Interviews with Zhenglong Yang

I was fascinated by the idea of proximity as a metaphor for attention. Time-of-Flight sensors offered me a way to capture physical distance as a stand-in for mental presence. The choice was deliberate: unlike other sensors that rely on dramatic movement or touch, ToF enables subtle detection—even slight shifts in stance become meaningful. During prototyping, I realized this technology could recreate the unspoken dialogue that happens in spiritual practice: approach with intention and you receive openness; withdraw hastily and you encounter closure. This felt profoundly aligned with mindfulness, where awareness of your own position and movement in space is essential. I wanted the viewer to discover that by simply pausing, they could unlock the installation's full bloom.

Through the blooming of a Hibiscus rosa-sinensis in response to the viewer’s presence, I wanted the piece to invite people to think about the beauty of things that don’t last forever. The flower blooms only when someone is there and closes when they leave, mirroring how moments in life are brief but meaningful if we truly pay attention. It’s a way to encourage people to embrace the present and to see value in what is happening right now rather than always looking ahead or rushing past. The interaction is simple, but it’s meant to make viewers slow down and reflect on the constant cycle of appearing and disappearing in our own lives. I hope it offers a quiet space to find clarity and meaning in that ongoing rhythm of change.

My choice of Hibiscus rosa-sinensis was deeply personal and intentional. Growing up in China, hibiscus flowers were a common sight, yet their symbolic weight often went unnoticed in daily life. I wanted to reclaim that familiarity and highlight its nuanced cultural meanings: beauty, fragility, and ephemerality. Unlike lotuses, which carry heavy religious iconography, the hibiscus felt more grounded, and more human. Its tendency to bloom brightly yet briefly resonated with the Buddhist idea of transience (無常). During my research, I also discovered the hibiscus is a global migrant—it thrives in many cultures, echoing my own experience moving between East and West. This universality made it the perfect vessel for a message about presence, vulnerability, and cross-cultural dialogue. The selection wasn't merely aesthetic; it was about crafting a shared language through a humble, yet profound botanical symbol.

Receiving the A’ Design Award was both validating and clarifying. It reinforced my belief that there is a global appetite for work that transcends technological spectacle to engage cultural nuance and emotional depth. The recognition encouraged me to lean even further into this space of dialogue—where interactive media isn't just about novelty but about forging connections across worldviews. It also taught me the importance of accessibility: audiences from diverse backgrounds responded to "Blossom" because it communicated through a universal yet culturally rooted metaphor. The award made clear that interactive art can be a bridge, not just a display, and it’s motivated me to be even more intentional about how technology can foster empathy between cultural traditions.

During testing and exhibitions, I noticed people were naturally curious and quickly figured out how to interact without needing instructions. They treated it playfully, exploring how to make the flower bloom. What surprised me most was how much children loved it. They were drawn in immediately and spent a long time experimenting. I hadn’t expected it to appeal so strongly to kids, and that showed me how intuitive and inviting the interaction really was.

Achieving that balance was arguably the hardest part of the project. Early prototypes were either too sensitive or too sluggish. Too reactive, and the flower felt like a toy; too slow, and it risked alienating viewers. I spent months calibrating the ToF sensor’s range thresholds and writing custom code to ensure that the flower’s opening mirrored natural botanical motion to be deliberate, gradual.

I wanted Blossom to feel personal like you’re discovering something quiet and alive just for you. The small size was very intentional; it made people come closer, almost leaning in as if they’re looking at a real flower in a garden. I found that bigger prototypes felt too distant or like furniture people could ignore. With this size, you can’t just stand back and watch casually. You have to choose to engage, to step into that small space. That choice creates a more focused, reflective experience.

I chose the CRT precisely because it is an anachronistic, almost obsolete technology that surprises viewers by being interactive at all. In my exhibitions, people often approach it with curiosity, expecting static nostalgia, and instead discover an unexpectedly responsive experience. This moment of surprise is important to me—it subverts the assumption that technological art must showcase cutting-edge tools, challenging the uncritical worship of the "new." I wanted to demonstrate that so-called outdated media can still evoke profound depth and poetic resonance. The CRT’s glow and physical bulk lend a sense of warmth and memory that contemporary flat screens simply cannot replicate. It becomes a conceptual anchor—an intersection where past and present, analog and digital, human memory and machine vision all meet. This choice wasn’t purely aesthetic; it was philosophical, reinforcing the work’s broader meditation on time, presence, and the layered nature of perception. Ultimately, the CRT helps me question how technology shapes not only what we see but how we understand impermanence and our own role as witnesses in an evolving digital world.

