the traditional sense. In fact, I studied data analytics in university. My entry into design was completely unplanned—and honestly, driven by necessity. While studying in the U.S., I needed to support myself financially, so I started taking part-time jobs. I organized student events, and to save costs, I created all the posters, flyers, and banners myself. That was my first hands-on experience with design. Later, I helped friends in film school, first as an actor, then behind the scenes doing lighting, editing, and camera work. Slowly, I began to appreciate the power of visual storytelling. I’ve always believed in “learning by doing.” Looking back, having limited resources turned out to be a gift—it forced me to be resourceful, hands-on, and creative in ways I didn’t expect. Eventually, while designing a bubble tea shop I had invested in, I met my future business partner in real estate. That connection opened the door to the architecture and interior world. One thing led to another, and I found myself managing spatial design projects—hotels, offices, retail spaces. You could say I’m a self-taught designer—what some might call a “design generalist.” But really, I’m just someone who’s curious, adaptable, and never afraid to start from zero.

I work through a flexible, interdisciplinary structure. My practice blends creative direction, branding, spatial strategy, and cultural development. Instead of anchoring myself to a single company identity, I collaborate across industries—especially where design intersects with business, storytelling, and human experience. A turning point came during my time in the U.S., where I met like-minded creatives who believed, as I did, that design should connect cultures, shape narratives, and open conversations beyond borders. That shared vision led me to join AmbiWishes as a partner—a creative consultancy rooted between China and the U.S., committed to cross-cultural collaboration and long-term impact. As a Chinese designer, I’ve always felt a responsibility to bridge creative values between East and West. At AmbiWishes, I lead creative direction and spatial strategy, focusing especially on projects that explore cross-cultural potential. Since joining, I’ve also been actively mentoring and collaborating with emerging Chinese designers—helping more voices from China enter the global conversation. To me, promoting Chinese design isn’t just about global visibility; it’s about mutual understanding, meaningful storytelling, and building a long-term cultural presence.

For me, design is not a discipline—it’s a way of thinking, framing, and connecting. It’s about shaping perception, not just shaping objects. Design is the invisible rhythm behind what we see and feel. It organizes complexity into clarity, transforms constraint into creativity, and turns abstract ideas into lived experience. Whether it’s a space, a system, or a story, good design always reveals relationships—between people, between culture and context, between the seen and the felt. I don’t believe design should only solve problems; it should also ask better questions. In that sense, design is not the final step—it’s the opening act for possibility.

I’m most drawn to works that involve systemic thinking and cultural layering—projects that are not just about aesthetics, but about meaning, rhythm, and resonance. I enjoy designing spaces or experiences that tell a story—not necessarily in a literal way, but in how the structure, materials, and transitions evoke something deeper. Projects where architecture meets identity, or where branding and environment merge, are particularly exciting to me. I also enjoy working in the “in-between” zones—between industries, between formats, between cultures. I like projects that can’t be easily labeled, because they often open new questions, new methods, and new relationships. In short: I love designing things that are hard to define but impossible to forget.

One of the places that has influenced me most deeply is the Getty Museum in Los Angeles. It’s not just the architecture that moved me—though the way it engages with light, topography, and silence is extraordinary—but also the thinking behind it. It’s a space that makes you reflect, not just observe. What I truly admire is the vision behind the museum. J. Paul Getty didn’t just build a place to display art—he built a platform to democratize culture, to make beauty and history accessible to everyone. That kind of long-term, public-facing thinking resonates with me far beyond design. In many ways, it planted a seed in me. One of my long-term dreams is to one day create a museum or cultural foundation of my own—not only as an architectural project, but as a platform to bring Chinese design and ideas into the global cultural conversation. To me, design has always been about building bridges, and the Getty Museum is a beautiful example of how that can be done through space, vision, and generosity.

The first thing I ever designed for a company was actually for my own business. I had just graduated and wanted to start something small, so I opened a bubble tea shop. We didn’t have a big budget, so I took on everything myself—from branding and interior design to packaging and signage. Looking back, I didn’t even know the “right” way to design. But I knew how I wanted people to feel when they walked into the space. I paid attention to flow, mood, material, and how the brand would connect with its neighborhood. That experience taught me a lot—not just about design tools, but about design thinking. It wasn’t about making things pretty; it was about making things work, with meaning. And oddly enough, that small project led to bigger opportunities in interior and architectural design later on.

I’m drawn to materials that hold silence—like matte stone, untreated wood, brushed metal, or even shadow. What matters to me is not how expensive or complex something is, but how it interacts with space, light, and time. I also have a deep respect for “invisible” technologies—systems that don’t call attention to themselves, but shape how people experience space. Smart lighting, climate-responsive materials, or even algorithmic flows in architecture—they fascinate me when they disappear into the background and just make the space feel right. Ultimately, my favorite “material” is the one that allows meaning to breathe. Whether it’s a surface or a system, I look for elements that don’t speak loudly, but resonate deeply.

