Interviews with Ke JIANG

My main focus was to design a piece that respects a woman's time. I wanted to achieve something practical yet elegant—an item of clothing that simplifies her day rather than complicates it. One garment, multiple ways to wear it.

I plan to continue developing the convertible concept into a fuller collection, exploring different fabrics and transformation mechanisms. I'm also open to collaborating with brands that share the same vision of designing for real women's lives.

The initial concept came during the same period as my children's swimwear—it started as part of a mother-and-child set. But as the two directions diverged, the women's piece took its own path. From early sketches to the final prototype, it evolved over a couple of years.

It was self-initiated. I kept hearing the same story from women around me: they were juggling multiple roles and had no time to go home and change between them. I wanted to design something that could move with them—one piece, different moments, no fuss.

At this stage, it is not in production. I'm exploring possibilities—whether to produce independently or partner with a brand. I want to find the right path that keeps the design's integrity and truly serves the women it was made for.

It came from listening. When women described the mental load of managing their day—office, childcare, evening events—clothing was often an added stress. I thought: if a garment could reduce even a small part of that burden, it would be worth designing.

Eileen Gray's philosophy has always influenced me—her belief that design should adapt to how people actually live. The convertible garment shares that spirit: it doesn't dictate a single use, but responds flexibly to the wearer's life.

Modern women who move through multiple roles in a single day—professionals, mothers, creatives. Women who value both style and practicality, and who want their clothing to work as hard as they do.

Many convertible garments compromise on elegance—they look functional. My goal was to make the transformation subtle, so the piece looks intentional in both modes. The wearer feels put-together, not makeshift, whether it's day or night.

The name "Aphros" comes from Greek mythology—Aphros is the sea foam from which Aphrodite, the goddess of love and beauty, was born. I chose it because this piece was originally conceived alongside "Daughter of the Sea" as part of a mother-and-child set, so both names share a connection to water. While the children's design carries a fairy-tale spirit of freedom, "Aphros" speaks to the adult woman—elegant, fluid, and capable of moving between different worlds, just as sea foam shifts and adapts to the shore.

Sketchbook first, always. Then Adobe Creative Suite for technical drawings, fabric swatches for draping and testing, and physical prototyping on a dress form. The body is the best tool—seeing how the garment moves and transforms on a real figure.

The transformation is integrated into the garment's structure rather than being an obvious add-on. It doesn't look like a "convertible piece"—it just looks like a well-designed garment that happens to work in more than one way.

I developed the design independently, but I want to acknowledge the people who helped me along the way. When my studio first started, several friends—Shenqian, Fangfang, Coral, and Xiongbo—gave me tremendous support and encouragement. They helped with everything from brainstorming to practical problem-solving, and their belief in me kept me going during the early, uncertain days. Over time, as our career paths shifted and I eventually moved into academia, we each went in different directions. But I remain deeply grateful for that period and for what they contributed—not just to this project, but to my growth as a designer.

The technology here is in the construction—the way the garment is cut, seamed, and structured to allow transformation without zippers, buttons, or visible hardware. It's low-tech in appearance, but the thinking behind it is quite technical.

The research was mostly qualitative—conversations with women about their daily routines, their frustrations with clothing, the moments when they wished they could adjust their outfit without going home. Those stories were the data.

The main challenge was making the transformation feel natural. Early versions looked awkward in one mode or the other—too loose here, too tight there. Balancing the fit across two different silhouettes took many rounds of adjustment.

The same motivation as my other piece: after years of development, I wanted to test the design against an international standard. Knowing that a respected senior colleague at my university had previously won the A' Design Award also gave me confidence in the platform.

This project taught me to take my time and keep going. Balancing two silhouettes in one garment was a slow, iterative puzzle. Patience, more than any single skill, is what brought it together.

I became a designer because I wanted to solve real problems in a way that also carries beauty. What motivates me is seeing how a thoughtful design can quietly make someone's day better—without them even noticing. That invisible usefulness is what keeps me going.

I chose it. It wasn't a straight path—I studied other things first. But eventually, I realized I needed to follow something I truly loved. Design was that choice.

I work across fashion, product, and communication design. I'm especially drawn to work that sits at the intersection of culture and technology. In the future, I want to design more pieces that bring traditional craftsmanship into dialogue with modern materials and digital tools.

Take your time, but keep going. Listen before you draw. And don't be afraid of projects that seem to go nowhere—sometimes those plant the seeds for your best work years later.

A good designer solves problems. A great designer solves the right problems—and does it with empathy, patience, and an understanding that design is never just about the object.

For me, a really good design is one that disappears into life. It's useful, honest, durable, and it respects the person using it. If it solves a real need and feels natural, it's good. If it also carries meaning, it's great.

Good design saves time, reduces waste, and brings quiet joy. Investing in good design means investing in things that last—physically and emotionally. You buy less, but better. And that is good for people and the planet.

