Interview with Zhijiang Shan

In a sense, I chose design, but design also chose me. From a young age, I was fascinated by light, texture, and proportion—constantly rearranging furniture, sketching spaces, building things from wood or clay. My father was a craftsman, and our home was always in a state of gentle construction. I later pursued formal training in fine arts and environmental design, but the essence was already planted in my childhood: the desire to shape space into something meaningful and poetic.

I prioritize three things in every project: narrative rhythm, material tactility, and emotional resonance. My approach blends hand-drawing with digital modeling, and I often begin with sketchbooks before shifting to software. I believe a space should not just solve a problem but also provoke a feeling. In terms of style, I lean toward restrained elegance—designs that are quiet yet layered, timeless yet site-specific.

Designing brings a mix of stillness and anticipation. At the beginning of a project, I often feel a quiet curiosity—like stepping into an unfamiliar garden. As the concept unfolds, that evolves into a kind of emotional momentum. My favorite moment is when a sketch or material combination suddenly “clicks”—when logic and emotion align. That spark is rare but deeply rewarding.

My early training in fine arts—especially painting and sculpture—shaped my sensitivity to form, texture, and light. But equally important were the non-design experiences: spending time in nature, observing markets, listening to local craftspeople. These taught me to design with empathy, not just technique. Also, my family’s cultural values emphasized restraint, respect for materials, and the importance of daily rituals—all of which shaped my spatial philosophy.

My growth path has been more like a spiral than a straight line—returning to the same questions at deeper levels. In the future, I hope to focus more on public and cultural architecture: libraries, learning centers, and retreat spaces that support reflection and community. One dream project is a cross-cultural design school in a rural setting—where architecture, storytelling, and nature form one continuous learning experience. That would be my way of giving back.

Don’t rush to build a portfolio—first build your way of seeing. Learn to observe before you design. Get out of the design world from time to time: study anthropology, read poetry, talk to people outside your field. The best designs come from a deep understanding of people, not just form. Also, embrace critique. Design is not about defending your work—it’s about learning from it.

Success in design is not accumulation—it’s subtraction. Strip away what’s unnecessary until only essence remains. Focus on clarity of purpose, not trend. Also, remember: every project is a conversation, not a monologue. Let the site, the users, the culture speak. Your role is to listen, interpret, and compose.

My days begin early with silence—no phone, no emails. I usually read something unrelated to design in the morning, then review sketches or material samples. Afternoons are for team meetings, site visits, or deep thinking with models and mock-ups. Evenings, I prefer solitude again—walking, journaling, or listening to traditional music. The best moments are not always grand; sometimes it’s a quiet line drawn well, or a team member sharing a poetic observation.

I observe trends as signals, not destinations. They can reflect collective moods or social shifts, but I don’t chase them. If a design becomes timeless, it’s rarely because it followed a trend—it’s because it touched something enduring. I do read journals, attend biennales, and engage in cross-disciplinary conversations, but more to sharpen perspective than to follow fashion. My compass is always emotional clarity and contextual relevance.

Good design feels inevitable yet invisible. It doesn’t shout—it whispers in clarity. When a space or object makes people pause, breathe slower, or feel seen, that’s good design. It must serve both function and emotion. I often ask: does this design make someone feel more human, more grounded? If the answer is yes, it has done its job. Aesthetics are important, but empathy is essential.

A design is never fully “done.” But there comes a moment when the project stops asking new questions—that’s when I know it’s time to let go. I believe in the discipline of finishing, but also the humility to know that every design is part of a longer conversation. Often, it’s a quiet internal feeling—like hearing the last note of a piece of music and knowing it’s complete, even if imperfect.

While I am honored that Zun Fu received international recognition, the project I am most engaged with now—and perhaps most proud of—is a new high-end restaurant space currently under construction. This project represents a deeper maturity in both my aesthetic language and operational understanding. It’s not just about cultural symbolism; it’s about spatial efficiency, mood control, and experience choreography tailored for discerning clientele. In fact, restaurants and hospitality projects have become a specialty of mine. I enjoy the challenge of integrating storytelling, circulation, and brand identity into spaces where people connect, celebrate, and return. Designing for the hospitality industry has allowed me to merge commercial function with cultural meaning, which I believe is the true frontier of spatial design.

I admire many for different reasons. I am drawn to Carlo Scarpa for his precision and poetic detailing, to Isamu Noguchi for the sensuality of his minimalism, and to Geoffrey Bawa for how he wove nature and structure into one. But I’m also inspired by nameless craftsmen in Chinese villages—the ones who carve stone without ego, who understand rhythm without education. They remind me that good design is not always signed.