I often feel most creative when I’m driving—especially on long self-driving trips. The road reveals unexpected beauty: a wall’s color, light breaking through trees, the rhythm of passing structures. These quiet visuals often return as seeds in my design work. Semi-autonomous driving gives me moments to loosen my grip, observe more freely, and let ideas surface. But I also remind myself—driving demands attention and instinct. That balance between focus and fluidity feels a lot like design itself: staying relaxed enough to see clearly, but sharp enough to act decisively. In that sense, driving becomes a kind of moving rehearsal for how to design—with presence, awareness, and control.

When I design, I pay the most attention to relationship—between elements, between people and space, between ideas and emotion. I start by thinking about how a space makes people feel—not just in one moment, but across time. I look for rhythm: how the light shifts, how the materials age, how one movement leads to another. If a space can guide you without shouting, if it can hold silence and allow presence, then I know the design is starting to work. I also care deeply about cultural tone—how form, texture, and proportion come together to express something you don’t need words for. Beauty, for me, is not a surface—it’s a tension between clarity and mystery.

Design puts me in a strange emotional space—a mix of clarity, obsession, and quiet excitement. At its best, I enter a kind of flow state where time dissolves. I feel fully present, almost like the work is thinking through me, not the other way around. There’s joy in aligning things—when proportion, rhythm, and tone suddenly click into place, it’s like tuning an instrument to just the right frequency. Of course, there’s also frustration. Things don’t always work, and sometimes the hardest part is knowing when to stop pushing. But even that tension becomes part of the process. I’ve learned to respect confusion, because it often means I’m on the edge of something new.

When a design is realized, I don’t feel explosive joy—I feel something quieter, almost like a release. There’s a moment of stillness where the work shifts from being mine to being part of the world. Sometimes I walk through a space I designed and observe how people use it without even noticing its structure. That’s when I feel most satisfied—not when the design is obvious, but when it simply fits into daily life, seamlessly and silently. Of course, I’m also critical. I see every imperfection, every detail that could have been better. But I try to replace judgment with curiosity: Why did this detail work? Why did that gesture fall flat? Realization is not the end—it’s the beginning of a new feedback loop.

To me, a successful design isn’t defined by how striking it looks—it’s about how well it listens. Good design creates alignment: between space and purpose, between message and material, between user behavior and emotional rhythm. It works not because it forces attention, but because it invites presence. You don’t have to explain it—it simply feels right. A successful design also leaves room—for growth, for reinterpretation, for the unknown. It doesn’t try to say everything at once. Instead, it knows when to speak, when to pause, and when to let others complete the story.

The first thing I notice is not how something looks, but how it feels—how it behaves in context, how it relates to its users, and whether it carries clarity in intention. Does it solve a need while also sparking imagination? Does it hold tension between structure and softness, function and atmosphere? These are often the questions that guide my judgment. A good design doesn’t need to shout. It should reveal itself over time, offering both immediate resonance and lasting depth. Bad design, on the other hand, often reveals itself too quickly—and then leaves nothing behind.

Designers don’t just shape objects or spaces—we shape behaviors, expectations, and values. That’s where our responsibility begins. To me, a designer’s role is to mediate between what is and what could be. That means designing not only for efficiency or beauty, but for empathy, longevity, and care. Whether we’re working with physical materials or social systems, we’re always influencing how people relate to each other and to the world around them. In terms of the environment, I believe design should tread lightly—not only in terms of resources, but in psychological and cultural space as well. Good design should make room—for nature, for slowness, for reflection. We don’t need to fill every gap. Sometimes, our job is to protect the silence.

I believe design is moving from form-making to system-shaping. It’s no longer just about creating beautiful objects or spaces—it’s about orchestrating relationships, facilitating meaning, and designing how things connect. We’re entering an era where design is less about “things” and more about experiences, ecologies, and ethics. Designers are no longer just stylists—we’re becoming translators, mediators, even curators of behavior. The questions we face are no longer just “how should this look,” but “how should this live,” “who does it include,” and “what kind of world does it shape?” The future of design, I believe, lies in slowness, subtlety, and sincerity. In a fast-moving world, the most valuable work will be the kind that listens deeply, adapts with care, and builds with time.

My most recent exhibition was at the Red Dot Design Museum in Xiamen, as part of a showcase exploring traditional Chinese craft and its contemporary reinterpretation. We presented a project called Chillwild (草物之外) — a design for a modern herbal tea brand rooted in traditional Chinese medicine, which also won a Bronze A’ Design Award in the packaging category. That project means a lot to me—not just because of the recognition, but because it reflects my ongoing love for Chinese culture. I’m not interested in copying tradition; I’m interested in continuing it, reshaping it, letting it live in new forms and contexts. For my next exhibition, I’d love to go deeper into that space—where culture, identity, and design meet. Ideally, it would be in a city that’s not just visually open, but culturally layered—somewhere like Kyoto, Lisbon, or again, perhaps Shanghai.

Driving is when I get the most unexpected ideas. There’s something about the combination of motion, solitude, and passing landscapes that opens up a different kind of thinking. I often catch myself noticing a building’s rhythm, the color of a hill, or how signage blends—or fails to blend—into a place. Outside of that, I get inspiration from moments that aren’t obviously “creative”: conversations, fragments of films, misread signs, walking in unfamiliar cities. I also write a lot—not full texts, but spatial phrases, emotional temperatures, raw metaphors. Those notes form a quiet archive that keeps feeding back into my work. I don’t chase inspiration. I design my daily life to leave space for it to arrive—in silence, in friction, in motion.