If I had unlimited time, I would design more pieces that sit at the intersection of culture, technology, and everyday life—work that responds to real human needs without being confined to a single category or audience. I would follow the questions that interest me most, wherever they lead, and design for whoever those questions ultimately serve.

The Yunnan project—bringing ethnic textile traditions together with electronic technology and contemporary design. It started all the way back in my Paris graduation work, and I'm still circling toward it.

Patience, plus attention. I pay close attention to everyday life, and I don't rush the process. The ideas come from listening; the results come from staying with it.

Eileen Gray is a quiet but profound influence. Her belief that design should be an extension of the human being—adapting to real life rather than dictating it—shaped my philosophy deeply.

Eileen Gray's E-1027 side table is one of my favorites. It's elegant, functional, and perfectly balanced. Lawrence Argent's "I See What You Mean" blue bear is another—it shows how public art can become a city's memory.

"Daughter of the Sea" is the work I feel most connected to. It's great not because it's visually loud, but because it solves a real safety problem invisibly. The buoyancy is built into the fabric itself. That integration—function disappearing into form—is what I'm most proud of.

Listen more than you speak. Observe real life. Study outside of design—history, communication, culture. And above all, keep making. I improved by failing repeatedly and not quitting.

I would probably have become a full-time teacher or researcher in the humanities. I've always loved learning and explaining how culture and meaning work.

Design is problem-solving with soul. It's the act of turning a real human need into something useful, beautiful, and meaningful—something that feels so natural the effort behind it disappears.

My family has always been my foundation.

Time. Cross-cultural experience. Teaching. And a long period of independent work that felt fruitless at the time but was quietly building my foundation.

The biggest obstacle was uncertainty—running a small studio, facing real-world pressures, and not knowing if the work would ever lead anywhere. But that period taught me resilience.

Honestly and clearly.

The Yunnan collaboration—fusing ethnic craftsmanship with technology and art. Expect something that honors tradition while pushing it into a contemporary, even futuristic, dialogue.

To create work that serves real people, respects the planet, and carries cultural memory forward. And to teach the next generation to do the same.

I think people expect consistency, depth, and honesty. Not just beautiful objects, but a clear point of view. I try to live up to that.

Good design reduces friction, increases safety, and communicates clearly. It can make services more accessible, products less wasteful, and public spaces more humane. Design shapes everyday experience—when it's good, society feels it.

The Yunnan project. It's still in the research phase, but it connects my past, my culture, and my future in a way no other project has.

"Daughter of the Sea" and "Aphros." Both started from real conversations and grew into something that solved a genuine need. The satisfaction comes from knowing they weren't just aesthetic exercises.

I'd like to see less waste, more durability, and a move away from novelty for its own sake. Design should serve longevity, not just seasons.

Toward deeper integration—of technology, sustainability, and cultural sensitivity. And toward more fluid, cross-disciplinary practice. The future is not about tools; it's about meaning.

It depends. Some pieces come together in weeks. Others, like "Daughter of the Sea," took years of material testing and refinement.

With listening. I talk to people, observe their daily lives, and try to find the real problem before I sketch anything.

Take your time, but keep going.

Both, really. Trends shape expectations, but strong design can redirect them. The best work doesn't chase trends—it responds to something deeper, and sometimes creates a new direction.

Technology should be an extension of the person—helpful, quiet, almost invisible. If it makes life better without making itself noticed, it's working.

Adobe Creative Suite for visual work, 3D modeling tools for structure, and physical prototyping—fabric samples, foam swatches, a sewing machine. And always a notebook.

They are the emotional layer. Color carries feeling, materials carry touch and memory, and ambient shapes how the piece is experienced. Together, they make design human.

I wish they'd ask "why"—why this form, why this material, why this solution. That question opens the door to everything that matters.

Respect—and curiosity. I immediately want to understand the thinking behind it: what problem it solved, what constraints shaped it.

I'll be honest—I naturally lean toward working alone. There is a clarity and focus I find in independent work that's hard to replicate in a group. Most of my designs so far have been developed largely on my own. But I don't believe design has to be solitary. I've learned that certain problems—especially technical ones—benefit enormously from the right kind of help. So I would say: my ideal partnership isn't a permanent collaboration, but a well-timed one. Someone who brings a skill I don't have, respects my vision, and helps the work go further than I could take it alone. Co-design, for me, isn't a default way of working—it's something I embrace when the project calls for it.

The women I interviewed about their daily lives—their stories shaped Aphros. The children and parents I observed around water shaped "Daughter of the Sea." Real people are my biggest influences.

Hippolyte Taine's Philosophy of Art has had a deep influence on how I think about design.

Through repetition, failure, and reflection. And through teaching—explaining design to students forces you to understand it more deeply.

Eileen Gray. I would love to talk with her about how she balanced elegance and function, and how she stayed true to her vision in a world that often overlooked her.

