Interviews with Xinyun Li

My main focus was to explore how local materials and traditional construction techniques could respond directly to the local climate. The design considers conditions such as heavy rainfall and hot weather, and instead of relying on advanced technology or mechanical systems, it uses indigenous materials and familiar building methods to create a more comfortable microclimate. The goal was to show how simple, locally rooted solutions can improve environmental comfort while remaining practical, accessible, and closely connected to the place.

What sets this design apart from similar projects is its simplicity and strong reliance on local resources. The house is built almost entirely with locally available materials and does not depend on advanced technologies or complex building systems. Instead, the design uses spatial organization, architectural form, natural ventilation, shading, and material properties to improve the microclimate and create a more comfortable living environment. At the same time, the project was achieved at a very low construction cost, making the approach practical and accessible within its local context.

The design process began with hand sketches using tracing paper and pencils, which helped me explore initial ideas and generate inspiration. I then developed and refined the design through three-dimensional modeling in Rhino, continuously testing the form, spatial relationships, and overall composition. Finally, I used D5 Render to visualize the project and communicate the intended atmosphere, materiality, and spatial experience.

The most unique aspect of the design is the way it uses indigenous materials and traditional local craftsmanship as a direct response to the climate. Instead of introducing complex technologies, the project relies on simple, long-established building methods that have evolved from local knowledge and experience. These techniques help the architecture respond naturally to the region’s distinctive climate, particularly its long rainy seasons and hot weather, while preserving a strong connection to local building traditions.

Technology plays a fundamental role in making the design possible. In this project, technology does not refer to advanced or high-tech systems, but rather to local construction techniques and traditional craftsmanship. These locally developed methods make it possible to maximize the use of available materials and transform them into a practical architectural solution that responds naturally to the local context and climate.

My main focus was to ensure that the building would not block or interrupt the existing use of the site. While preserving the activities that were already taking place there, I wanted the design to introduce new perspectives and new ways for people to experience and engage with the space. The goal was to encourage people to make fuller use of both the site and the architecture, while allowing them the freedom to use the space in their own ways. Most importantly, the building was intended to support and enrich existing patterns of use rather than interfere with them.

The name “Aero Grove” came from the central spatial and environmental idea of the project. “Grove” refers to the strong presence of greenery throughout the design, including the courtyard, roof gardens, corridors, and connecting spaces, all of which are filled with natural elements. “Air” relates to the floating roof above and the idea of creating an elevated green passage that connects the landscape on the ground with greenery in the sky. Together, the name expresses a vision of a light, open, and immersive natural environment where people can move freely and experience a continuous relationship between architecture and nature.

The design process began with hand sketches using tracing paper and pencils, which helped me explore initial ideas and generate inspiration. I then developed and refined the design through three-dimensional modeling in Rhino, continuously testing the form, spatial relationships, and overall composition. Finally, I used D5 Render to visualize the project and communicate the intended atmosphere, materiality, and spatial experience.

The most unique aspect of the design is the way such a large architectural volume touches the site with a sense of lightness. Despite its scale, the building is designed to minimize its impact on the existing ground conditions and preserve the activities and patterns of use that were already taking place on the site. Rather than dominating or interrupting the space, it allows everyday life to continue naturally around and beneath it.

Structural technology plays a very important role in this design. It allows the building to maintain a light and seemingly effortless presence despite its large scale. The undulating concrete roof and its floating appearance were made possible through careful structural research and technical development. Technology was therefore not only a means of construction, but also an essential tool for realizing the architectural expression of lightness, fluidity, and continuity.

To me, design is a response. It begins with understanding real conditions and human needs, and then using our knowledge, creativity, and research to find a thoughtful way to respond to them. I see design not simply as creating a form, but as a process of understanding a problem deeply and finding the most meaningful way to address it.

I don’t have one particular type of design that I prefer. I believe every project has its own unique qualities, and its character should grow naturally from the site, context, and specific conditions that shape it. That uniqueness is what makes each design process interesting to me.

The first project I worked on professionally was the design of a large-scale shopping mall. It was my first opportunity to experience how architectural ideas are developed within the complexity of a real commercial project.

I feel most creative when I am relaxed and able to mentally place myself inside a space. Some of my best ideas come when I am walking, taking a shower, or simply letting my mind wander. In those moments, I imagine myself actually experiencing the space—how I would move through it, how it would feel, and what I would want or need from it. Once I begin to experience a design from the inside rather than just looking at it as a plan or an image, ideas tend to emerge much more naturally.