I don’t think of “style” as a fixed label. For me, style is a kind of tone—the way a space breathes, pauses, and holds its own rhythm. If I had to describe it, I’d say my work often leans toward restraint, clarity, and structural emotion. I’m drawn to what’s not said: the space between elements, the tension between material and meaning, the emotional pacing of light and silence. My interest in Chinese spatial logic—gardens, framing, paths—has shaped how I think about composition and sequence. But I always pair that with a contemporary logic of usability, openness, and cultural remix. My approach is slow. I listen a lot—before sketching anything. I try to design from inside the atmosphere, not just the shape. Because in the end, what stays with people is not what they saw, but how the space made them feel.

I split my time between China and the U.S., but China is home—and it’s also the cultural soil that shapes how I see and design. Chinese cultural heritage runs deep in my work. Not in decorative ways, but in how I think about space, sequence, rhythm, and restraint. I’m influenced by garden logic, architectural silence, and the idea that meaning can be implied rather than shown. Working in China has incredible advantages: rich material traditions, centuries of spatial wisdom, and a cultural philosophy that values subtlety. But there are also challenges—design discourse is still catching up with global fluency, and sometimes the pace of development outgrows the space for reflection. The result is a tension I find creatively valuable: how to be both rooted and forward-facing.

When I work with companies, I don’t position myself as a service provider—I see myself as a strategic and cultural collaborator. I spend a lot of time up front understanding the people behind the project: their aspirations, limitations, unspoken logic. I try to uncover the emotional and cultural layers of a brand or space before making any visual decisions. In many cases, my role is to translate business goals into spatial or narrative systems that feel human and long-term—not just marketable. I also believe in co-creation. Good design doesn’t happen in isolation. It requires trust, listening, and sometimes challenging each other to go deeper. The most successful projects I’ve done were never just “well designed”—they were well aligned.

The best collaborations happen when companies don’t just hire a designer—they invite one into their thinking process. My first suggestion is: choose a designer whose values match your vision, not just your style. A good designer isn’t just executing—they’re helping you define what matters. That requires trust, time, and shared language. Second: be open, but also honest. The more clearly you express your challenges and expectations, the more meaningful the design response can be. Good design comes from constraints, not from vague freedom. And finally: don’t just ask “what will it look like?”—ask “what will it change?” The best designers don’t just deliver visuals. They bring clarity, emotion, and direction.

My process always starts with listening. Before I draw anything, I try to understand the emotional, spatial, and cultural layers of the context. I ask: what is this space trying to say, and what kind of experience does it want to hold? From there, I move into rhythm—how things should unfold, where tension sits, when to pause. I sketch in words before I sketch in lines. I write phrases, draw sequences, test emotional flow. Only after that do I move into material, structure, and scale. I believe the process should stay porous and iterative. I test through conversation, through walking the site, through seeing how people move. A lot of my design decisions come not from inspiration, but from structured editing—knowing what to leave out, and where to leave room.

1.A stone incense holder I found in Kyoto—simple, unpolished, and strangely grounding. I don’t use it daily, but I like the way it anchors a quiet mood in the room. 2.An old rice paper lamp from my grandmother’s house. It’s fragile and uneven, but the way it diffuses light reminds me that imperfection can carry calm. 3.My car key—not for what it opens, but for what it allows: movement, solitude, and that suspended state where ideas often surface. 4.A plain oak tray I use for almost everything. To me, it’s a perfect object—neutral, functional, and humble enough to disappear when needed. 5.A stack of unfinished notebooks—some filled with spatial metaphors, some just with single words. They aren’t objects of display, but tools for thinking. And they grow with me.

I usually wake up around 7am. I take the dog out for a quiet walk, then come back to make breakfast for my family. It’s a small ritual, but one that keeps me grounded before the day starts moving. By 9am, I’m at the studio. I think best in the morning—recently I’ve been keeping a more disciplined schedule, training regularly, and staying physically clear so my mind can stay focused. My work spans several industries, so my days are full. I meet with different teams, clients, collaborators. Most of what I do now is talking—listening, aligning, translating between worlds. It’s intense, but it’s part of building anything meaningful. That’s why, no matter how the day goes, I protect my two hours at night. That time is for reflection. I don’t fill it with content—I use it to sit with what the day gave me, and to return to myself. My life is full, but I try to design its rhythm with care. Not just for efficiency, but for clarity and continuity.

Don’t rush to define your style. First, find your sensitivity—what you notice, what disturbs you, what you can’t unsee. Style will come later. Clarity comes first. Second, learn to listen. Not just to clients, but to space, to silence, to your own discomfort. The best designers aren’t the loudest—they’re the most attuned. Third, protect your pace. It’s easy to burn out trying to prove something too soon. Depth doesn’t come from speed. Give yourself time to build your own rhythm. Lastly, design is not about showing how much you know. It’s about knowing what not to say, and having the confidence to leave things unsaid.