I'm grateful, and a little surprised. I don't think of myself as famous. The awards matter because they open doors and validate the work, but the real reward is knowing the design might reach someone who needs it.

My favorite color has changed at different stages of my life. My mother told me that when I was very little, I loved red. Later, it shifted to light blue. Now, I think I'm drawn to a kind of Tudor red—that deep, historical crimson that carries a sense of age and story. I'm generally attracted to colors that feel old, layered with time and meaning.

As for places, I love cities with history—Paris, Beijing, Winchester. Cities where the past is still present in the streets, the architecture, the atmosphere. I find that sense of accumulated time deeply inspiring.

For season, I would say autumn. And for a thing, my notebook. It's where everything begins.

Brand—I don't have a single favorite. I'm drawn to brands that value longevity, heritage, and quiet quality over noise.

I wouldn't call it funny exactly, but it's a moment I remember very clearly. After I returned from Paris, I made a lot of work, but I didn't do any real market promotion. I thought I had failed. Eventually, I became a teacher and moved on. Then one day, I was sitting on a bench in an airport, and an email arrived saying my work had won an award. I just sat there for a moment. I remember thinking: life is interesting. It gives back to you at the most unexpected moments—often when you've already stopped waiting. That moment has stayed with me ever since.

A good conversation, a small breakthrough in the studio, a student's unexpected question. I don't force motivation—I create conditions for it, and it usually arrives.

Not at all. I loved art, but I was afraid of many things—water, failure, not being good enough. In a way, my designs come from those very fears. They taught me empathy.

In a thousand years, I believe design and technology will be inseparable from the human body—adaptive, intelligent, and deeply sustainable. But I hope the core remains: design that serves people, not the other way around.

I want people to know that my designs come from real life—from conversations, observations, and my own fears and hopes.

Before joining the Communication University of China, I ran my own design studio in Beijing, working across product, fashion, and communication design. That period of independent practice was a formative chapter for me—it taught me how to manage creative projects from concept to completion. When I joined CUC, I devoted myself fully to teaching. Now, I see the classroom and the research environment at CUC as my "studio"—a space where I explore the intersection of design, technology, and communication together with my students.

The Communication University of China is one of the country's most prestigious institutions, and its design discipline is highly respected. Within the School of Advertising, our Department of Communication Design follows an educational philosophy centered on "Communication × Design"—training students not only to create visual forms, but to understand how visual decisions carry meaning, shape narratives, and engage audiences across both physical and digital platforms. The Visual Communication Design program is recognized as a National First-Class Undergraduate Program.

I find that my practical experience as an award-winning designer feeds directly into my teaching, while the questions my students raise often push my thinking in unexpected new directions.

To me, design is a form of problem-solving with soul. It is not simply about making things look beautiful—although beauty matters—but about creating objects, systems, and experiences that work better for people. Every design decision, from material choice to form to the way a user interacts with a product, carries intention. Good design is when that intention aligns with a genuine human need, and the result feels so natural that the effort behind it becomes invisible.

I also believe design is a form of communication. When someone picks up a product or enters a space, they are "reading" it—sensing its quality, its values, the story it tells. My job as a designer is to ensure that story is clear, honest, and meaningful. This perspective is something I bring into my teaching as well: I encourage my students to see every visual choice as carrying a message, and to take responsibility for what that message says.

I don't think I have a single favorite type of work—rather, what I love most is the process itself. I am deeply drawn to the full journey of design: from the earliest spark of an idea, through research, sketching, prototyping, all the way to seeing a finished product in someone's hands. That arc—from abstract concept to tangible reality—is what truly excites me.
Whether I am designing swimwear, a piece of communication graphics, or a spatial experience, what stays constant is this commitment to seeing an idea through to completion. I often tell my students: the best concept in the world is worthless if it never leaves the sketchbook. Design happens in the making. That is the part I love most.

It is difficult to choose a single favorite, but what makes this year especially meaningful is that my two award-winning designs are actually deeply connected—though many people may not immediately see why. Visually, the two pieces share a similar silhouette, and that is no accident. They began as one idea: a matching mother-and-child swimwear set. But as I developed the designs, I started having conversations—with children, and with adult women—and those conversations changed everything.

When I spoke to modern women in China and beyond, I kept hearing the same story: they are juggling multiple roles, and their time is limited. I began to imagine a garment that could transition quickly between day and night—something that adapts to different contexts without requiring a complete change of outfit. This led me to focus on convertible bottoms: clothing that can shift between professional elegance and relaxed comfort, supporting women as they move through their demanding, multi-faceted days.

When I turned my attention to children, the conversations were different, but just as revealing. I observed how many kids feel uncomfortable or even resistant toward traditional flotation devices—the armbands, the bulky vests. They want to play freely, but safety gear makes them feel constrained. That insight pushed me in a completely different direction: I moved from fashion design into product design. I began researching buoyant materials, testing different foams and lamination techniques, until I developed a swimsuit with flotation panels permanently integrated into the fabric structure itself—invisible, seamless, and freeing.