I pay particular attention to how people experience and use a space. Human experience is always central to architecture. At the same time, I consider how a project responds to its site and urban context, and whether it can reflect the cultural value or unique character of a place. These qualities, however, also need to work within the practical needs and realities of the project.

Designing often begins with a sense of excitement for me. I enjoy gathering different pieces of information, impressions, and ideas, and gradually seeing them come together into something tangible. Of course, there are also moments when the process gets stuck. I can become quite restless, turning the problem over and over in my mind and trying different possibilities. But that is also part of what makes design rewarding. When, through that process of testing and refining, I finally arrive at a solution that feels both right for the project and satisfying to me, there is a very deep sense of fulfillment.

I believe a good design is ultimately one that people genuinely like and connect with. It does not have to impress everyone in the same way, but it should create a positive experience for the people who use it. For me, success is not only about how a design looks or how clever the concept is. If people enjoy being in the space, feel comfortable using it, and find that it makes their lives better in some way, then I think the design has succeeded.

One of the first things I consider is whether the design makes people’s experience easier or more difficult. A good design should support the way people use a space rather than create unnecessary obstacles.

Architecture has a direct and lasting impact on people’s everyday lives. The spaces we create influence not only how people live, work, and interact, but also how they feel and experience their communities. In that sense, architecture has both a functional and a broader social and emotional impact.

At the same time, buildings exist at a significant scale and require substantial resources to construct and operate, so every architectural decision also carries environmental consequences. I believe architects therefore have a responsibility to think beyond the immediate design problem and consider the larger effects of their work. We should aim to create spaces that contribute positively to people’s lives and communities while making thoughtful and responsible choices about resources, environmental performance, and long-term impact.

As technology continues to evolve and become more integrated into the design process, I believe the future of design will place even greater value on distinctly human qualities—our creativity, sensitivity, and ability to perceive and interpret the world around us. Technology can expand what we are capable of doing, but ultimately, meaningful design still depends on our ability to imagine, feel, and create.

My most recent exhibition was in Barcelona. I do not have a specific plan for my next exhibition yet, but I am always open to the right opportunity and look forward to sharing my work with new audiences in the future.

My design inspiration often comes from a close perception of the site and its surroundings. It also grows from the accumulation of things that interest me in everyday life—images, places, objects, and small observations that may seem insignificant at first. I believe creativity is often built through this continuous attention to the subtle details of daily life.

Absolutely. I believe many things shape the way we design—our cultural background, the environments we live in, and the experiences we accumulate over time. All of these influence the way we see the world and, in turn, our state of mind. Design is often a reflection of that inner perspective. As our surroundings, experiences, and understanding of culture evolve, the way we think about space and design naturally evolves as well.

I usually begin by understanding the needs of the project and carefully observing the existing site and its context. From there, I identify the core idea or intention that should guide the design. I then explore different possibilities around that direction, gradually refining and developing the design in greater detail.

Stay curious, and be patient with the design process. I think curiosity is one of the most important qualities a young designer can have—not only curiosity about design itself, but about people, culture, technology, nature, and the world in general. At the same time, good ideas often take time to develop. Design can involve uncertainty, repetition, and many rounds of refinement, so patience is just as important as creativity. Keep looking, keep asking questions, and give your ideas enough time to grow.

I believe one of the most important qualities for a designer is sensitivity—the ability to perceive people’s needs, understand how they experience a place, and recognize how design decisions may affect them. Being attentive to these often subtle relationships allows a designer to respond more thoughtfully to both people and the environment.

Design is naturally very time-consuming, and I do not think it can always be managed within perfectly defined boundaries. Even when I am not actively working on a project, I often continue thinking about it in the background. What helps me most is setting clear deadlines and milestones for myself. Within that framework, I allow the design process to remain relatively open and fluid. Ideas often continue developing while I am walking, resting, or doing something completely unrelated, so for me, time management in design is less about strictly separating “work time” from everything else and more about giving the process structure without interrupting the thinking behind it.

What is your most favorite design?

