Interviews with Daria Yang DU

My experience spans architecture, interiors, public space, cultural projects, and interdisciplinary design. I have worked with firms including Gensler, BIG, and RIOS, where I contributed to projects at different scales, from education and workplace to hospitality, public space, and large cultural developments.

Alongside professional practice, I have continued developing independent projects through DD Studio, which gives me more freedom to explore experimental ideas, physical models, installations, material studies, and spatial storytelling.

I did not originally plan to become a designer. I started out studying literature, but growing up I loved making things by hand, building small houses and furniture for my Barbie dolls, and watching renovation programs.

Eventually, I realized I was more excited by creating physical spaces and objects, so I changed my direction to architecture. Looking back, that shift felt very natural.

My priority is always the experience—how people move through a space, what they notice, and how the design makes them feel. I usually develop ideas through sketches, physical models, diagrams, and digital studies, allowing experimentation to guide the form.

I would describe my style as experiential and often organic, with an interest in movement, material, landscape, and atmosphere. Rather than following one fixed visual language, I prefer each project to develop its own identity from its context and concept.

Designing brings a mix of curiosity, excitement, frustration, and sometimes doubt. The process is rarely linear, so there are moments of uncertainty followed by moments when an idea suddenly becomes clear.

That change is part of what makes design enjoyable for me—the feeling of discovering something rather than simply executing a solution.

Growing up in China and later studying and working in the United States exposed me to very different cultural and design environments. That experience made me more open to different ways of thinking about space, beauty, public life, and everyday experience.

My early interest in literature, making things by hand, travel, photography, and psychology also shaped how I design. I tend to think about architecture not only as form, but as narrative, emotion, behavior, and experience.

My growth path has been about moving from architecture toward a broader, more interdisciplinary way of working. Through education, professional practice, competitions, and independent projects, I have gradually become more interested in the intersection of space, storytelling, branding, material, and experience.

In the future, I hope to keep exploring smaller experimental projects as well as larger cultural and public environments. My dream project would be something that combines architecture, landscape, installation, and narrative—ideally a place where people can slow down, explore, and experience the space in a very personal way.

Stay curious, keep making things, and do not wait for the perfect opportunity to start developing your own voice. Personal projects, competitions, travel, photography, writing, and physical experiments can all teach you things that professional work may not.

Also, do not be afraid of changing direction. Early in your career, exploration is valuable. The goal is not to define yourself too quickly, but to understand what genuinely interests you and keep building from there.

I’m still learning, so I would hesitate to call myself truly successful. But I think the most important thing is to stay curious, keep making work, and not measure your progress only through awards, titles, or recognition.

Build a point of view that feels genuinely yours, stay open to collaboration, and keep experimenting even when the result is uncertain. A long design career is probably less about having all the answers and more about continuing to ask better questions.

My day-to-day is usually a mix of design work, meetings, research, drawing, modeling, and reviewing materials or references. Some days are very focused on one project, while others involve jumping between several different tasks and scales.

Outside of work, I try to make time for coffee, walking, spending time with my dogs, photography, travel planning, or simply doing something away from the screen.

I keep up with design trends through exhibitions, publications, social media, travel, and by following work across architecture, fashion, graphics, products, and technology.

Trends are useful for understanding what is happening culturally, but I do not think they should drive a project. The more important question is whether a design feels relevant, meaningful, and appropriate to its own context.

A well-designed project feels clear, intentional, and appropriate to its purpose. Function, material, form, and experience should support each other rather than compete.

Good design also creates something beyond function. It can make everyday life easier, more enjoyable, more memorable, or simply make people feel something.

A design feels ready when the main idea is clear and the major decisions all support it. At some point, adding more no longer makes the project stronger.

There is always something that could be refined, so knowing when to stop is also part of the design process.

Art Omi is probably my biggest design work in terms of how many ideas it brings together. It combines architecture, landscape, structure, material experimentation, circulation, and spatial experience within one project.

What makes it especially important to me is that it grew from a very small balloon-and-yarn experiment into a complete architectural system. That scale of transformation made it one of the most ambitious projects I have developed.

I do not really have one single favorite designer, but Bernard Tschumi and Junya Ishigami are two designers I return to often.

Tschumi inspires me through his ideas about movement, event, and narrative, while Ishigami’s work feels incredibly light, delicate, and closely connected to nature. I admire how both of them challenge conventional ideas of what architecture can be.

My lifestyle is fairly simple. I enjoy traveling, photography, spending time in nature, walking with my dogs, drinking coffee, and making things by hand whenever I have the chance.