So while these two pieces started from the same seed—a mother and child, connected—they grew into two distinct design responses, each shaped by listening closely to the people they were meant to serve. That, to me, is what makes them meaningful: not the visual similarity, but the shared commitment to designing for real lives.

My first major project was actually for a television show called Goddess's New Clothes—a reality fashion competition where designers were paired with well-known celebrities to create original fashion pieces. It was a massive undertaking for a young designer, and I threw myself into it completely: extensive research, consumer interviews, material sourcing, countless sketches and prototypes.

In the end, the project never came to fruition. The collaboration didn't move forward as planned. At the time, it felt like a setback. But looking back now, I realize it was anything but a failure. The preparation work I did for that show became a deep reservoir of ideas. Many of the insights I gathered—especially the conversations I had with women about their relationships with clothing, their daily needs, their frustrations—planted seeds that would grow into my later work, including the designs that ultimately won the A' Design Award.

It taught me that design is a long game. Sometimes the ideas you plant today take years to bloom, and no serious creative work is ever truly wasted. The moments of our lives, scattered as they may seem, eventually meet each other in the most unexpected and beautiful ways.

I don't think I have a single favorite material or technology in the traditional sense—I tend to fall in love with whatever best solves the problem at hand. But if I had to name a direction that consistently fascinates me, it would be this: I want technology to be an extension of the human being—something that helps us solve problems without making us feel uncomfortable or constrained.

In my award-winning children's swimwear, for example, I used textile lamination and composite fabric technology. The lamination process allows you to embed function directly into the structure of a garment, rather than attaching an external device the way traditional approaches do. The buoyancy becomes part of the fabric itself—invisible, imperceptible to the touch, leaving the child feeling free. No bulk, no restriction. Safety is quietly woven into the very architecture of the swimsuit.

This idea of making technology disappear is, to me, the most captivating aspect of design: when a functional innovation is so seamlessly integrated that the user doesn't even notice it—that is the moment when technology truly becomes an extension of the person, rather than a burden.

I feel most creative when I am in conversation—genuinely listening to someone describe their daily life, their small frustrations, their unmet needs. Creativity, for me, doesn't usually strike in isolation. It emerges in the space between people: in the moment when someone says something that reveals a problem they may not even have recognized as a problem, and suddenly I see a design opportunity.

Many of my best ideas have come from conversations that weren't even about design. Talking with parents about their anxiety when their children are near water. Listening to working women describe the exhaustion of transitioning between professional and personal roles throughout a single day. These are not traditional "creative" settings—there is no mood board, no sketchbook—but they are the moments when my mind starts making connections, asking "what if," and imagining how an object could make that experience better.

During the design process, what I focus on most is the balance between function and human feeling. Aesthetics matter deeply, but if a design doesn't solve a problem—or worse, makes the user feel uncomfortable—then it hasn't fulfilled its purpose.

I usually start with the problem: I try to understand what the user truly needs, what obstacles they are facing, and then I let form follow function. But that doesn't mean form is secondary. On the contrary, when a design solves a problem well, it naturally develops an inherent beauty of its own. I believe the best designs are those where there is no conflict between function and form—where they elevate each other.

To be honest, I feel quite at ease during the design process. It's not that I take the work lightly—I take it very seriously—but I've found that creativity flows more naturally when I'm not putting myself under pressure to produce something. Often, the best ideas don't come when I'm sitting rigidly at a desk. They arrive in moments of quiet relaxation—while taking a walk, having a cup of tea, or chatting with a friend—when a concept suddenly surfaces in my mind. In that state, the brain feels more open and free, able to connect seemingly unrelated things and form new creative directions.

The process of turning a concept into reality brings a fuller range of emotions—the excitement when a prototype works, the frustration when a material refuses to cooperate. But because the seed was planted in a relaxed, open state of mind, I rarely feel anxious even when difficulties arise. I've come to believe that good design needs room to breathe. You cannot force it. You have to create the conditions for it to emerge, and then trust the process.

For me, a successful design is one that disappears.

I don't mean that it literally vanishes—I mean that it integrates so seamlessly into a person's life that they stop noticing it as a "design" and simply experience it as a natural, helpful part of their day. When a child wears my swimsuit and just plays in the water, without thinking about the buoyancy, without feeling restricted—that is success. When a woman puts on a garment in the morning and moves through her entire day—work, rest, evening—without needing to change, without a second thought about her clothing—that is success.

Success is not about being noticed. It is about being useful.

The first thing I ask myself is: does this design respect its user?

By that, I mean several things at once. Does it solve a real problem, or does it simply create visual noise? Does it make the user's life easier, or does it add another layer of complication? Does it feel intuitive, or does it demand that the user adapt to the design rather than the other way around?