I visited the site at different times of day—morning, afternoon, and into the early evening—because I wanted to understand how its use changed over time. The site sits between a school and the surrounding residential community, so it naturally serves a very diverse group of people.What I observed was an incredibly rich range of everyday activities. Children came to play soccer, students gathered after class to talk and spend time together, teachers stepped outside during breaks or after meals to socialize, and families returned in the evening to walk through the space. Even small, quiet moments—people simply sitting, resting, or spending time with their pets—were part of the life of the site. People of different ages were using the same landscape in very different ways, and these activities had already become a spontaneous and familiar part of their daily routines.That observation had a direct influence on how I organized Aero Grove. I wanted to preserve as much of that freedom and continuity as possible rather than replacing it with a more rigidly programmed environment. At the same time, the project introduces a greater variety of spatial conditions—places for gathering, informal conversation, cultural activities, quiet retreat, movement, and observation—so that people have more ways to use the site without feeling that their existing routines have been interrupted.For me, the goal was not to prescribe how people should occupy the space, but to expand the range of possibilities available to them. The architecture becomes a framework that supports existing patterns of community life while giving new activities room to emerge naturally.

Because the building occupies part of an existing public landscape, I felt strongly that the project should give as much space as possible back to the people who already use the site. That naturally led to the idea of making the roof accessible. Rather than treating it simply as the top of a building, I wanted it to become another layer of public landscape—a place where people could walk, gather, and experience the city from a different, elevated perspective.Once the roof became an inhabitable landscape, I did not want it to remain a flat and purely horizontal surface. I was interested in creating a more fluid topography that could make movement across it feel gradual and exploratory. At the same time, I did not want the roof to read as a thin sheet that had simply been bent into shape. I wanted it to have a sense of mass and depth—to feel almost as though it were growing out of the ground, becoming thicker or thinner as it rises, curves, and transitions across the building. The varying geometry gives the roof both its sculptural character and a stronger sense of physical presence.The main challenge was to preserve that sense of continuity while resolving the structure and enclosure in a clean way. I wanted the structural system to support the changing geometry without visually overwhelming the spaces below or introducing elements that would interrupt the experience of the architecture. The goal was for structure, envelope, and form to work together as one integrated system, so that the complexity required to make the roof possible would remain largely in the background while the spaces themselves continued to feel open, fluid, and effortless.

I do not think a cultural institution should be understood only in terms of the programs it contains. A large public building occupies a significant physical and visual presence within a community. It inevitably creates its own atmosphere, identity, and sense of place. Because of that, I believe its architectural character should emerge from the specific context it enters rather than being imposed on the site as a predetermined statement.Different places call for different architectural responses. Some contexts may need a building that feels more solid, concentrated, and strongly defined. Others may call for something more open, permeable, and closely integrated with the surrounding landscape. That character should be shaped by how the place is already used, what people value about it, and what the community actually needs from the new intervention.For Aero Grove, the existing site was already open, active, and deeply embedded in everyday community life. So the cultural center needed to respond with a similar sense of openness. Rather than separating cultural activities from daily life, I wanted the architecture to allow them to overlap—to make culture something people could encounter naturally while walking through the landscape, meeting friends, or simply spending time outdoors.I think this also reflects a broader responsibility architects have when working in shared public landscapes. We are not only designing a building; we are introducing a new presence into an existing social and spatial environment. Our responsibility is to understand that environment carefully and allow the architecture to develop a character that belongs to the place, rather than asking the place to adapt itself to the architecture.

I see openness and activation as two related but distinct qualities of public space. Openness is largely about how welcome people feel and how much freedom they are given—to enter, move through, stay, or use a place in their own way. Activation, on the other hand, depends on the range of experiences a space can offer and the different kinds of activities those experiences can inspire.I believe the spatial character of a building can influence how people behave within it. A space that is open and continuous may encourage movement and exploration, while a more intimate or sheltered space may invite people to pause, gather, or stay longer. In that sense, architecture does not simply accommodate behavior; to some extent, it can also shape and encourage it.In Aero Grove, the goal was therefore not simply to create one large open public space, but to provide a variety of spatial conditions within an overall sense of openness. Different scales, degrees of enclosure, elevations, and relationships to the landscape create different atmospheres and possibilities for use. People can move through the site freely, but they can also discover places that invite very different experiences—social interaction, informal activities, quiet observation, or simply rest.What I learned through this process is that vitality does not necessarily come from filling a public space with more programmed activities. It can come from creating enough spatial diversity and freedom that people are able to discover their own ways of occupying it. The richer the range of spatial experiences, the more possibilities there are for different forms of public life to emerge.