Growing up in China and later studying and working in the United States also gave me a mix of cultural influences. I think that combination made me curious about different ways people live, communicate, and experience space, and it naturally influences the way I approach design.

My work culture is collaborative, curious, and flexible. I like to keep the process open enough for different ideas to emerge, while still being clear about the main concept and priorities of the project.

My business philosophy is similar: understand the real problem first, communicate honestly, and create work that brings long-term value rather than simply producing something visually impressive.

I try to contribute through work that supports public life, education, culture, and community. Some of my professional projects have involved public spaces, parks, educational environments, healthcare, and community-focused design, which made me more aware of how architecture can affect people beyond the immediate client.

I have also participated in design juries, critiques, and educational activities. Sharing experience with students and younger designers is another way I hope to contribute to the design community.

One of the most positive experiences was seeing my work recognized alongside designers from many different countries and disciplines. It gave me a broader perspective on how differently people approach design and creativity.

The award also created opportunities to reflect on my own work, connect with the international design community, and see the project communicated to a much wider audience.

The project began with a simple balloon-and-yarn experiment exploring expansion, tension, and deflation. As the balloon changed shape, the yarn created unexpected curves and connections to the ground.

That physical behavior became the starting point for the architecture, allowing deformation, void, and movement to guide the spatial organization.

The main focus was translating a temporary physical experiment into an architectural experience without losing its original energy.

The goal was not simply to create an unusual form, but to connect form-finding with circulation, structure, material, landscape, and the way visitors experience the building.

The project continues to be an important reference for my future work. Its approach to physical experimentation and material-driven form-finding is something I would like to develop further through installations, smaller built studies, and future architectural projects.

The project developed over several months. The early balloon experiments happened relatively quickly, but translating those studies into architecture required a much longer process of testing circulation, structure, materials, program, and landscape relationships.

The project was developed as an independent design exploration rather than a direct commission. It began from curiosity about how a very simple physical experiment could generate architectural space.

Instead of beginning with a predetermined building form, the project allowed the design process itself to become the source of the architecture.

The project is currently an independent design concept and has not been licensed for production.

If an opportunity arose to develop it further, collaboration with architects, engineers, fabricators, and cultural institutions would be an important part of translating the concept into a built project.

I was interested in exploring architecture through physical behavior rather than beginning entirely in digital modeling software.

The balloon-and-yarn experiment introduced unpredictability into the process, which made it possible to discover spatial relationships that would have been difficult to intentionally draw from the beginning.

The project was influenced more by broader architectural ideas than by one specific building. I am particularly interested in Bernard Tschumi’s thinking about movement and event, and Junya Ishigami’s exploration of lightness, nature, and unconventional spatial conditions.

Those influences encouraged a more open understanding of how architecture can be generated and experienced.

The project is designed primarily for artists, designers, visitors, and the broader public engaging with Art Omi.

Because the program combines exhibition, making, learning, and landscape, the space is intended to support both focused creative work and informal public interaction.

The most distinctive aspect is that the architectural language comes from a physical process rather than being imposed as a predetermined formal gesture.

The same ideas of tension, deformation, expansion, and deflation continue through the building’s geometry, entrance, circulation, structure, and relationship with the landscape.

“Deconstructive Utopia” reflects the tension between an idealized architectural environment and a form generated through instability and deformation.

The project begins with something imperfect and changing—a deflating balloon—and transforms that process into an imagined cultural landscape.

The process combined physical and digital tools. Balloon-and-yarn models were used for the initial form-finding, followed by photography, drawing, diagrams, 3D modeling, rendering, and digital fabrication studies.

Physical experimentation remained important throughout the process rather than being replaced by digital modeling.

The most unique aspect is probably the transformation of the balloon experiment into the architectural void and circulation system.

Rather than treating the balloon as an object to reproduce, the project focuses on the spaces, tensions, and paths created as that object changes.

The core concept and design development were developed independently, while architectural research naturally considered the expertise that would be required for structural systems, concrete fabrication, CNC formwork, and landscape integration.

The project also reinforced how important interdisciplinary collaboration would be in bringing an experimental geometry like this into physical construction.

Technology acts as a bridge between physical experimentation and architectural precision.

The form begins with a very analog balloon-and-yarn study, while digital modeling and CNC fabrication provide a way to analyze, refine, and potentially construct those irregular geometries without removing their original character.

The research was primarily experimental and spatial rather than purely numerical. It involved observing how tension, gravity, inflation, and deflation changed the relationship between the balloon, yarn, and ground.