I live quietly, with intentional slowness. My studio is based in China, but my mind often drifts between Kyoto gardens, Sichuan courtyards, and Scandinavian silence. I believe culture is not a theme—it’s a rhythm. Music accompanies most of my sketching. Poetry shapes how I sequence spaces. And my daily rituals—like brewing tea before drawing—help me stay grounded. Design, for me, is not a job; it’s a way of living with more clarity and grace.

Our studio operates with a dual focus: we are design-driven but execution-conscious. We serve clients in sectors such as hospitality, high-end dining, cultural real estate, and luxury residences—industries where experience, brand, and ROI must align. Internally, we emphasize professionalism, agility, and long-term collaboration. I often say: creativity is only half the equation—the other half is delivery. We maintain a team that understands not just concept design, but detailing, budget control, and communication across stakeholders. A successful project, in my view, is one that earns both market respect and user resonance. We want to be close to culture, but not far from capital.

As a designer rooted in both tradition and contemporary practice, I believe in giving back by creating spaces that serve not only clients but also communities. While I don’t use the word “philanthropy” lightly, many of my projects—especially those in rural or semi-urban areas—aim to reconnect people with local culture and dignity. We’ve worked on public spaces that double as cultural education centers, created job opportunities by collaborating with local artisans, and participated in design mentorships for young creatives. I also remain open to pro bono work when a project carries long-term social or ecological value. For me, good design is not about grand gestures—it’s about small, sustained actions that improve life meaningfully.

Winning the A’ Design Award has been both an honor and a valuable opportunity to engage with the global design community. One of the most meaningful aspects was how the platform created a clear and thoughtful space for sharing personal narratives—not just polished portfolios. This interview, for example, allows me to articulate the values behind my work. The three key benefits I’ve experienced are:
1.Visibility – Being selected as “Designer of the Day” significantly expanded the reach of my work and led to inquiries from unexpected places.
2.Credibility – The award acts as a trust signal when approaching high-caliber clients or collaborators.
3.Legacy – The permanent archive of this interview and project creates a digital legacy that helps tell a cohesive, long-term story of who I am and what I stand for.

Design awards like A’ Design help bridge regional and global perspectives. For designers like me, rooted in East Asian traditions but working across contemporary narratives, such visibility and thought leadership are invaluable.

Design, to me, is not merely a profession—it is a way to explore the relationship between people, nature, and space. I became a designer because I hoped to create environments with warmth, emotional resonance, and a sense of cultural dialogue. I don’t design for beauty alone, but for meaning—beauty as an expression of empathy and experience.

In a way, design chose me. From childhood, I was fascinated by form and space—playing with clay, building model furniture with my father, rearranging rooms, sketching facades. It wasn’t a career I stumbled into, but a natural extension of how I saw and interacted with the world.

I currently work on commercial, hospitality, and cultural spaces—each with a focus on storytelling, materiality, and emotional rhythm. In the future, I hope to contribute more to public cultural infrastructure—museums, libraries, and learning spaces that invite reflection, community, and slowness.

Rather than aspiring to be a legend, young designers should begin by becoming keen observers. Ask better questions. Understand that design is not just about giving answers, but about framing the right problems. Go beyond design itself—read literature, listen to people, walk through cities, and engage with everyday life. Depth in design comes from depth in living.

A good designer responds to problems thoughtfully. A great designer redefines the questions altogether. Good designers create solutions, while great designers create shifts—in perception, in feeling, in cultural narrative. What separates them is not only talent, but also a sustained curiosity and moral clarity.

When every detail feels intentional—nothing excessive, nothing missing—and when the design evokes both clarity and surprise, it is truly good. Great design must function intuitively, resonate emotionally, and remain memorable long after the experience ends.

Good design enhances human dignity. It transforms everyday routines into meaningful rituals. By investing in good design, we invest in care, attention, and the long-term well-being of people and communities. It pays dividends in emotion, memory, and trust.

I would design a sanctuary for artists, educators, and caregivers—a place where silence, imagination, and healing coexist. In today’s overstimulated world, creating space for inner restoration feels more urgent than ever.

A cross-cultural rural design school, rooted in craftsmanship, storytelling, and food. It would be a space where people from different backgrounds come together to learn not only techniques, but values—a return to the essence of community and making.