The best part of being a designer is that you get to shape experience. You’re not just solving problems—you’re creating meaning, emotion, rhythm. When it works, you feel like you’ve translated something invisible into something inhabitable. That’s powerful. But the hardest part is also emotional. Good design requires you to stay open, sensitive, and questioning—but that same openness can be exhausting. You notice too much. You care too much. And sometimes, you’re asked to solve problems that aren’t actually design problems. There’s also a constant negotiation between vision and compromise, clarity and noise, speed and depth. It’s not an easy path—but if you can hold your ground, and hold your curiosity, it becomes more than a job. It becomes a way of understanding the world.

Say only what the space cannot say on its own. Design is not about adding more—it’s about knowing what’s essential, what’s silent, and what’s missing. The best design doesn’t speak louder. It listens longer.

The most important skill is not drawing, not rendering, not even communication. It’s discernment—the ability to sense what matters, what doesn’t, and when to act. A good designer knows how to edit—not just visuals, but ideas, expectations, and energy. You need sensitivity, yes—but also the strength to hold the line when needed. Other crucial skills: listening between the lines, framing problems instead of just solving them, and building rhythm—not just aesthetics, but in how people move, feel, and remember. In the end, design isn’t about how much you can do. It’s about what you choose to do, and why.

My toolbox is a mix of the technical, the analog, and the atmospheric. I use the standard design software—Rhino, AutoCAD, Adobe Suite, Keyshot, Enscape—mainly for development and delivery. But I don’t start there. I start with writing tools: Apple Notes, Notion, and a stack of paper notebooks. I write phrases, spatial rhythms, metaphors. These are my sketchbooks—less visual, more conceptual. I also rely on movement-based tools: driving, walking, site visits. My iPhone camera roll is full of details—textures, alignments, accidents. It’s a kind of unconscious archive. As for books, I always return to a few: Jun’ichirō Tanizaki’s In Praise of Shadows, Atlas of Emotion by Giuliana Bruno, and anything by Peter Zumthor. I don’t use them for ideas—I use them to remember how to feel. Ultimately, tools don’t make the designer. The way you filter and connect is the real system.

I don’t try to control time—I try to shape energy. Design is not linear. Some days you’ll have ten hours and make no real progress. Other days, one conversation can unlock everything. So I stopped treating time as a straight line, and started thinking in layers: thinking time, building time, talking time, resting time. What helps me most is setting clear thresholds: when to pause, when to decide, when to let go. I don’t aim to “use every minute”—I aim to create room for clarity. Also, I treat my schedule like I treat a floorplan: not everything has to be filled. Leave space. That’s where the best work enters.

It depends on what you’re really designing. Sometimes, the form takes a week—but the decision behind it took years of silent questioning. Other times, the object is done quickly, but you spend weeks figuring out what it’s really for. So for me, design doesn’t start when you open your software. It starts when you begin to care—and it doesn’t end when you deliver a file. It ends when the object is understood, used, and felt. That said, yes—technically it can take anywhere from 3 weeks to 6 months. But real design time is layered. Some parts are fast. Some parts need to wait.

Honestly? Probably: “Can you make it look cooler?” It’s usually said casually, but it always opens up a deeper conversation: What do you mean by “cool”? For whom? For how long? What emotion are you trying to trigger? I’ve learned to take those moments seriously—not to reject them, but to translate them. Because behind every vague request, there’s usually a real need. A good designer listens not just to the words, but to the uncertainty behind them.

Looking back, the most important turning point wasn’t a big-name project—it was when I designed my first bubble tea shop. I had invested in it with almost no budget, so I had to do everything myself: the branding, the interiors, the construction plan. I wasn’t trained in design, but I had no choice but to solve problems by sensing them—what felt right, what didn’t, how people moved, what the space communicated. That experience changed everything. It taught me that design wasn’t about making things look good—it was about making things make sense. It also led me to meet my current real estate partner, which opened the door to larger projects—hotels, offices, cultural spaces. That one small shop gave me a career.

My clients come from different industries—real estate, hospitality, wellness, F&B, and cultural initiatives. What connects them is not the industry itself, but the fact that they are all building something long-term—an experience, a narrative, or a new kind of presence. I’ve worked with real estate developers on office and hotel projects, independent brands on spatial strategy, and cultural curators on exhibitions or public installations. Some projects are commercial, others are more experimental—but in both cases, I’m invited not just to design, but to co-think. I value clients who don’t see design as decoration, but as part of their core thinking process.

I’m most drawn to projects that involve transformation—not just of space, but of perception. I love working on places that already carry a memory: old buildings, forgotten corners, in-between zones. I enjoy finding out what’s still alive there, and what wants to be reawakened. There’s something deeply moving about designing not from scratch, but from what’s already there but unseen. I also enjoy projects that blur the line between space and story—where layout is a kind of narrative, and materials hold emotional weight. Those are the moments where design becomes more than problem-solving. It becomes a conversation between past and future.

I’m currently expanding my practice across both design and cultural strategy. I want to keep working on spaces and objects—but also on the stories around them, the systems they sit in, and the futures they suggest. One of my goals is to help more Chinese designers be seen internationally—not through surface aesthetics, but through structure, rhythm, and deep cultural logic. I’m continuing that work through collaborations, mentoring, and building new platforms. And personally, I still hold onto a quiet dream: to one day build a museum—not for trophies, but for ideas, atmospheres, and unfinished conversations. A space where design isn’t shown, but felt.