The project also considered site conditions, circulation, program, views, material behavior, and fabrication requirements as the concept developed.

One of the main challenges was translating an irregular physical experiment into geometry that could realistically become architecture.

Structure, thickness, fabrication, circulation, and material constraints required the form to become more precise. The challenge was simplifying where necessary without losing the movement and unpredictability of the original study.

The project felt suitable for an international competition because it brought together experimental research, architecture, landscape, material, and fabrication within one concept.

Submitting it was also a way to see how the work would communicate beyond its original design context and to place it within a broader international conversation.

The project taught me that experimentation and technical development do not have to work against each other.

A strong concept can evolve significantly as structure, materials, circulation, and fabrication are introduced, while still preserving its original logic. It also strengthened my interest in using physical making as a genuine design tool.

Perhaps the most important point is that the project began with something extremely simple. A balloon, some yarn, and curiosity were enough to generate an entire architectural investigation.

That is something I continue to value in design: sophisticated ideas do not always need to begin with sophisticated tools. Sometimes the most interesting possibilities come from observing an ordinary material in a different way.

My background is in architecture and interdisciplinary design. I received my Bachelor of Architecture from Wuhan University and later completed a Master of Science in Advanced Architectural Design at Cornell University, where my studies focused on architecture, representation, and experimental design methodologies.

Professionally, I have worked across architecture, interiors, public space, and cultural projects at firms including Gensler, BIG, and RIOS. Alongside that experience, DD Studio has become a platform for exploring more experimental work across architecture, installation, material studies, and spatial storytelling.

Design has always been a way for me to understand and reshape how people experience the world around them. I became a designer because I was drawn to the idea that space, material, light, and even small details can influence how people feel, move, and connect with a place.

What continues to motivate me is the process of turning an abstract idea into something people can actually experience. That transformation—from curiosity and experimentation into a physical environment—is still the most exciting part of design for me.

I actually started out studying literature, so becoming a designer was very much a choice. Growing up, I was always making things by hand and was fascinated by home renovation and design programs, so I gradually realized that I was much more drawn to creating physical spaces and objects.

That interest eventually led me to change my major to architecture. Looking back, literature still influences the way I design—I tend to think about space through narrative, sequence, and experience, almost like telling a story through architecture.

My work moves across architecture, interiors, installations, public space, and experience-driven design. I’m especially interested in projects where space, material, graphics, and storytelling can come together rather than being treated as separate disciplines.

Going forward, I’d like to design more cultural, exhibition, hospitality, and public-facing environments—projects that allow more experimentation and create a strong emotional or memorable experience for people.

I wouldn’t call myself a design legend, but I do think young designers should stay curious, keep experimenting, and develop their own way of seeing rather than trying to follow a fixed formula.

It is also important to keep making things, even outside professional work. Personal projects, competitions, models, writing, and research can all help build a stronger design voice over time.

A good designer can solve problems well. A great designer goes further—they understand which problems are worth solving and can turn constraints into something meaningful, memorable, and emotionally resonant.

Great designers also develop a clear point of view. Their work may change across scale or medium, but there is still a recognizable way of thinking behind it.

A really good design works on several levels at once. It should solve the practical problem clearly, but it should also create a strong experience and feel appropriate to its context, material, and users.

I usually evaluate design by asking whether every major decision feels necessary. When function, concept, material, and experience all support the same idea, the design feels coherent rather than simply visually interesting.

Good design improves everyday life, often in ways people may not immediately notice. It can make spaces easier to use, more comfortable, more sustainable, and more meaningful.

Investing in good design also creates long-term value. A thoughtful design can last longer, adapt better, strengthen identity, and create experiences that people remember and connect with.

If I had unlimited time, I would love to design more places that bring people closer to nature—small retreats, cultural spaces, installations, or public spaces where architecture becomes part of the landscape.

I would design for everyday people rather than a specific type of client. The most meaningful spaces to me are those that give people a moment to slow down, explore, connect, or simply experience their surroundings differently.

If I had the time, I would love to design something that brings me back to the 1990s. There is something about that period—the colors, objects, graphics, music, interiors, and slightly imperfect analog feeling—that I find deeply nostalgic.

I would love to reinterpret that atmosphere through a contemporary space, perhaps a small hotel, cultural space, or installation. Not as a direct recreation of the past, but as a way of bringing back the emotion and optimism of that era.

Curiosity is probably the closest thing I have to a secret ingredient. I like to question familiar solutions, test ideas physically, and stay open to unexpected results.

The other part is persistence. Good ideas usually become stronger through many rounds of making, testing, failing, and refining.