Empathy and subtraction. I design with care—each decision must serve the user, the space, and the story, rather than my personal preferences. I also believe in restraint. Knowing when not to design is as important as knowing when to act. Great design often emerges not from adding more, but from removing the unnecessary.

I draw inspiration from a range of figures—Carlo Scarpa for his poetic attention to detail, Tadao Ando for his clarity and spirituality, and Kazuyo Sejima for her ethereal lightness. I’m equally moved by unnamed Chinese artisans whose anonymous creations have shaped generations of aesthetic values.

Peter Zumthor’s Therme Vals is a masterpiece that deeply resonates with me. It speaks in whispers—through material, silence, and spatial rhythm. I’m also deeply fascinated by the classical Chinese gardens in Suzhou. Their asymmetry, layered pathways, and intimate scale feel like spatial poetry.

One that I deeply cherish is “Zun Fu.” It allowed me to distill centuries of ritual-based aesthetics into a contemporary spatial narrative. What makes it meaningful is not its size or form, but its restraint and emotional depth—it respects the past without replicating it.

Cultivate your inner world. Observe slowly. Read beyond design—philosophy, poetry, anthropology. I keep sketchbooks, revisit old works, and question my assumptions. Good design is not about knowing more, but about sensing deeper.

Perhaps a teacher, or a bookstore owner by a quiet lake. I’ve always loved helping others interpret meaning, and creating spaces—physical or intellectual—where people feel safe and curious.

Design is intention made visible. It’s the shaping of experience through form, rhythm, and emotion. It’s not just about solving problems—it’s about asking the right questions and building meaning.

My family offered me freedom and trust. My mentors gave me tools and confidence. My collaborators taught me humility and patience. Without them, my vision would not have taken form.

A long commitment to listening—to users, to sites, to silence. I always seek clarity over cleverness. A design that speaks softly but lingers long—that’s what I aspire to.

Cultural stereotypes, budget restrictions, and the tendency to self-censor. I had to learn that true design requires courage—courage to simplify, to question trends, and to remain sensitive in a noisy world.

Designers should present their work with humility, clarity, and a sense of authorship. The work must stand on its own, but context matters—help the audience understand not only what was made, but why it was made. Design is not decoration, it is intention translated into form.

Designers should present their work with humility, clarity, and a sense of authorship. The work must stand on its own, but context matters—help the audience understand not only what was made, but why it was made. Design is not decoration, it is intention translated into form.

To create spaces that outlive trends—spaces that hold cultural memory, emotional warmth, and symbolic weight. I hope my work can remain relevant not because it's fashionable, but because it resonates with people over time.

People expect vision, refinement, and consistency—but also surprise. I believe a respected designer should remain grounded in core values while constantly exploring new forms of expression.

Design sets the stage for empathy. It shapes the environments where we learn, wait, converse, and heal. A well-designed space can restore dignity, build trust, and strengthen our collective memory.

A mobile, cross-provincial exhibition pavilion—a foldable, sensory, and locally-adaptable space. It challenges static ideas of architecture and allows me to explore how movement and locality inform spatial identity.

The most satisfying projects are those where clients trust the process and share the vision. When risk-taking is encouraged and narrative takes the lead, the outcome often exceeds both expectation and function.

I hope the industry moves beyond visual novelty and invests more in cultural, ecological, and social depth. Design should be about listening—not just impressing.

Toward hybridity—where the lines between architecture, product, interaction, and storytelling are dissolving. The future designer will be equal parts maker, researcher, and community thinker.

It varies—from two months to two years, depending on the project's complexity. Some research-based projects remain open-ended, evolving with time rather than concluding.

I begin with listening. Before any sketching or rendering, I first immerse myself in the client’s values, the site’s behavior, and the emotional and cultural memory embedded in its context. Only when I’ve observed enough—how people move through a space, how light shifts, how sound lingers—do I begin to design. Design does not begin with invention, it begins with observation and resonance.

Design less, mean more. To me, design is not a matter of accumulation, but of intention. A truly powerful space doesn't shout; it whispers something unforgettable. Let the space carry weight—not just walls and finishes, but emotion, meaning, and clarity.

The best designs transcend trend. They may resonate with their time, but they are not beholden to it. Trends are fleeting. Good design, when rooted in human truth and cultural relevance, remains relevant long after trends pass. It’s not about fashion—it’s about enduring resonance.

Technology is a translator and an enabler. It helps me bring abstract emotions into tangible form, optimize systems, and expand creative boundaries. From parametric design to immersive prototyping, it supports my vision—but never replaces intention. In my process, technology should be in service of humanity, not the other way around.