The initial idea came directly from the openness of the site. Because the landscape can be approached from all directions, I did not want the building to create a hard edge that would make people feel excluded or forced to enter from only one side. I wanted it to present a continuous, fluid interface to the surrounding community, while creating the same sense of openness for people moving through the interior.That led naturally to the circular geometry. The curve allowed the building to avoid a clear front and back and instead create a more continuous relationship between inside, outside, and movement around the site.From there, the form evolved in response to the program. Different functions required different amounts of space, so the ring could not remain uniform. Where more area was needed, it expanded; where less was required, it narrowed. At the same time, because one of the project’s main intentions was to preserve as much public space as possible, I treated those narrower moments as opportunities to give space back to the landscape and to the people using it.The final form therefore emerged through a gradual negotiation between circulation, program, and public space. Rather than starting with a fixed sculptural shape, the geometry was continuously adjusted—expanding where the building needed to accommodate activity and contracting where the landscape could remain more open. That process ultimately produced the fluid, layered form of Aero Grove.

Aero Grove has made me think more deeply about the relationship between architecture, place, and people. One of the most important lessons for me is that architecture does not always need to assert itself. It can step back, negotiate with the site, and make room for existing activities and patterns of life rather than simply occupying them. I see design less as the creation of a fixed, solid object and more as a process of negotiation between the building, the landscape, and the people who use it.That idea is closely connected to the human-centered approach that has always guided my work. I believe architecture carries emotion and memory. It reflects the people who inhabit it, the character of a place, and the social relationships that develop around it. Because buildings often remain for decades, they also become witnesses to change, accumulating layers of meaning over time.Looking forward, I want to continue exploring how architecture can become more deeply integrated with its site and community—not only physically, but socially and emotionally. I am especially interested in creating public spaces that feel less imposed and more responsive: places that can evolve with the people who use them, support different forms of participation, and become a natural part of everyday community life.

I think one of the most important qualities for young architects is patience, together with an open mind and a sense of curiosity. Before trying to impose an idea on a site, it is important to spend time observing it—understanding how people already use the space, how the environment changes over time, and what particular qualities make that place unique.The same patience is also important throughout the design process itself. A project rarely arrives fully formed at the beginning. It develops through repeated observation, testing, adjustment, and refinement. I believe designers should give themselves time to question their first ideas, remain open to unexpected discoveries, and allow the specific conditions of a site to gradually shape the architecture.For me, civic responsibility and architectural expression do not have to be opposing goals. A strong architectural identity can actually grow out of careful attention to people, place, and context. My advice to younger designers would be to stay curious, listen closely, and be patient enough to discover what the project itself is asking to become.

The idea developed gradually during the design process. Because of its program, the cultural center required a relatively substantial building volume. As the design evolved, however, I became increasingly aware that such a large volume could easily create a hard and imposing edge toward the surrounding community. I did not want the facade to feel like a boundary separating the building from everyday life around it.Instead, I began to think of the building as a gentle background to the activities already taking place on the site. That led to the idea of using light and shadow to give this background a more dynamic and responsive quality. Rather than creating a facade that appears fixed throughout the day, I wanted it to register changes in sunlight, weather, and time, so that the character of the building could continuously shift with its environment.In that sense, light became another material in the design. The intention was not to create dramatic effects for their own sake, but to soften the presence of the building and allow the facade to participate in the changing atmosphere of the site. As sunlight moves across the surfaces and through the transparent areas, the building becomes a kind of quiet record of time—sometimes brighter and more open, sometimes more reflective or shadowed.The glass plays an important role in maintaining that sense of lightness and visual continuity. Its transparency allows daylight to enter while keeping a visual connection between interior activity and the surrounding landscape, helping the building feel less like a solid boundary and more like a permeable layer between community life, architecture, and nature.

The material palette was guided by a desire to create an atmosphere that feels warm, gentle, and closely connected to the natural setting. Rather than using materials that would make the building feel visually heavy or overly assertive, I wanted the different surfaces to work together quietly and create a sense of continuity between architecture and landscape.Natural materials such as stone and pebble bring warmth, texture, and a tactile quality to the spaces. Their subtle variations and natural patterns give the architecture a softer, more grounded character. Glass introduces transparency and lightness, allowing views, daylight, and the surrounding landscape to remain present as people move through the building.What interested me most was the balance between these qualities. The solidity and texture of the natural materials are softened by the transparency of the glass, while the materials share a restrained and natural character that allows them to sit comfortably together. Instead of competing for attention, they contribute to an overall sense of calmness and openness.As people move from the more open, sunlit landscape toward the quieter and more intimate interior spaces and courtyards, the same material language helps maintain a continuous experience while allowing the atmosphere to gradually become more sheltered and contemplative. For me, the materials are not simply finishes; they are part of how the architecture creates an emotional transition between nature, public life, and moments of quiet.