I’m especially inspired by Bernard Tschumi and Junya Ishigami. Tschumi’s work interests me because of the way he connects architecture with movement, event, and narrative, while Ishigami’s work feels incredibly light, delicate, and almost surreal.

What I admire in both is that they challenge conventional ideas of what architecture should be. Their work gives me confidence to think more freely about space, experience, and the relationship between architecture and its surroundings.

I don’t really have one favorite building or design. I tend to respond more to individual ideas, details, or spatial moments that I think are done exceptionally well.

Sometimes it is the way a project handles light, circulation, material, or landscape; other times it is simply one very clear design decision. I’m more interested in learning from what works in a project than choosing a single design as a favorite.

Art Omi is probably the project that best represents my design thinking. What makes it meaningful to me is the way a very simple physical experiment with balloons and yarn developed into a complete architectural system.

The strength of the project comes from that continuity. The ideas of deformation, tension, void, movement, and landscape are not just formal gestures; they influence the structure, circulation, material choices, and spatial experience throughout the project.

I think becoming a better designer requires staying curious and constantly exposing yourself to different ideas, places, people, and disciplines. Design improves when your references become broader and when you learn to observe more carefully.

For myself, I kept making things beyond school or office work—competitions, personal projects, physical models, travel, photography, and research. Those experiences helped me develop my own way of seeing and gave me more confidence to experiment rather than simply follow familiar solutions.

If I hadn’t become a designer, I probably would have gone into advertising or marketing. I’ve always been interested in how ideas, images, and stories can shape the way people see a product or brand.

In some ways, that interest is still part of how I design today. I enjoy not only creating something, but also thinking about how it is communicated, positioned, and experienced by people.

For me, design is the process of turning ideas into experiences. It is not only about how something looks, but how it works, feels, communicates, and connects with people.

Good design brings function, emotion, material, and meaning together in a way that feels clear and intentional.

I’m not sure I would describe myself as a great designer. I still feel that I’m learning, questioning, and developing my own point of view.

What has helped me grow is staying curious, continuing to make things, and being open to different experiences. School, professional practice, competitions, travel, photography, and physical experimentation have all shaped the way I think about design.

One of the biggest challenges has been learning how to turn strong concepts into something that can actually be built. An idea can be very exciting in sketches or models, but architecture also has to respond to structure, budget, materials, codes, and construction realities.

That process taught me that bringing a design into reality is not separate from creativity—it is part of it. Learning how to protect the core idea while adapting to real constraints has been one of the most important parts of my growth as a designer.

Designers should present their work as a clear story, not just a collection of beautiful images. The audience should be able to understand the idea, the process, and why certain decisions were made.

A strong presentation should also match the project itself. Sometimes one diagram explains more than ten renderings, so clarity and editing are just as important as visual impact.

I haven’t decided on the next major project yet, but I’d like to keep making more small, experimental things—objects, installations, spatial studies, or anything that allows me to test ideas quickly and freely.

In the future, people can probably expect more work that is playful, curious, and a little unexpected. I’m interested in continuing to explore design without limiting it to one scale or category.

My ultimate goal is actually quite simple: to be able to live well, stay curious, and keep making things I find interesting.

If design can give me enough freedom to eat well, travel, enjoy life, and still have the energy to create, that already feels like a pretty good definition of success.

I’m not sure people should expect anything too specific from me. I’d rather keep surprising myself than repeat the same type of work.

Hopefully, people can expect curiosity, experimentation, and projects that feel thoughtful but also a little unexpected.

Design helps create a better society by making everyday life more accessible, comfortable, efficient, and meaningful. Even small design decisions can influence how people move, communicate, gather, and feel in a space.

At its best, design can also make people feel more connected—to each other, to their environment, and to the communities they are part of.

Recently, I’ve been working on several workplace renovation projects with a strong branding component. I’m especially interested in how spatial design can express a company’s identity through materials, graphics, lighting, and the overall experience of the space.

What excites me is the opportunity to connect architecture and branding more directly, so the workplace feels not only functional but also specific to the culture and personality of the organization.

Art Omi has probably given me the most satisfaction because it brought together many things I care about—physical experimentation, form-finding, material, circulation, landscape, and spatial experience.

What was especially satisfying was seeing a very simple balloon-and-yarn study grow into a much larger architectural idea. That transformation from a small experiment into a complete project made the process feel especially meaningful.

I think AI will be one of the biggest changes in the design industry over the coming years. I would like to see designers use it not simply to generate images faster, but as a tool for research, testing, communication, and expanding the design process.