We work across platforms: Rhino and AutoCAD for modeling, Lumion for real-time rendering, Adobe Creative Suite for visual presentation. I also sketch by hand and use physical models to test spatial rhythm. In recent years, I’ve incorporated AI-powered tools for moodboards and early-stage ideation—always with a critical lens.

They are the emotional syntax of space. Color sets the tone—calm, warm, reflective. Material carries memory and tactility. Ambient elements like light, sound, and scent complete the sensory choreography. I see them not as decoration, but as narrative components in a spatial story.

I wish they’d ask: “Why does it feel the way it feels?” Not just how it’s built, or what it’s made of—but what emotional conditions it invites. That question opens the door to meaning, not just mechanics.

I often think: "This took courage." Great design always involves risk—whether it’s doing less, moving slower, or embracing ambiguity. It’s not easy to be subtle, or to invite silence. When I see that bravery, I feel seen.

Absolutely. My ideal partner is someone who is curious, honest, and willing to challenge assumptions while holding a shared set of values. I believe in co-authorship. When two minds approach a problem from different angles, but with mutual respect, the results are richer and more humane.

Quiet, honest people. My parents, who taught me restraint and care. The craftsmen I work with, who remind me of the dignity in making. Even strangers I observe—how they pause, smile, carry sorrow. These small, human moments shape how I think about space.

Books on aesthetics, anthropology, and philosophy have shaped my approach most profoundly. Tanizaki Jun’ichirō’s In Praise of Shadows taught me to embrace ambiguity and subtlety as aesthetic values. Gaston Bachelard’s The Poetics of Space deepened my understanding of the emotional dimension of space. These texts remind me that design is not just about form—it is about perception and poetic presence.

Through disciplined iteration, reflection, and deep listening. I constantly revisited my past works—not only visually, but contextually. What worked? What didn’t? What was missing? Over time, I learned that mastery is not about perfection, but about arriving at precision with empathy.

I would love to converse with Geoffrey Bawa about his integration of modernist design with local climate and culture, and with Jorge Luis Borges about how imagined worlds are constructed through language. Both understood that structure can be poetic, and silence can be powerful.

I’m honored, but I try to keep a respectful distance from fame. Recognition is affirming, but it can easily distort priorities. I remind myself that legacy is not built on applause—it is built on consistency, care, and the stories spaces continue to tell long after we are gone.

Color: ink-washed gray. Place: Kyoto in early winter. Food: handmade noodles in rural Sichuan. Season: late autumn. Thing: an old calligraphy brush gifted by my mentor. Brand: Muji—not for its aesthetic, but for its humble design ethos.

A client once asked if I could make a reception area smell like “the first rain of spring.” It was both poetic and perplexing. We ended up collaborating with a scent artist to craft that olfactory experience—and now, it’s an integral part of the project.

A meaningful conversation with a collaborator, or seeing a vague sketch evolve into a poetic form—that’s a good day. Motivation comes from clarity of purpose. I remind myself daily why I do what I do.

Looking back, yes. I was always rearranging furniture, building things out of clay or cardboard, sketching imaginary cities. I didn’t know it was called design—I only knew I loved shaping the world around me.

A thousand years from now, I believe design will return to the intimate scale. We may live slower, closer, and more communally. Instead of solving problems, design will help us ask better questions—about how we live, feel, and belong.

Design is not just what I do—it is how I live, observe, and feel the world. If one of my projects can make someone pause, reflect, or feel a sense of calm or belonging, that is the most meaningful reward I could ask for.

R&J Studio was founded on the belief that design should go beyond aesthetics to actively engage with place, function, culture, and nature. Our portfolio spans commercial interiors (hospitality and restaurent), exhibitions, cultural venues, retail, and residential. We view each project as an opportunity to explore form, ritual, and behavior. Our team consists of designers, researchers, and visual artists working collaboratively to create works that are both rigorous and poetic—grounded in cultural sensitivity and narrative clarity.

Design is the discipline of intention - it is the deliberate shaping of experience. It transforms context, emotion, and function into form and atmosphere. Design, for me, is not simply about visual impact but about invisible relationships - how people inhabit space, how light changes the mood, how texture invites touch. A successful design doesn’t need explanation; it just feels right.

I’m drawn to projects with layered challenges—spatial, cultural, or conceptual. Whether it's a storytelling sales center, a exhibition, restaurant or hospitality, I feel most energized when the work allows us to transcend typological boundaries. I appreciate briefs that encourage critical thinking and emotional nuance—where architecture, narrative, and materials can intersect in unexpected ways.