At the beginning of a project, I don’t start by making plans—I start by asking questions. I lay out the problem and listen. I want to see how far the team can take it without me defining the direction. Most of the time, I let people explore first, observe how they respond, and only step in when the core logic starts to blur. I see my role as a backbone, not a spotlight—someone who holds the structure and rhythm. I don’t speak first, I speak last. That way, what I say isn’t the starting point—it’s a summary of everything we’ve built together. In that sense, I lead not by declaring answers, but by creating alignment.

There’s one project I’m especially excited about—it’s still in progress, so I can’t share too many details, but I can share the structure. It’s a hybrid cultural space that brings together hospitality, independent retail, and publishing. What interests me most is not the functions, but the storyline that connects them—how the spatial sequence can become a kind of narrative loop. I’m working on this not just as a designer, but as a creative strategist. I’m shaping the concept, spatial logic, emotional atmosphere, and even the way visitors move and pause. It’s still forming—and that’s what makes it exciting. Some of the best design moments happen before they’re ready to be shown.

For collaborations, media inquiries, or project discussions, please contact me through my company: AmbiWishes Technology Website: ambiwishes.com Email: Ambiwishes@gmail.com

Maybe just one thing—something I think about often, but isn’t always asked: How do we design for what we don’t fully understand yet? So much of design today is about certainty—clear goals, sharp visuals, fast impact. But what about the spaces that hold doubt? The objects that are slightly off? The narratives that take time? I think part of a designer’s role is to create structures for the uncertain—spaces that let questions stay open a bit longer, that hold emotional ambiguity, that don’t rush to be resolved. Not everything we design has to explain itself. Sometimes, it just has to make someone pause.

I didn’t enter the design field through a conventional path. My background was originally in data analytics, but through a series of hands-on experiences—from organizing independent events to designing my own retail spaces—I gradually built an interdisciplinary creative practice that now spans branding, spatial design, cultural strategy, and storytelling. Over the years, I’ve collaborated with clients from real estate, hospitality, F&B, wellness, and cultural industries, often taking on roles that go beyond design execution—shaping narrative, direction, and emotional structure. I’m currently a creative partner at AmbiWishes Technology, where I focus on projects that bridge East and West, tradition and reinvention. I believe design is not just about form or function, but about rhythm, clarity, and the emotional intelligence of space.

I became a designer almost by accident—but not without intention. I studied data analytics in university. At the time, I needed to support myself, so I began organizing student events and created all the visuals—flyers, posters, banners—just to save costs. That was my first hands-on experience with design. Later, I helped friends in film school and ended up working behind the scenes—lighting, editing, framing. I slowly realized that visual storytelling wasn’t decoration—it was structure, rhythm, emotion. I became obsessed with how space, time, and mood could be designed. What really pushed me was necessity. When I started my first business, I couldn’t afford to outsource anything. I designed the branding, interior, and experience by myself. That process shaped me. It made me realize I didn’t just want to make things—I wanted to build meaning. I became a designer not because I studied it, but because I kept doing it—until it became the way I think.

The three things I focus on most are: emotional rhythm, spatial clarity, and narrative coherence. I don’t start with visuals—I start with questions. What kind of experience do we want to shape? What emotion should this space hold? What kind of silence do we allow? Often, I sketch in words before I draw anything. I write phrases, sequences, and tension points. I treat layout like composing music—timing, pause, pressure. Only after that do I move into spatial form or rendering. I don’t chase style. I chase rhythm. I want every project to have a sense of internal tempo—a psychological choreography that makes the space feel intuitive, even if it’s complex. Technology is part of my process, but not the center of it. The core always comes from judgment—what to show, what to leave unsaid.

Designing for me is not always excitement—it’s more like a quiet tension. In the early stages, I feel a kind of weight. There’s uncertainty, discomfort, and a deep need to listen—before the project even starts to take shape. But I enjoy that. It means something real is forming. The moment that excites me most is when things start to align—when space, story, rhythm, and structure begin to lock into place. Not loudly, but clearly. That feeling of quiet clarity is more fulfilling than any rendering. Design gives me a way to turn ambiguity into structure, and emotion into rhythm. It’s not about constant joy—it’s about constructing meaning, one layer at a time.

My background is not in design, but that’s what shaped me most. I studied data analytics, which trained me to structure chaos—to find patterns in ambiguity. That became the foundation of how I build spatial logic today. I also worked in film production—doing lighting, editing, acting, and narrative construction. That taught me timing, rhythm, and emotional pacing, all of which directly influence my layout and design process. Entrepreneurship shaped me the most. I’ve built businesses, run events, done branding from scratch with no budget. That experience gave me real-world sensitivity—how people move, what they notice, what they avoid. It taught me to design not for perfection, but for presence. The best designers aren’t always the best drawers. They’re the ones who can sense structure, timing, emotion, and meaning—even before they pick up a pen.