I believe designers carry a profound responsibility—one that extends far beyond making things look good. I have always held that technology is an extension of the human being, and good design is no different. Their purpose is not to dazzle or impress, but to help people live better lives.

When a design truly serves its user, it doesn't add burden—it acts like an extra pair of invisible hands, quietly and unobtrusively solving a problem. This is what I tried to achieve with my children's swimsuit: the buoyancy is not an awkward device strapped to a child's arm, but something integrated into the very structure of the garment. The child doesn't even know it is there. They simply play. They swim. In that moment, the design has fulfilled its purpose: it extends the child's safety without restricting their freedom.

I believe the design field is moving through a profound shift—from designing objects to designing experiences, and from solving problems in isolation to understanding systems and relationships.
So if you ask me what the future of design looks like, I would say this: it is more fluid, more collaborative, more technologically enabled—but above all, more human. The designers who will thrive in this future are not those who cling to a single discipline or skill set, but those who can move across boundaries, listen deeply, and never lose sight of the person at the other end of their work.

This A' Design Award recognition marks the beginning of my formal exhibition journey. As part of the award prize, my winning designs will be featured in the A' Design Award winner exhibitions—the first of which will be held in Como, Italy. It will be the first time my work is presented to an international audience in a professional exhibition setting.

As for my next exhibition, it is currently in discussion, with plans to take place around 2027 to 2028. I am in talks with partners in Yunnan Province, China, about a collaboration that combines the region's rich ethnic textile traditions with electronic technology, with the aim of promoting Yunnan's cultural heritage in an innovative way. This direction is, in fact, deeply connected to my graduation project at Istituto Marangoni, where I designed a womenswear collection inspired by the spirit of Yunnan. So this journey—beginning with an imaginative engagement with Yunnan's culture during my studies in Paris, and now returning to China to work directly with that land and its people—holds profound meaning for me.

If this collaboration moves forward as planned, I hope to present the results—where traditional craftsmanship meets modern technology—in an exhibition around 2027 or 2028. It won't be a simple fashion show. I envision it as a dialogue between culture and technology: a way for ancient techniques, through design, to come alive once more in contemporary life.

My design inspiration comes mainly from real conversations. Talking with women about their daily rhythms, with children about how they feel in the water, with artisans about materials—these moments reveal both problems and design possibilities.

Cross-cultural experience is another vital source. From my studies in Paris to my current research on ethnic craftsmanship in Yunnan, the aesthetics and wisdom of different cultures continuously nourish my work.

I would describe my design style as "quiet functionalism." I do pursue visual beauty, but not in a loud or ostentatious way—I want the work to feel elegant and natural, comfortable to use, and to solve problems as invisibly as possible.

This approach has been shaped by my cross-disciplinary experience—moving between fashion and product design has taught me not to be confined by a single medium. My core focus is always: what is the real human need, and how can technology integrate into life without becoming a burden?

Three defining characteristics: invisible function, restrained elegance, and deep empathy for the user.

I live in Beijing, China—a country with an extraordinarily deep historical and cultural heritage. This background influences my design profoundly. The traditional aesthetics I grew up with—its restraint, its sense of balance, the way it finds richness in simplicity—these quietly shape how I approach form, material, and detail.

In terms of advantages, China offers an incredibly rich source of inspiration. From ancient craftsmanship to the energy of contemporary urban life, there is always something to draw from. My ongoing collaboration plan with Yunnan is a direct example of this: the region's ethnic textile traditions are a deep well of creative possibility.

As for challenges, perhaps the main one is finding a balance between cultural authenticity and global relevance. I want my work to speak across borders without losing its roots. But I see this not as a conflict, but as a productive tension—one that pushes me toward a more thoughtful design language.

Since I currently focus on my own practice and teaching, my collaborations with companies tend to be project-based and selective. I look for partners who share a genuine commitment to thoughtful, responsible design—those who value long-term quality over short-term novelty.

My suggestion is simple: look beyond the portfolio. A beautiful portfolio shows what a designer can make, but it doesn't show how they think, how they listen, or how they handle constraints. The best designer for your company is not necessarily the one with the most striking visuals—it's the one who asks the most thoughtful questions about your problem.

When selecting a designer, pay attention to whether they try to understand your context, your audience, and your real needs before jumping to solutions. A good designer leads with curiosity, not ego.

My design process is quite organic—it usually starts randomly from everyday life. I tend to notice small problems or moments of friction that most people overlook: a child struggling with uncomfortable swim gear, a woman juggling multiple roles throughout her day. Once I spot something, I start asking questions from a design perspective. What is the real need here? How can this experience be improved? Then I move into research, material exploration, and prototyping—testing, failing, refining—until the solution is ready to be realized as a product. For me, design always begins with paying attention to life, and ends with something you can hold in your hands.