At the same time, I hope the industry continues to value human judgment, material understanding, and lived experience. AI can accelerate design, but deciding what is meaningful, appropriate, and worth making still requires a human point of view.

I think the design field is becoming more interdisciplinary, more technology-driven, and less defined by traditional boundaries between architecture, graphics, products, and digital experiences.

AI will accelerate that shift, but I also think there will be a stronger demand for work that feels human, specific, and emotionally meaningful. The future of design will probably be about combining new tools with stronger judgment, storytelling, and real-world experience.

It really depends on the scale and complexity of the project. Some small studies can develop in a few days, while architectural projects may evolve over months or even years.

For me, a design feels finalized when the main idea is clear and the major decisions all support it. There is always more that could be refined, so knowing when to stop is also part of the design process.

Site and Culture

“Feel it, design it.”

For me, design starts with feeling—how a place, object, or experience affects people. The design process is about translating that feeling into something physical, clear, and meaningful.

I think it works both ways. Designers respond to cultural, social, and technological changes, but strong design can also influence how people live, communicate, and what they begin to value.

The most interesting work usually does not simply follow a trend. It understands the moment, then pushes it somewhere new.

RHINO Enscape and now AI

Color, material, and atmosphere are what give a space its emotional character. They can make the same geometry feel calm, energetic, warm, dramatic, or intimate.

They also shape how people physically experience a space through light, texture, sound, and touch. For me, these elements are not decoration added at the end; they are part of the design from the beginning.

I hope people ask why the design takes the form it does, rather than only how it looks. I’m most interested in the ideas, process, and experiences behind the final result.

If a project makes someone curious enough to ask how it was developed or what they are meant to feel while moving through it, then I think the design has already started a meaningful conversation.

My first reaction is usually curiosity. I try to understand what makes it work—whether it is the idea, proportion, material, detail, or simply the way it makes me feel.

A really strong design often makes me think, “That seems so simple—why didn’t I think of that?” Those are usually the projects that stay in my mind.

I don’t have one specific ideal design partner, but I usually enjoy working in a very small team, especially as a group of two. It creates enough dialogue and exchange while still allowing decisions to stay clear and focused.

I definitely believe in co-design. A strong partner can challenge your assumptions, bring a different perspective, and help an idea develop in ways that might not happen when working alone.

Probably everyone I have worked with has influenced the way I design in some way. Different collaborators, mentors, clients, and teammates have all introduced different ways of thinking, communicating, and solving problems.

Design is rarely developed in isolation, so I see those interactions as part of my education. Even small conversations or disagreements can change how I approach a project later.

Some of the books that influenced me most are actually psychology books rather than design books. They made me think more carefully about perception, emotion, behavior, and how people respond to their surroundings.

That perspective has affected the way I approach design. I often think about not only what a space looks like, but how it might make someone feel, move, react, or remember the experience.

I developed my skills gradually through education, professional practice, competitions, personal projects, and a lot of trial and error. Each experience taught me something different—from concept development and storytelling to materials, coordination, and how to bring an idea into reality.

I also try to keep learning outside of architecture through travel, photography, psychology, art, and everyday observation. Those influences help me avoid thinking about design from only one perspective.

I would probably choose Bernard Tschumi. I would love to talk with him about the relationship between architecture, movement, event, and narrative, and how those ideas have changed throughout his career.

More than asking about a specific project, I would be interested in understanding how he thinks—how an abstract idea becomes a spatial experience, and how he keeps challenging conventional definitions of architecture.

I’m very grateful for the recognition, but I try not to think about it too much. Awards are encouraging because they show that the work connected with other people, but they are not the reason I design.

As for being famous, I definitely don’t consider myself famous. I would rather stay focused on making interesting work and keep learning than worry too much about recognition.

Yellow/ Home/ Coffee/ Summer/ Disney

A funny thing is that after spending so much time designing on a computer, I often find myself wanting to leave the screen and become a carpenter instead.

There is something very satisfying about working directly with wood, tools, and your hands. Sometimes I joke that if architecture becomes too complicated, I might just go make furniture.

A great day is when an idea suddenly becomes clear—when a sketch, model, material, or conversation helps the project move forward.

I usually motivate myself by staying curious and giving myself something small to explore. Once I start making or testing something, the momentum usually comes naturally.

Not really, but looking back, there were definitely signs. As a child, I loved making tiny houses and furniture for my Barbie dolls, often using whatever materials I could find.

At the time it was just play, but now I realize I was already interested in space, objects, and making things by hand.