For me, Blossom is a way to show that technology in art doesn’t always have to look “futuristic” or cutting-edge. It can use traditional, even old, or forgotten media to say something meaningful. I chose things like the CRT screen on purpose because I think these older technologies carry memory, warmth, and history that newer, slicker tools often lack. I hope this work can encourage more artists to think about technology as just one language among many, not the whole message. In the future, I want to keep exploring how we can use any kind of medium. I think this approach can make interactive art feel more human, more reflective, and more personal.

The decision to use mechanical rotation came from observing how social norms, particularly in Eastern cultures, often demand that individuals carefully manage which emotions are visible. Like a rotating statue revealing one face at a time, people learn to present only socially acceptable expressions while concealing others. Mechanization became a perfect metaphor for this training—repetitive, precise, and impersonal. By synchronizing multiple heads, I wanted to evoke a kind of choreographed conformity, suggesting that such emotional regulation is not an individual act but a collective social system. The motors’ relentless, algorithmic movement also serves as a critique of how technology can amplify these pressures: social media algorithms favor certain emotions over others, encouraging performative positivity or outrage while marginalizing complexity. The installation uses this mechanical logic to expose the absurdity and tragedy of reducing human emotional life to predictable, programmable behaviors.

Balancing engineering precision with spiritual resonance was one of the project's greatest challenges. Technically, controlling 16 stepper motors required custom PCB design to manage power distribution while ensuring exact movement coordination. I collaborated with electrical engineers to develop boards that could handle complex timing signals without introducing jitter or lag that would disrupt the choreography. But I also wanted to avoid a purely sterile result; too-perfect synchronization risked making the installation feel lifeless. I deliberately programmed subtle variations in timing and acceleration to mimic the small human hesitations you might see in ritual movement.

I chose the 4x4 array as a deliberate metaphor for human society—each Buddha head representing an individual forced into proximity with others. The overall height was carefully set so viewers could look down upon the entire grid, observing the collective arrangement while still clearly seeing individual faces. This vantage point was meant to evoke both power and vulnerability: the ability to survey the whole while recognizing the uniqueness within. I also designed the spacing between the heads to be intentionally tight, creating a sense of density—even crowding—that mirrors urban life and social environments where emotional expression is constantly negotiated in public view. The closeness ensures you cannot avoid seeing others, suggesting that our identities and emotions are always shaped in relation to those around us. This physical compression was key to achieving an emotional impact that feels intimate, uncomfortable, and inescapably communal, forcing the viewer to reflect on the tension between personal feeling and collective conformity.

My background in Interior Design gave me a deep understanding of material properties and their emotional impact, which was crucial in shaping this installation. I learned how materials can evoke specific moods and how meticulous detailing can transform an abstract concept into a tangible, coherent experience. For this installation, I chose semi-transparent acrylic for the base precisely because it reveals the hidden network of wires and power supplies beneath the serene Buddha heads. This layered visibility creates a subtle tension, suggesting the complexity and messiness beneath the surface of controlled emotional expression. The interwoven lines of circuitry evoke the entanglement of social expectations and personal feelings. Meanwhile, the white resin Buddha heads were chosen to communicate a calm, contemplative atmosphere, referencing traditional statuary while feeling contemporary and minimal. My interior design training allowed me to balance these material contrasts—transparent versus opaque, industrial versus sacred—so that the entire piece speaks to the uneasy coexistence of inner emotional complexity and outward composure in modern life.

Designing the motion patterns required me to think deeply about how programming can either flatten or reveal emotional nuance. I didn’t want the rotation to be purely mechanical or repetitive in a mindless sense; I wanted it to evoke the feeling of suppressed emotion struggling to surface. The algorithm introduces programmed pauses, variations in rotation speed, and asynchronous shifts between rows, creating moments where the heads appear to "hesitate" or "resist" their programmed path. These micro-variations mirror the human experience of managing conflicting feelings in social situations. I also deliberately programmed cycles where all heads align perfectly before breaking back into staggered rhythms, to symbolize moments of enforced conformity followed by private divergence. This pattern was meant to act as a meditation on the tension between societal expectation and authentic emotion, with the code itself becoming a metaphor for how emotional behavior is taught, learned, and enforced.