I’m gradually shifting my role—from being the maker to becoming the mind behind. I want to focus more on creative direction, spatial strategy, and cultural planning, working across disciplines and helping younger designers grow. I enjoy designing, but I find deeper fulfillment in asking better questions, holding structure, and giving others the space to lead. One long-term dream is to create a museum—not for trophies, but for unfinished thoughts. A space that holds rhythm, atmosphere, and emotional complexity. A place where design isn’t just seen, but sensed. I hope I’ll be remembered not just for what I designed, but for what I made possible—for others, and for ideas that needed room to grow.

Don’t rush to define your style. First, learn how to see—how to listen, pause, and notice what others ignore. Clarity comes before style. Rhythm comes before decoration. Also, don’t be afraid to start small. My first design job was creating a poster for an event I organized myself—because I couldn’t afford a designer. That constraint taught me how to problem-solve with presence. You don’t have to be the best at everything. You have to be consistent at what matters—structure, judgment, honesty, and the ability to build meaning over time. The best advice I’ve received? “Do less, but mean it more.” It still shapes how I design, and how I live.

Design is not a race to be expressive. It’s a long practice of learning what to withhold. I believe the best designers aren’t the ones who speak first—they’re the ones who listen longer. They don’t rush to solve the brief. They spend time reframing it. If I had to give one principle, it would be this: design is editing. Editing form, editing attention, editing intention. Knowing what to leave unsaid is just as powerful as knowing what to emphasize. Another idea I live by: you don’t need to be original—you need to be precise. A slightly misaligned detail can ruin a story. But a well-placed silence can say everything. As professionals, we’re not just shaping visuals. We’re shaping behavior, memory, and meaning. So sometimes, the best thing you can do—is step back.

09. What is your day to day look like? This question is about your daily routine. Try to explain what you do each day, professionally; how do you start your business morning? Do you read design news or go through another task? What do you like best in a boring business day; what are some little things that make you happy or excited throughout the work day?

I stay aware of design trends—but I don’t follow them. I study them. Trends are useful as cultural signals. They show us what people are longing for, reacting to, or trying to escape. But I don’t design to match a trend—I design to respond to what the trend is avoiding. What matters more to me is rhythm, context, and structure. These things don’t go out of style—they evolve. I often look at cinema, literature, architecture, and cultural theory—not to copy, but to understand how form holds feeling. So no, I don’t chase what’s “hip.” I chase what still feels true—five years from now.

Good design doesn’t always scream. It resonates. I know a design works when it makes me pause—not because it’s loud, but because it’s right. It holds its own rhythm. It leaves space for people. It’s clear without over-explaining. For me, good design has three qualities: •Structural clarity (Does it hold together?) •Emotional rhythm (Does it breathe?) •Cultural intelligence (Does it understand where it lives?) The most common mistake? Trying to say too much. Design isn’t about showing everything. It’s about choosing what to let the space say on its own.

I don’t think a design is ever truly finished. But I do think it can feel resolved. There’s a moment—not always visible—when the elements stop competing. The structure breathes, the emotion lands, the rhythm balances. I don’t wait for perfection. I wait for alignment. Sometimes it’s a sentence that clicks. Sometimes it’s the silence between two forms. It’s not about adding—it’s about knowing when not to add anymore. Could things always be improved? Probably. But that’s not the point. Design is not a loop—it’s a decision. At some point, you have to let it go, so it can live in the world, not just in your head.

One of the most meaningful projects I’ve worked on involved transforming a former industrial site into a workplace—using the spatial rhythm and compositional logic inspired by traditional Chinese gardens. What made it special wasn’t the size, but the structure of experience. We designed inward rather than outward—layering sequences, borrowing sightlines, dissolving hierarchy, and allowing space to feel psychologically paced rather than rigidly zoned. This was also the first time I led both concept and execution—translating abstract principles like humility, rhythm, and cultural memory into real materials, flow, and emotional atmosphere. The site had tight limitations, but that forced clarity. The result was a layered, quiet, human-centered space that gave people both function and reflection. That project reminded me: good design doesn’t shout—it holds.

I admire designers who don’t just build things—but who shape time, rhythm, and presence. Some of the figures I often revisit include Louis Kahn, for how he used silence and light as structural elements. And Isamu Noguchi, who taught us that a single form can hold both clarity and ambiguity at once. Their works feel less like objects, more like moments that hold stillness. If I could speak to a designer no longer with us, it would be Kahn. I’d ask him: How do you know when a wall becomes more than a wall? But more than any name, I’m drawn to a type of thinking—designers who slow things down, who know when not to finish a sentence, who let space speak before they do.

I live between cities, between languages, and often between disciplines. As a Chinese designer who studied and worked in the U.S., my work naturally blends East and West—not in style, but in structure, restraint, and rhythm. I’m drawn to cities like Kyoto, Los Angeles, and Suzhou—places where silence, pace, and density coexist in interesting tension. Design has changed the way I live. It taught me to observe without reacting, to respect tempo, and to create space not just in rooms, but in schedules, conversations, and thoughts. I believe good design isn’t a luxury—it’s a kind of quiet order. It doesn’t just decorate society. It helps society breathe.