One of my favorite works is the "Zun Fu" Sales Center, which integrates Chinese ceremonial spatial logic into a modern narrative. It was a deeply layered project that challenged us to translate traditional rituals into contemporary forms without losing symbolic weight. I also cherish a small art residency project we designed in a rural town, where every spatial gesture—from the doorway to the reading nook—was treated as a quiet invitation to reflect, pause, and connect.

A reception area for a real estate firm. Though modest in size, it taught me that even transitional spaces can hold symbolic significance. It was there I began to understand the power of small-scale interventions—how lighting, proportion, and detail can influence perception and mood. That experience laid the foundation for my belief that every square meter deserves intention.

I gravitate toward honest and natural materials—stone, wood, metal, fabric, leather, terrazzo, and exposed concrete. These materials carry a certain humility and warmth that digital materials often lack. I also enjoy reinterpreting traditional crafts in contemporary ways, bridging the past with the present. Currently, I’m exploring parametric design and digital fabrication tools that allow for modular and adaptive structures, particularly in public and cultural space contexts.

When I step away from my desk—wandering through unfamiliar cities, reading literature unrelated to design, or cooking. Creativity often arrives when the mind is unburdened. I find that insights often emerge in moments of idleness or when immersed in a completely different rhythm. Being in nature or listening to music also helps me reset and reimagine.

I pay close attention to rhythm and transitions—how people move, pause, perceive, and engage. I think of spatial sequencing almost musically. I’m also deeply attuned to material textures, the quality of natural and artificial light, and the kind of emotional memory a space can evoke. Above all, I aim to design atmospheres, not just objects or surfaces.

Designing is a meditative process. It carries a calm urgency, much like composing music—sometimes playful, sometimes deeply introspective. It demands presence, patience, and empathy. There’s also a quiet thrill in problem-solving, in discovering poetic possibilities within practical constraints. Some days feel like sculpture, others like choreography.

A quiet and profound joy. The most rewarding moments come when I witness people engaging with the space in unexpected and delightful ways. There’s something deeply moving about seeing a child lie down beneath a skylight or someone instinctively pausing where you intended a visual breath. Realization, for me, is not about ego but about resonance.

It must resonate—functionally, emotionally, and contextually. A successful design aligns with its users, setting, and purpose while offering something intangible yet powerful. When a space feels inevitable, as if it couldn’t have been otherwise, you know it’s right. It also allows room for interpretation, for the user to bring their own narrative into the space.

Purpose and clarity. Does it solve a problem with elegance? Does it elevate the user’s experience, not just physically but emotionally? I also look for thoughtfulness—whether the design considers the lifecycle of materials, inclusivity, and environmental impact. Good design is generous; it thinks beyond itself.

Designers shape behaviors and values. We must take responsibility for cultural stewardship and sustainability. This includes sourcing responsibly, designing for longevity, and creating spaces that nurture rather than extract. Sometimes, choosing not to design—embracing restraint or subtraction—is the most powerful act of care.

Design is becoming more collaborative, data-informed, and socially engaged. It’s no longer about isolated authorship but collective intelligence. The future lies in interdisciplinary practice—where technology, culture, and ethics converge. Designers will increasingly act as facilitators, bridging different worlds and addressing complex systems, from urban resilience to emotional wellbeing.

Our last exhibition was held at the 2019 CIID Annual Works Exhibition in Shanghai, where we presented an experimental space installation. We are planning a cross-disciplinary showcase next year that will blend spatial design, installation art, and interactive storytelling. It will invite the audience to become co-authors in the experience.

From everyday rituals, urban textures, natural rhythms, literature, and human dialogue. I also collect photographs of light and materials as a source of inspiration. I believe inspiration is not something you chase, but something you train yourself to notice—to see the poetic in the mundane.

My style is poetic yet grounded, restrained but warm, technically driven but not rigid. I approach each project with curiosity and humility, using methods that vary—from research-led to material-oriented to experiential design. I prioritize atmosphere over appearance, and intention over trend.

I live in China and have worked across Asia and North America. Chinese culture informs my understanding of rhythm, symbolism, and the beauty of restraint—values that shape all of my work. My upbringing taught me that space is not only about function, but also about meaning, ritual, and memory.