Winning the Iron A' Design Award has given Emotion Protocol a wider platform to demonstrate that traditional cultural symbols can be reimagined in ways that remain respectful yet critical. It shows that contemporary installation art can do more than preserve cultural heritage—it can interrogate it, reveal its ongoing relevance, and challenge viewers to consider their own participation in inherited practices. The award has sparked conversations with curators, designers, and fellow artists about how technology isn’t inherently opposed to tradition but can be a tool for deepening engagement.

Emotion Protocol is deeply personal because it emerges from my own struggle with the cultural expectation to manage, suppress, or selectively express emotions. Growing up, I internalized the belief that emotional restraint was a virtue, yet I also felt the cost of this suppression in my relationships and sense of self. The installation externalizes that internal conflict: the Buddha heads’ serene expressions and rigid choreography symbolize the mask of composure demanded by society. But the slight variations in movement, the subtle asynchronous rotations, suggest the emotions that refuse to be fully contained. Creating this piece was a way of confronting my own learned behaviors—examining how much of my emotional life has been programmed by culture, family, and even my own fears. By making this conflict visible and physical, I hoped to open a space not just for my own reconciliation but for others to recognize and question the emotional protocols they have inherited.

When selecting materials for Emotion Protocol, I wanted to create a deliberate tension between traditional Buddhist iconography and contemporary industrial fabrication. The white 3D-printed resin Buddha heads were chosen for their ability to convey a serene, meditative atmosphere, evoking the calm of traditional statuary while also feeling starkly modern and almost clinical in their precision. This material allowed me to achieve highly detailed forms but with an intentionally uniform, manufactured appearance, questioning how spiritual symbols are reproduced and consumed today.For the base, I used CNC-milled semi-transparent acrylic specifically to reveal the normally hidden wiring and power supplies beneath the heads. This choice was critical to the conceptual message: it exposes the mechanical infrastructure that animates the calm faces above, serving as a metaphor for the unseen social and technological systems that regulate emotional expression. The intersecting lines of cables visible through the acrylic evoke a sense of entanglement and complexity, contrasting with the apparent simplicity of the serene faces. By choosing these contemporary materials and fabrication methods, I wanted to highlight the uneasy coexistence of spiritual tradition and modern mechanization, inviting viewers to reflect on how even sacred symbols can be reframed, commodified, and controlled by contemporary technologies.

Looking ahead, I see Emotion Protocol as an invitation to explore how collective cultural values, especially those emphasizing emotional restraint, can shape and even alienate individuals. The mechanical rotation and programmed patterns are not celebrating technology itself but using it as a metaphor for the pressures of collectivism in Eastern societies. I hope this work encourages future artists to examine how cultural expectations of harmony and self-control can suppress authentic emotional expression, leading to a subtle form of alienation. By making these patterns visible and unavoidable in an immersive installation, Emotion Protocol seeks to open conversations about how deeply these social protocols shape us. I envision future works expanding on this idea—questioning not just technological systems, but the cultural systems that teach us to regulate, hide, or sacrifice our true feelings for collective ideals.

The matrix formation was inspired partly by Buddhist temple halls where rows of monks chant in unison, creating a collective, immersive spiritual atmosphere. I wanted to translate that communal energy into a sculptural grid that viewers could physically navigate and contemplate. The grid also references the precision of technological systems—code, circuitry, urban grids—juxtaposed with the organic, hand-carved wooden fish. This regular arrangement emphasizes uniformity and discipline but also reveals subtle variations in tone and movement that speak to individual imperfection. I chose this format to invite viewers to see both order and chaos, exploring how collective spiritual practice is built on personal devotion while modern systems demand conformity. It becomes a meditation on how tradition and technology both organize human behavior into patterns that are at once comforting and oppressive.

Receiving the A' Design Award has opened new dialogues about the role of interactive art in exploring spirituality beyond static religious iconography. This recognition validates the idea that technology can be a legitimate medium for sacred exploration rather than a profane intrusion. It encourages me to push further into designing interactive experiences that respect cultural heritage while interrogating it. I envision this award as a platform to collaborate with cultural institutions, spiritual communities, and technologists to create installations that are not merely museum pieces but living rituals reimagined. It has also given me the confidence to prototype more ambitious works—possibly incorporating AI-driven responses, real-time audience participation, or cross-cultural spiritual symbols. Ultimately, I hope this recognition expands the definition of spiritual art to include hybrid, participatory, and technologically mediated experiences.

Synchronizing so many motors required a careful balance between engineering and aesthetics, the challenge was purely technical: I had to design a robust control system that would manage power distribution, minimize latency, and prevent mechanical noise that might disrupt the meditative soundscape. I experimented with various microcontrollers and different types of motors, from stepper motors to DC motors, eventually developing a perfect firmware to ensure precise delivery without overloading the system.