A traditional Chinese calligraphy brush gifted by my grandfather — it carries family memories and constantly reminds me of the quiet focus I felt when I first learned to write and draw.

Eileen Gray's E1027 adjustable side table — a piece I truly treasure. Its elegant lines and ingenious function reflect Gray's meticulous attention to detail, and it stands as a quiet reminder that good design withstands the test of time.

A miniature of Lawrence Argent's "I See What You Mean" blue bear — a memento from Denver. The original, installed outside the Colorado Convention Center, is a beloved public art landmark that continually inspires me to think about how a single piece of public art can become a city's memory anchor.

A Basquiat poster — his work is full of raw energy and the collision of text and image. It reminds me to preserve intuition and courage in the creative process.

A portrait of me drawn by my son on Mother's Day — this is the most priceless piece in my collection. It is a drawing of my face, done with the purest emotion behind every simple stroke. It always reminds me that the ultimate goal of design is to create a warmer, safer world for those we care about.

My days follow a gentle rhythm. Mornings are for teaching at the Communication University of China—lectures, workshops, and conversations with students that often spark new ideas. Afternoons are for my own creative work: research, sketching, or prototype development. Evenings belong to family and quiet reflection. Many of my best ideas surface during those slow, unpressured moments before sleep. It's a full but balanced life—teaching feeds my curiosity, designing keeps me grounded, and family reminds me of what truly matters.

Take your time, but keep going.

The best part is seeing an idea become something real that genuinely helps people. The hardest part is learning to be patient—design takes time, and good work doesn't happen on a deadline.

Design for people, not for applause.

Communication. You can have the most brilliant idea in the world, but if you cannot listen to the people you are designing for, or articulate your vision clearly to collaborators and clients, that idea will never reach its full potential.

My toolbox is simple. A computer for digital work and always a notebook, for sketching ideas by hand during quiet moments. Some thoughts just flow better on paper. Beyond that, my real tools are conversation and observation: listening to people, noticing small problems, and letting those spark the design.

I don't try to force creativity into a tight schedule. I protect focused time for deep work, but I also allow space for things to breathe. When a project feels stuck, I step away—take a walk, spend time with my family, let my mind wander. Almost always, the solution surfaces when I stop chasing it. For me, time management is less about rigid planning and more about knowing when to push and when to pause.

It depends entirely on the project. Some designs come together in weeks, others take years.

"Why did you make this?"

It was the period right after graduation, before I joined the university—those years of independent practice. To be honest, that time was not easy. Running my own studio meant facing all kinds of real-world challenges: clients, projects, and the pressure just to survive. Many moments felt fruitless, as if I were working hard but getting nowhere. But looking back now, that period was one of the most valuable chapters of my life. What felt like stagnation was actually quiet accumulation—experience, judgment, and the ability to face uncertainty. Many of the capabilities that sustain me today took root during those seemingly unremarkable years.

I've worked with a fairly wide range of clients—corporate clients, government agencies, and individual users. Each type brings a different set of needs and constraints, and I enjoy that variety.

I enjoy the entire process, but what I love most is that moment when inspiration strikes—when a scattered set of observations suddenly clicks into a clear idea. It's a brief, almost magical instant, and everything that follows—research, prototyping, refining—is really just chasing that initial spark

My next direction is to explore the fusion of ethnic cultural elements with technology and art. I'm currently in discussions about a collaboration in Yunnan, China, where I hope to bring traditional minority craftsmanship—textiles, patterns, techniques—into dialogue with modern electronic technology. It's a way of asking: how can ancient wisdom speak in a contemporary voice? I want to create work that honors cultural heritage while pushing it forward into new possibilities.

For the most part, I work independently—I've developed the majority of my designs on my own, from initial concept all the way to final execution. But I'm currently planning to bring in some talented students to collaborate with me. As a teacher at CUC, I'm surrounded by young creative minds, and I see this as a natural next step: turning my practice into something more collaborative, where I can mentor and create at the same time.

Yes—I'm currently working on a project in Yunnan, China, that explores the fusion of ethnic cultural elements with technology and art. The core idea is to bring traditional minority craftsmanship—textiles, patterns, embroidery techniques—into dialogue with modern digital tools.

People can reach me by email at kellyjiang18@163.com or through my academic email at kejiang@cuc.edu.cn. I'm always happy to connect with fellow designers, potential collaborators, or anyone interested in my work.

I would just like to add that winning the A' Design Award has been a deeply meaningful experience—not just for the recognition, but for the reflection it prompted. Preparing for this interview made me revisit my journey: the independent years that felt fruitless but were quietly building my foundation, the conversations with women and children that reshaped my designs, the ongoing pull toward Yunnan that started all the way back in Paris.

I should also mention that one of my Silver Award-winning designs is currently in a concealed category. While I cannot publicly share the details for now, if anyone is curious, please feel free to reach out to me directly.