A thousand years is almost impossible to imagine, but I think the relationship between humans, technology, and nature will be completely different. We may live in environments that are far more adaptive, intelligent, and less dependent on the way buildings are constructed today.

What I hope does not change is the human need for beauty, comfort, memory, and connection. No matter how advanced technology becomes, people will probably still want places that make them feel something.

I’m still learning, experimenting, and figuring out what kind of designer I want to become. My work is usually driven by curiosity, emotion, and a desire to make something a little unexpected.

Outside of design, I’m actually quite simple—I like traveling with my dog, making things by hand, drinking coffee, and enjoying everyday life. Hopefully that sense of curiosity and playfulness continues to show up in the work.

My background is in architecture and interdisciplinary design. I studied architecture at Wuhan University and later completed a Master of Science in Advanced Architectural Design at Cornell University.

I did not always plan to become a designer. I actually started out studying literature, but as a child I loved making things by hand, building tiny houses and furniture for my Barbie dolls, and watching renovation programs. Eventually, I realized I was much more interested in creating physical spaces and objects, so I changed my direction to architecture.

DD Studio is an independent platform for exploring ideas across architecture, interiors, installations, objects, graphics, and spatial storytelling. It gives me the freedom to experiment with projects that may not fit neatly into one traditional design category.

The studio is especially interested in research, physical experimentation, narrative, and the relationship between people and space.

For me, design is the process of turning ideas into experiences. It is not only about how something looks, but how it works, feels, communicates, and connects with people.

I especially enjoy projects that combine architecture, interiors, installation, graphics, and storytelling. Cultural spaces, exhibitions, hospitality, public spaces, and other experience-driven environments are particularly interesting to me.

Art Omi is probably the project that best represents my design thinking. It began with a very simple physical experiment using balloons and yarn and gradually developed into an architectural system based on deformation, tension, void, circulation, and landscape.

What makes it meaningful to me is the continuity between that small experiment and the final spatial experience.

A music hall in China

I have always liked wood because it feels warm, tactile, and natural, and it can work at many different scales.

In terms of technology, I enjoy tools that allow ideas to move quickly between physical and digital experimentation. I am less attached to one particular software than to finding the right tool for each idea.

I focus strongly on experience: how someone approaches a project, enters it, moves through it, and remembers it afterward.

Circulation, material, atmosphere, proportion, and the relationship to the surrounding context are usually very important in my process.

It changes constantly. There can be excitement, curiosity, frustration, doubt, and then suddenly a moment when everything starts to make sense.

That emotional fluctuation is actually one of the things that makes design interesting.

Mostly satisfaction and curiosity. Seeing something move from an idea or drawing into physical reality is always strange because suddenly it no longer belongs only to the designer—it becomes something other people can experience and interpret.

A successful design solves its practical needs while also creating something meaningful and memorable.

When concept, function, material, context, and experience all support the same idea, the project usually feels much stronger.

I usually ask whether the main idea is clear and whether the major decisions feel necessary.

A project does not need to be visually dramatic to be good. Sometimes one very precise decision about light, material, circulation, or proportion can make a project exceptional.

Designers shape environments that influence how people live, work, gather, and interact, so there is a responsibility to think beyond appearance.

Accessibility, sustainability, material use, longevity, cultural context, and human well-being should all be part of the conversation.

Design is becoming increasingly interdisciplinary and technology-driven. The boundaries between architecture, graphics, products, digital experiences, branding, and media are becoming much less rigid.

AI will accelerate that shift, but I also think human judgment, emotion, material understanding, and lived experience will become even more valuable.

My work has recently been presented through exhibitions in London and New York, which gave me the opportunity to see the projects outside their original digital or architectural context.

There is no fixed date for the next exhibition yet. I would like the next one to include more physical work—models, objects, installations, or experiments that people can experience directly.

Inspiration comes from many places: travel, landscapes, psychology, art, photography, materials, films, everyday objects, and observing how people behave.

I try not to rely only on architecture for architectural inspiration. Looking outside the discipline usually produces more unexpected ideas.

I do not try to maintain one fixed visual style. My work often includes organic geometry, strong spatial sequences, interaction with landscape, and an interest in sensory experience, but those qualities emerge differently in each project.

The approach is more consistent than the appearance: start with an idea, experiment with it, and allow the form to grow from that process.

I currently live in Los Angeles and grew up in China, so my design education and professional experience have developed across different cultural contexts.

Moving between cultures has made me more aware that people can understand space, beauty, privacy, nature, and public life very differently. That can sometimes make design more complicated, but it also gives me a broader set of references and ways of thinking.