My background in Interior Design trained me to think spatially and empathetically, considering not just objects but the entire environment and the human experience within it. I used these skills to design the this installation to encourage meditative wandering and quiet reflection. Meanwhile, my Interactive Telecommunications education provided the technical foundation to prototype and fabricate custom electronics, enabling the precise motorized movements. This hybrid background helped me navigate the tension between mass production and craftsmanship. It also informed my belief that the spiritual and the technological are not opposites but complementary modes of making meaning. In Nirvana, these disciplines converge to create an installation that is both architecturally thoughtful and technically rigorous.

I deliberately designed Nirvana to operate without requiring an audience trigger because I wanted it to function as a living ritual in its own right rather than as a reactive entertainment. In Buddhist temples, the sound of the wooden fish often continues regardless of individual attention—it's a constant reminder of impermanence and mindfulness. By making the installation autonomous, I sought to evoke that same sense of unbroken spiritual labor. There was also an aesthetic choice: the continuous soundscape allows visitors to drift in and out of its presence, mirroring the way we move through life only occasionally attuned to deeper meanings. Technically, this meant designing reliable systems that could run for long periods with minimal intervention. Philosophically, it was a rejection of the typical interactive art paradigm that centers human control, instead offering an experience that humbles the viewer before a ritual that does not depend on them.

Nirvana emerged from my reflections on the cultural tension I’ve felt growing up in China, while modernization pushes us toward mechanized, efficient modes of living. The installation’s precise, repetitive striking of the wooden fish embodies this mechanization: it’s exact, unfeeling, tireless. But the sound it produces carries emotional weight, recalling the calming, reflective environment of a temple. This contrast is central to my work: using machine systems to explore deeply human questions about spirituality, discipline, and vulnerability. I’m fascinated by whether a machine can authentically replicate or even intensify our emotional experiences. By placing viewers in an environment where technology performs a spiritual ritual, I want them to confront their own relationship to tradition, progress, and emotional honesty. It is both a homage to the contemplative traditions of my upbringing and a critique of our tendency to automate even the most sacred aspects of life.

The dimensions of Nirvana were carefully chosen to create a field that viewers could physically enter and navigate, rather than simply observe from a distance. The spatial design encourages viewers to experience the soundscape from multiple perspectives, revealing subtle changes in acoustic texture as they move. The relatively low height of the wooden fish also creates a sense of humility and groundedness, echoing the meditative posture of sitting or bowing. I intentionally left open pathways so the audience would feel both invited and slightly constrained, mimicking the disciplined flow of temple rituals. By controlling the spatial rhythm as carefully as the auditory one, I hoped to create an environment that envelops the senses and slows down perception, prompting visitors to reflect on the meaning of ritual, repetition, and spiritual labor in their own lives.

One surprising discovery was that mechanizing a spiritual ritual didn’t automatically drain it of meaning; in some ways, it made the ritual’s essence clearer. I went into the project skeptical that a machine could evoke genuine contemplation, fearing it might only produce spectacle. But as I tested different patterns and listened to the resulting soundscapes, I realized that the machine’s unwavering commitment to the task mirrored the devotion expected of practitioners. This insight shifted my view of technology from being purely alienating to potentially sacred—if used thoughtfully. Another unexpected outcome was how visitors projected human qualities onto the installation: some described it as "praying" or "breathing." This anthropomorphism suggested that audiences were willing to see spiritual potential in a machine’s rhythm, blurring the line between human and non-human ritual. It challenged my assumptions about authenticity, suggesting that meaning is co-created by performer, medium, and viewer alike.

I see Nirvana as a starting point for rethinking how sacred traditions can be respectfully reinterpreted in contemporary contexts, especially in public spaces where spiritual reflection is often absent. Rather than treating religious artifacts as static museum objects, I hope this work encourages artists and designers to create interactive experiences that invite active participation, contemplation, and even critique. For me, the future lies in collaborations with spiritual communities to co-create installations that honor their traditions while opening them to new audiences. I also imagine integrating technologies like responsive sensors, AI, or networked systems to create rituals that evolve over time or across locations, reflecting the living nature of faith practices. By placing such works in transit hubs, parks, or civic buildings, we could reclaim public space for shared spiritual inquiry, reminding us that the sacred is not confined to temples but is available wherever people gather with intention and awareness.