I believe in clarity, rhythm, and trust. I don’t micromanage. I ask questions. I want to see how people think, where their logic lives, and whether they can build a structure—not just a style. When I work with others—whether it’s partners, team members, or collaborators—I look for emotional intelligence, aesthetic sensitivity, and self-responsibility. I like people who don’t speak first, but who see clearly. In our studio culture, clarity is more important than speed. We don’t chase trends. We chase alignment. I don’t need everyone to think like me—but I do need everyone to respect the rhythm of a project. A good designer, in my view, doesn’t just produce. They know when to stop. When to ask. And when to say nothing—because the space is already speaking.

I believe design is not just what we create—but what we make possible for others. I try to give back by offering space: space to grow, to think, to try. Especially for younger designers who don’t come from “traditional” backgrounds—like I didn’t. I often work behind the scenes—mentoring, advising, curating teams or collaborative projects. I don’t need to be the voice in front. I’d rather help others find theirs. I also support cross-cultural design platforms that connect Chinese creatives with the global stage—not as trend exporters, but as deep storytellers. For me, giving back is not about charity. It’s about creating structures where other people’s work can thrive—quietly, sustainably, and with meaning.

A’ Design Award gave me something rare: the space to think slowly and express clearly. As designers, we’re often moving project to project. The award process forced me to pause—to articulate not just what I made, but why I made it that way. Three things I value most from participating: 1.Clarity of Thought – Writing about my work made me see its deeper structure and contradictions. 2.Cultural Dialogue – It connected my projects with designers across countries and disciplines. 3.Long-Term Visibility – Not just exposure, but a chance to enter a slower, more meaningful conversation. Being named Designer of the Day is not just an honor—it’s a reminder to stay honest, stay curious, and stay aware of the kind of presence my work creates in the world.

I didn’t start as a designer in the conventional sense. My formal education was in data analytics—not design. But that became my advantage. While studying in the U.S., I took on part-time jobs and began organizing events. To save costs, I created all the visual materials myself—flyers, banners, posters. That was my accidental first contact with design. Later, I helped film school friends with small productions. I worked behind the scenes—lighting, editing, storytelling. Over time, I realized that what I truly cared about wasn’t just “making things look good,” but constructing rhythm, structure, and emotional clarity. Eventually, I opened a bubble tea shop and handled the branding, space planning, and customer flow entirely on my own. That experience shaped me. It taught me that design is not a profession—it’s a way of thinking, editing, and offering presence. I became a designer not by certification, but by continuous iteration. I learned by doing, failing, adjusting—and by never stopping to observe what really moves people.

Design didn’t begin for me as a career—it began as survival. I started designing because I had to. In university, I couldn’t afford a designer, so I designed everything myself. Later, I realized that design gave me a way to make sense of things—to bring order to ambiguity, and rhythm to chaos. What continues to motivate me is not the act of creating, but the process of clarifying. I’m interested in how space can shape emotion, how structure can carry memory, and how small gestures can shift perception. Design, for me, is a kind of thinking made visible. It’s not about style—it’s about editing life into meaning.

At first, I didn’t choose design—necessity chose it for me. I began designing because I had no other option. I needed visuals for events, branding for my own shop, communication tools for my early ventures. I couldn’t afford help, so I made it myself. But over time, something shifted. I realized I wasn’t just solving problems—I was creating structure. Design gave me a language that connected logic with emotion, pace with purpose. It became a way of thinking, not just making. So no, I didn’t plan to become a designer. But now, I choose it every day—not as a title, but as a tool for clarity.

I design across disciplines—spatial experiences, brand systems, cultural strategies, and narrative environments. What connects all of them is rhythm. I’m less interested in aesthetics for their own sake, and more in how form carries emotion, how space creates tempo, and how structure frames memory. I’m especially drawn to projects that sit between disciplines—where architecture meets storytelling, where branding meets behavior, where silence says more than graphics. In the future, I hope to work more on public-facing cultural spaces—exhibitions, museums, hybrid institutions—where design isn’t just functional, but reflective and catalytic.

Don’t rush to be visible. First, learn to see. Before you form a style, form a system of observation. Ask better questions. Sit with ambiguity. Be okay with not knowing—because clarity doesn’t come from speed. It comes from rhythm. A design legend isn’t someone who makes the loudest work. It’s someone who knows what not to say. Who creates space—structurally, emotionally, culturally—for others to feel something real. So start with presence, not polish. Start with questions, not answers. And when in doubt—slow down.

A good designer solves problems. A great designer reframes them. A good designer communicates clearly. A great designer knows when to let silence speak. A good designer delivers what’s asked. A great designer delivers what’s necessary—even if it wasn’t asked for. The difference is rhythm. Great designers don’t just make things look better—they shape perception, shift behavior, and give meaning space to unfold. Good design satisfies. Great design lingers.

To me, a really good design does three things: 1.It holds structure – The logic is clear, the layout breathes, and the system is coherent. 2.It shapes emotion – There’s rhythm, atmosphere, and an intentional psychological effect. 3.It respects context – It understands where it lives—culturally, functionally, and historically. Good design isn’t just about form or originality. It’s about judgment: What do you say? What do you hold back? What does the space say on its own? I also ask one final question: Does it make me pause—not because it’s loud, but because it’s right? If the answer is yes, then it’s good design.