I prefer to begin by understanding what a company is actually trying to achieve rather than immediately proposing a visual solution.

The strongest collaborations happen when strategy, identity, user experience, and design development happen together rather than being treated as separate steps.

Look beyond visual style. A good designer should be able to listen, understand the real problem, explain decisions clearly, and adapt without losing the core idea.

The relationship is also important. Good design usually comes from trust and open communication rather than simply hiring someone whose portfolio looks impressive.

I normally begin by understanding the site, users, context, constraints, and the experience the project should create.

Then I explore several directions through sketches, diagrams, references, models, and digital studies. The process gradually moves from open experimentation toward editing, testing, and making the strongest idea more precise.

Plywood, Plants, My dog, Paintings, Myself

There probably is not a very glamorous designer routine. It usually involves coffee, a lot of time on the computer, meetings, drawing or modeling, looking at references and materials, and switching between several different ideas.

Outside work, I like walking, traveling, spending time with my dogs, taking photographs, or making things with my hands.

Stay curious and keep making things, even when nobody is asking you to.

Personal projects, competitions, models, photography, writing, travel, and research can all help you discover what you actually care about. Developing your own way of seeing is more valuable than trying to look like everyone else.

The positive side is that design allows you to constantly learn, imagine, and create something that did not exist before.

The difficult side is that the process can be subjective, time-consuming, and full of uncertainty. You often become emotionally attached to ideas that eventually have to change or disappear.

“Feel it, design it.”

Design should begin with understanding what people should experience or feel, rather than simply deciding what something should look like.

Curiosity, observation, communication, judgment, and the ability to edit are extremely important.

Technical skills can always evolve, but knowing how to recognize a strong idea—and how to explain and develop it—is much harder to replace.

My toolbox includes sketching, physical models, photography, Rhino, Revit, Adobe software, rendering tools, and increasingly AI-based tools for research and experimentation.

But I also consider travel, books, psychology, conversations, material samples, and everyday observation part of the toolbox. Design tools do not have to be software.

I try to identify which decisions actually matter most and spend the most energy there.

Design can expand forever if you allow it to, so setting priorities and knowing when something is resolved enough to move forward is very important.

It depends completely on the scale and complexity. A small study might develop in a few days, while an architectural project can continue evolving for months or years.

For me, something feels finished when the core idea is clear and the major decisions consistently support it.

Probably some version of, “Where did this idea come from?”

I actually enjoy that question because the answer is usually much more complicated than the final image suggests.

Working across several international design practices has probably been the most important professional education for me. Different offices taught me very different ways of approaching concept, collaboration, technical development, and communication.

RIOS in particular allowed me to work across architecture, interiors, public space, workplace, cultural projects, and multidisciplinary design, which expanded the way I understand practice.

Through my professional work, I have contributed to projects for a wide range of public, cultural, educational, entertainment, and corporate organizations, including LA County, California State University Long Beach, CAA, and Amazon MGM Studios.

The variety has been valuable because each type of client requires a different balance of identity, function, experience, and technical coordination.

I enjoy work where several disciplines overlap—architecture with interiors, graphics, branding, installation, landscape, or storytelling.

Those projects leave more room for experimentation and allow the experience to be designed as a whole rather than as separate pieces.

There is no single major project defined yet. I would like to keep making smaller experimental things—objects, installations, spatial studies, and other projects that allow ideas to be tested quickly and freely.

The future will probably involve moving more fluidly between different scales and disciplines.

Both, depending on the project. I enjoy independent exploration at the beginning, but I strongly believe in collaboration.

My favorite working structure is often a very small team—especially two people—because there is enough dialogue to challenge ideas while still keeping the process focused.

Recently, I have been involved in workplace renovation projects with a strong connection to branding and identity.

That intersection is particularly interesting because materials, graphics, lighting, furniture, and spatial experience can all communicate something about the culture of an organization.

The easiest way is through my professional website, portfolio, or social media channels associated with DD Studio.

I am always interested in conversations around design, collaboration, research, and unusual creative projects.

Perhaps only that I am still learning. I do not really think of design as reaching a point where you become finished or completely certain of your own approach.

The most interesting part is continuing to change—trying unfamiliar things, staying curious, and hopefully making work that can still surprise both other people and myself.

The key moment came when I stopped looking at the balloon studies as objects and started looking at what their deformation was doing to the space around them.As the balloon deflated, the surface became unstable and unpredictable, but the void it produced felt much more spatially powerful. I realized that instead of designing a solid object and asking people to move around it, I could invert that relationship and make the absence itself the center of the project.That became the organizing idea for the gallery. The spherical void works as an entrance, but also as a moment of compression, curiosity, and transition. You don’t fully understand the space from outside—you have to move through this carved opening and discover the gallery beyond it.That shift from thinking about “form” to thinking about “void” was really the conceptual turning point of the project.