I'm grateful for the chance to tell these stories, and I hope they encourage other young designers to trust their own path—even the parts that don't seem to make sense at the time.

During my research, I noticed a recurring pattern: women's wardrobes were often overflowing, yet they still felt they had nothing to wear. This paradox—abundance alongside a sense of lack—pointed directly to the problem of overconsumption. It made me ask: what if a single, well-designed core garment could adapt to different moments of the day, reducing the need to constantly buy more? That question became the foundation of Aphros. By creating a modular interchangeable bottomwear system, the design offers versatility without excess—one piece that transforms, rather than five pieces that accumulate. The goal is to help women feel they have enough, and that what they have is truly right for them.

The technical construction of Aphros directly addresses textile waste in two ways. First, the magnetic modular connectors allow a single garment to serve multiple functions—day to evening, professional to relaxed—which reduces the total number of pieces a woman needs to own. Fewer garments purchased means fewer garments eventually discarded.Second, the choice of materials reflects a commitment to responsible production from the start. The laser-cut sustainable polymer textiles are precision-cut to minimize off-cut waste during manufacturing, and the thermoformed translucent elements are designed for durability, extending the garment's useful life. When a piece lasts longer and adapts to more occasions, it resists the cycle of fast disposal.As for the broader industry, I believe this approach signals a shift away from designing for seasons and toward designing for longevity. If more brands invest in modular systems and durable, low-waste materials, the definition of "newness" can move from buying more to transforming what you already own. My hope is that Aphros offers one small proof of that possibility.

Aphros navigates these three dimensions not by treating them as separate goals, but by seeing them as three threads that must be woven together. In fashion, sustainability, technology, and cultural relevance all fail when they are applied as afterthoughts—they need to be embedded at the structural level.On sustainability, the modular interchangeable system directly reduces the need for multiple garments, while the laser-cut polymer textiles minimize production waste. On the technological level, the magnetic modular connectors and thermoformed translucent elements are the very mechanisms that allow the garment to transform and endure. They make the transition seamless, turning "owning less" into a pleasure rather than a compromise. On cultural relevance, Aphros speaks to the reality of modern urban women—women who move through multiple roles in a single day and need clothing that respects their time and complexity. The design does not ask them to choose between elegance and practicality. It acknowledges that their lives are fluid, and provides a garment that is equally fluid.Receiving the A' Design Award means more than recognition itself. At a moment when the industry is beginning to take modular and sustainable fashion seriously, this award gives the design visibility and credibility. For the future, this acknowledgment opens conversations with manufacturers, collaborators, and potential brand partners. My hope is that Aphros can grow from an award-winning prototype into a fuller collection, and eventually into the wardrobes of real women.

That challenge revealed something essential: avant-garde ambition, when disconnected from cultural context, risks becoming a monologue rather than a conversation. The initial design—bold sleeves, ultra-short silhouette—was very much a product of who I was during my Paris years. At that time, I was driven by artistic expression and the desire to push formal boundaries. But I was not yet fully attentive to functionality or to the cultural context in which the garment would actually be worn.Over the decade that followed, I myself was growing. When I returned to China, I pursued a PhD in Communication at Peking University, and that experience had a profound impact on me. It deepened my understanding of communication and culture, and it sharpened my awareness of the distinction between art and design. Art can afford to be purely expressive; design must communicate. It must meet the body, the life, and the cultural gaze of the wearer.This shift in perspective is what led to the convertible one-piece system. The core vision—transformation, adaptability, fluidity—was never abandoned. What changed was the method. Instead of placing the boldness on the surface, I embedded it into the structure. The transformation mechanism became the design's quiet innovation, rather than an overt stylistic statement. In the end, the cultural resistance I encountered did not weaken the vision—it refined it. It pushed the design toward a deeper, more thoughtful form of avant-garde: one that does not shout for attention, but earns its relevance by genuinely serving the wearer.

There were two moments in the material experimentation that truly shifted my thinking.The first was during the sleeve development. The original Victorian-inspired sculptural sleeve was dramatically oversized, with internal boning and foam structuring to hold the silhouette. In early prototypes, the structure held beautifully, but the weight became a problem. The sleeve pulled on the garment, distorting the fit and making the piece uncomfortable to wear for more than a few minutes. That tension—between sculptural ambition and bodily comfort—became a central puzzle. I began reducing the foam density incrementally, testing different thicknesses, and gradually moved toward a more integrated approach where the boning worked in dialogue with the body rather than against it. The breakthrough came when I stopped treating the sleeve as a standalone sculpture and started designing it as part of a system that moves with the wearer.The second revelatory moment was the introduction of the magnetic modular connectors. Before magnets, I had tried zippers, snaps, and hook systems for the interchangeable panels. They all worked technically, but none of them felt right. A zipper interrupts the line of the garment. Snaps create bulk and visual clutter. I wanted the transformation to feel intuitive, almost silent. When I began testing magnetic closures embedded within the thermoformed polymer elements, the experience changed completely. The panels clicked into place with a satisfying, quiet precision. The mechanism became invisible—not something the wearer had to figure out, but something that simply responded to her movement.These discoveries taught me something fundamental: in modular design, the mechanism itself is the aesthetic. If the connector feels awkward or industrial, the garment fails—no matter how beautiful the fabric. If the structure fights the body, the design loses its purpose. The most technically demanding part of Aphros was not making transformation possible, but making it feel effortless. That, I now believe, is the true measure of craft in functional fashion.