We begin by deeply understanding their mission, values, and culture, then translate it into spatial and sensory experiences that are both functional and expressive. We also help companies articulate their design language through strategic workshops, brand spatial audits, and visual storytelling sessions. Collaboration is at the heart of everything we do.

Treat your designer as a creative partner, not just a service provider. Be transparent about your constraints, but also generous with your aspirations. The best outcomes are co-authored—when designers and clients think together, challenge each other respectfully, and remain open throughout the process. Trust and dialogue are essential.

Our process is iterative and non-linear. It often begins with immersive research—understanding site, users, and context—then moves to concept sketching, modeling, and spatial prototyping. We oscillate between hand-drawing and digital tools, and often involve collaborators from other fields such as installation, sculpture, and sound design. Each project becomes its own ecosystem.

A hand-woven bamboo pendant light that casts soft shadows; a reclaimed wood bookcase filled with design and poetry books; a ceramic tea set from Jingdezhen that I use every morning; a Bauhaus-era armchair passed down from a mentor; and a kinetic wall sculpture that shifts with the wind, reminding me of impermanence.

My day often begins slowly—with tea, journaling, and sketching by hand. Mornings are reserved for deep focus work, afternoons for meetings, site visits, or team critiques. Evenings are quieter, spent walking, reading fiction, or listening to music. I try to protect spaces of idleness in the day, as they often become fertile ground for new ideas.

Be patient with your journey. Master the tools, but don’t let them define you. Focus on how to think, not just how to render. Cultivate curiosity across disciplines—philosophy, ecology, anthropology—because design does not happen in a vacuum. And most importantly, stay honest with yourself.

The joy is immense—you get to shape how people feel, behave, and connect through space. But the boundaries between work and life can blur, especially when your work is deeply personal. There are also moments of doubt and tension. Still, for many of us, design isn’t just a job—it’s a way of living.

Design with care. It’s about more than just solving a problem—it’s about elevating the human experience with empathy, restraint, and integrity. When in doubt, I always ask: Does this move serve the people and the place honestly?

Beyond technical skills, a designer must be a good listener, a systems thinker, a storyteller, and a synthesizer. Design is about framing possibilities, making decisions, and communicating ideas in ways that others can feel and understand.

We use Rhino, AutoCAD, Adobe Creative Suite, and various rendering platforms. I still value hand-drawing in early phases. We also use AI visual tools for concept moodboards, and Notion for internal knowledge and process management. The tool is less important than what you do with it.

I use a theme-based structure: mornings for deep, uninterrupted work; afternoons for team and client collaboration; evenings for reflection or analog activities. I intentionally leave pockets of open time for reading, thinking, or responding to spontaneous ideas.

Anywhere from a few weeks to over two years, depending on the project's scale, complexity, and regulatory process. Some research-led or conceptual projects are never really finished—they evolve as long-term dialogues.

"Why do your spaces feel so peaceful and elegant?" My answer is often: Because we remove what doesn’t belong. We try not to over-design, and let light, proportion, and rhythm speak for themselves.

We’ve worked with real estate developers, boutique hotels, cultural institutions, independent retail brands, galleries, F&B entrepreneurs, and individual house owners in China and North America. Each client brings a different rhythm, which makes the work constantly fresh.

I enjoy projects that involve narrative and interaction—where the space becomes a protagonist in the story, and the user becomes a co-author. These types of projects invite imagination and engagement on multiple levels.

I enjoy projects that involve narrative and interaction—where the space becomes a protagonist in the story, and the user becomes a co-author. These types of projects invite imagination and engagement on multiple levels.

We are launching a research initiative on emotional wellness in public spaces and exploring AI-enhanced participatory design tools. I’m also mentoring emerging designers and planning an international design residency to foster slower, deeper conversations around practice.

I lead the concept and creative direction, but all of our projects are team efforts. I believe in collaborative intelligence—our team includes architects, strategists, visual thinkers, and craft specialists. We design together, debate together, and grow together.

We’re currently prototyping a restaurant in Beijing focused on modern oriental design; developing a modular museum exhibition exploring language and space; and designing a cross-cultural food concept that blends spatial storytelling with branding.

follow our social media instagram: rongjie_studio; Red Note: 空间设计师单志江
our website: https://www.rongjie.org/
email: contact@rongjie.org
phone: (86) 138 388 68961 (China) / (1) 332 262 0770 (USA)

Design is not just about making things—it’s about framing how we see, feel, and connect with the world. It is both mirror and compass. As designers, we have the responsibility—and privilege—to make that lens as generous, inclusive, and meaningful as possible.