Good design is not a luxury—it’s a form of clarity. It helps people move better, feel safer, think clearer, and act with more intention. Whether it’s a room, a brand, or a service—design shapes how we experience meaning. Investing in good design is not just about appearance. It’s about behavior, attention, emotion, and long-term alignment. Bad design creates confusion. Good design creates confidence. And that confidence—quiet, intuitive, and durable—is what makes things truly work. So why invest in good design? Because everything else depends on it.

If I had the time, I would design a museum—not for trophies, but for unfinished thoughts. It wouldn’t be a place for answers. It would be a space for rhythm, ambiguity, and quiet structures. A place where people could feel the emotional logic of form—without needing to name it. And I would design it for people like me: Those who didn’t come from “design schools,” who grew up between cultures, who are still trying to figure out what it means to belong, to build, to slow down. Sometimes I think the world doesn’t need more impressive architecture. It needs more spaces that make you breathe differently.

I’ve always wanted to create a space that exists somewhere between an exhibition, a meditation room, and a cultural broadcast—an atmospheric experience of contemporary Chinese rhythm. It wouldn’t try to explain “Chinese culture.” It would simply let you feel it—through light, material, sequence, breath. No timeline, no placard, no pressure to understand—just presence. I haven’t had the time or headspace to begin. But I know exactly how it should feel: A space where silence is not absence, but depth. Where tradition is not reference, but tension. One day, I’ll build it—not as a showcase, but as a quiet offering.

My secret ingredient? I listen more than I speak. I don’t rush to solve problems—I wait for the right rhythm to reveal itself. I don’t design to impress—I design to clarify. In design, most people focus on form or originality. I focus on judgment. What to say. When to stop. What to leave unsaid. Good work is not just about doing more. It’s about knowing when to hold, when to release, and when to disappear. That’s my secret. Rhythm, restraint, and respect—for space, for timing, and for meaning.

I often return to the works of Louis Kahn, Isamu Noguchi, and Tadao Ando—not just for their forms, but for their silence. Kahn taught me that light is structure. Noguchi showed me that clarity can contain ambiguity. Ando proved that restraint can hold immense emotional power. Outside of design, I’m inspired by filmmakers like Tarkovsky, and writers like John Berger—people who taught me to slow down, observe rhythm, and let absence speak. I’m not looking for visual influence. I’m looking for designers who understand space as a form of thinking, timing, and offering presence.

One project I deeply admire is Tadao Ando’s Church of the Light. It’s not just about minimalism—it’s about emotional compression. The way light slices through concrete, the silence in the material, the absence that becomes presence—that level of restraint is profound. I also find great inspiration in Isamu Noguchi’s Akari series. Delicate yet structural, soft yet defined. These paper forms feel like they’re breathing. They prove that lightness can still hold deep intention. Lastly, I’m drawn to John Pawson’s monastic works—spaces that almost disappear, and yet reframe how we relate to walls, distance, and time. What I admire in all these works is not the form itself, but the timing of decisions—when to stop, what to remove, how to say more by doing less.

One of the projects I consider my most complete work was a workplace transformation, turning a former industrial space into a layered office experience—using the spatial rhythm of traditional Chinese gardens. What made it great wasn’t the size or the style. It was the structure. We didn’t try to impress. We tried to dissolve hierarchy, guide emotional pacing, and let the space feel quiet but intelligent. Every decision was about timing—when to turn, when to reveal, when to hold. I led both the conceptual direction and execution, translating ideas like “borrowed scenery,” “slow procession,” and “psychological clarity” into layout, material, and atmosphere. It was the first time I felt that a design didn’t just work—it breathed.

To become a better designer, don’t just study design—study how people feel, move, pause, and decide. Most of what helped me grow had nothing to do with “design” directly. I worked in events, retail, filmmaking, teaching, even delivery driving. Each experience gave me a different lens to understand behavior, emotion, and structure. Here’s what I learned—and still practice: •Observe before you express. •Clarify before you decorate. •Edit before you add. I didn’t take the fast route. I built my system by doing, failing, adjusting—and always asking: What is this design really trying to hold?

If I hadn’t become a designer, I probably would’ve become a creative producer—or someone who builds cultural platforms behind the scenes. Even before I knew what “design” was, I was always organizing things: events, visuals, teams, stories. I like creating frameworks where other people can do great work. Not necessarily being the loudest voice, but being the structural spine. So whether in branding, film, retail, or architecture—what I really love is orchestrating rhythm. Design just happens to be the medium where all those instincts converge.

For me, design is about making things work—for people, in real contexts. It’s not just about how something looks, but how it functions, how it feels, and how clearly it communicates. A good design helps people move, decide, focus, or breathe better—even if they don’t notice it. Design isn’t decoration. It’s decision-making. It’s choosing what matters, and removing what doesn’t. At its core, design is a tool to organize complexity, and to make things more understandable, useful, and human.

I didn’t get here alone. Along the way, there were people who gave me trust before I had results—friends who pulled me into projects, mentors who challenged my thinking, and collaborators who made my work better just by showing up. One of the most important turning points was meeting my current business partner—we had similar values about design, culture, and long-term thinking. That partnership gave me both freedom and pressure in the best ways. Also, I’ve learned a lot from my team. I may lead the direction, but they help me sharpen it. Nothing I do is truly solo—even when it looks like it.