To be transparent, the direct-to-consumer platform in China is no longer actively operating, and the Swiss brand debut was actually the result of my own initiative rather than an ongoing commercial partnership. So in a sense, Aphros is currently at an open crossroads—and I welcome international brands, manufacturers, or collaborators who share this vision to reach out and explore possibilities together.Looking ahead, I see the vocabulary of interchangeable components expanding in two directions. The first is material: as bio-based yarns, recycled polymers, and smart textiles continue to evolve, the modular connectors and panels can become lighter, more durable, and even responsive to environmental conditions. The second is cultural: different regions bring different aesthetic preferences and functional needs. A modular system like Aphros could adapt its silhouette, coverage, and detailing to suit diverse cultural contexts without losing its core identity—transformation with purpose.As for my academic position at the Communication University of China, it interacts with my design practice in a deeply reciprocal way. My research in communication and culture feeds directly into how I think about design as a form of narrative—clothing not as static object, but as a medium that carries meaning between the wearer and the world. At the same time, my design practice brings real, tangible cases into the classroom. When I teach, I can speak not just from theory, but from the lived experience of prototyping, failing, and refining. My students see that design is not just about making things beautiful—it is about making things meaningful. And their questions, in turn, often push my own thinking forward. This feedback loop between academia and practice is, I believe, where the most vital innovation happens.

Aphros is, and has always been, one of my most personal works. It mirrors my own life journey. Over the years, I have moved between roles—student, independent designer, PhD researcher, university educator—and each transition demanded adaptation. Yet through all these transformations, I have never stopped being fundamentally myself. That tension between change and constancy, between outer adaptation and inner continuity, is precisely what Aphros embodies.Functionally, the interchangeable bottomwear solves a real problem: it saves the time and mental energy of coordinating outfits across different social contexts. One core top remains stable; the lower half transforms. But the deeper message lies beneath that practicality. No matter how the exterior shifts—day to evening, professional to relaxed—there is a core that holds steady. The upper garment, in its quiet continuity, represents that inner self. It is a design that says: you can adapt to the world without losing who you are.If there is a dimension of Aphros that has not yet received the critical attention it deserves, I think it is this philosophical layer. Most discussions of modular fashion focus on sustainability or functionality—both of which are essential. But Aphros is also about identity. It asks a quieter question: in a world that constantly demands you to change, what part of you remains unmoved? I believe that question resonates deeply with contemporary women, and I hope it becomes part of the broader conversation around what adaptive design can mean.

Thank you—I'm genuinely moved that you felt that tension, because it is exactly what I hoped someone would see. The world itself is full of contradictions, and I think my own aesthetic sensibility is no different. Ornamentalism and minimalism have always been in a kind of pendulum swing inside me, and I've never wanted to choose one and abandon the other. They coexist—sometimes uneasily, sometimes beautifully.As a teacher of design history, I often discuss with my students how fashion does not develop in a straight, linear way. It folds back on itself, it reverses, it overlaps. Some of the most significant moments in design history were not born from consensus, but from opposition—from one aesthetic pushing against another. That dialectical movement is what drives the discipline forward.The sculptural sleeve and the minimal modular lower body in Aphros are not a conflict I tried to resolve—they are a dialogue I chose to stage. The sleeve carries memory, drama, ornament, a sense of the past. The lower body is architecture, system, restraint, a gesture toward the future. They belong to different languages, but they speak to each other within the same garment.What this juxtaposition communicates about my philosophy is simple: ornament and function need not be enemies. The tension between them is not a problem to be solved, but a conversation to be sustained. And I believe that conversation—between excess and restraint, between emotion and rationality, between past and future—is exactly what keeps fashion alive.

The connector system began with a simple question: how do you make a garment transform without the wearer having to think about it? I tested zippers, snaps, and hooks early on, but they all felt too industrial—they interrupted the line of the garment and demanded too much conscious effort. Magnets, embedded within thermoformed polymer elements, became the answer. They click into place with a quiet precision, and the connection feels intuitive rather than mechanical.What surprised me most during wear-testing was how naturally users began to treat the connectors as part of their daily rhythm. They would swap panels between errands and evening plans without stopping to figure anything out. One woman told me she forgot the garment was modular—she just reached for the piece that matched her next moment. That, to me, was the real success: when the technology disappears and the experience simply becomes dressing.