The key was to avoid over-rationalizing the form once it moved into the digital and fabrication process. What interested me in the balloon-and-yarn studies was that the geometry came from tension, pressure, and deformation rather than from a predetermined shape. So instead of cleaning those irregularities up, I tried to preserve the asymmetry, changing curvature, and traces of movement in the digital model.The CNC-milled formwork then became a way to freeze that temporary moment into something permanent. I actually liked the contradiction between the light, unstable balloon experiment and the heaviness of poured concrete. The final shell does not move, but its geometry still carries the tension and instability of the process that created it, which is how I tried to preserve that kinetic quality.

The contrast between the grounded concrete shell and the suspended studios was very intentional. The concrete shell acts as the permanent, anchored element, while the studios use lightweight steel frames with wood cladding so they feel visually lighter and almost as if they are floating above the landscape. Structurally, the systems respond to different needs, but perceptually I wanted them to create a clear dialogue between mass and lightness.As visitors move through the site, that contrast becomes physical. Around the concrete shell, you feel thickness, enclosure, and weight. As you approach or move beneath the studios, the experience becomes more open, and the landscape continues visually underneath them. So the structural difference also creates two very different bodily experiences—one grounded and compressed, and the other elevated and weightless.

The recognition shows that meaningful architectural innovation does not always have to begin with computational tools. In this project, the form emerged from very simple physical forces—the elasticity of the balloon, the tension of the yarn, and the deformation that happened during deflation. That process allowed the material behavior itself to become a design tool, rather than using digital modeling to predetermine the final geometry.For me, that is the larger value of the project. Physical experimentation can produce forms that are intuitive, unpredictable, and closely connected to material behavior, while digital fabrication can then help translate those discoveries into buildable architecture. I think the award validates that relationship between hands-on experimentation and contemporary fabrication as a legitimate way to generate new architectural ideas.

One important moment came when we were translating the irregular yarn geometry into a buildable concrete shell. The physical model produced continuous, unpredictable curvature, but the CNC formwork required much more precise control over thickness, panelization, and constructability. Instead of seeing those constraints as limitations, I used them to identify which curves were most essential to the spatial experience and which could be simplified.That process actually made the concept stronger. The technical discipline helped clarify the hierarchy of the project—the concrete shell became more focused, the timber interiors provided warmth against its mass, and the east-west circulation path became a clearer spatial gesture connecting those elements. So the constraints did not reduce the original idea; they helped translate an experimental form into a more legible architectural experience.

The east-to-west path was developed as a gradual movement from enclosure to openness. Visitors enter through the spherical void, pass through the workshop spaces, and eventually arrive at the lake, with the landscape becoming increasingly present along the way.That sequence echoes the original ideas of expansion and deflation. The architecture begins with a concentrated, compressed condition and gradually releases into the landscape, turning the form-finding concept into a spatial experience that can be physically felt.

I prefer that moment to feel like entering a warm interior carved out of something much heavier. The concrete is cold, rough, and monolithic, while the timber is warm, tactile, and more intimate.That contrast was very deliberate. The change in texture, sound, and atmosphere helps visitors feel a clear shift from the raw exterior into a calmer, more protected space.

The Hudson Valley landscape encouraged the building to feel embedded in its surroundings rather than separate from them. The terrain, long views, and relationship to the lake shaped the circulation, building height, and the way the studios sit lightly above the ground.Art Omi’s residency program also required spaces that could support both focused individual work and informal exchange. The result is an architecture that grows from the landscape and the culture of making, rather than feeling like an object placed onto the site.

This process shifted the role of the designer from simply shaping form to observing, interpreting, and editing what emerges from material behavior. The balloon and string experiments introduced a degree of unpredictability, and that unpredictability became part of the design intelligence rather than something to eliminate.That idea continues in DD Studio’s later work through a stronger interest in experimentation, testing, and discovery. Design becomes less about imposing a fixed answer and more about creating the conditions for unexpected spatial possibilities to emerge.

The most important lesson is to protect the core idea, not every detail of the original experiment. As a project grows, structure, fabrication, circulation, and site conditions will inevitably transform the form.The goal is to understand what made the initial experiment meaningful and preserve that logic through each decision. In Art Omi, the geometry evolved significantly, but the ideas of tension, deformation, and transformation remained present throughout the final architecture.