Interview with Xinpeng Liu

I became a designer not by accident, but as a return to my childhood life in the forest. I grew up in the mountains of Henan, knowing plant names before city names. The Beijing smog crisis of 2012–2015 made me realize that architecture had perfected the art of keeping nature out. I resigned and shifted to landscape design—not to reject architecture, but to extend it. No one influenced me—nature itself called.

My top three priorities in the design process are: 1) Ecological logic (can plants survive and self-sustain), 2) Spatial experience (how people perceive and interact), 3) Long-term maintenance (can the system continue to function). My core theme is "borrowing scenery from nature"—not imposing, only negotiating. I rely on hands for modeling and digital tools, but most important is my monthly on-site revisit photography.

The most exciting phase is the first collision between concept and reality—when the first plant is placed into the space. It feels like the forest is "recognizing" its new home. What I love most about design is the unpredictable growth: plants sprouting where you least expect them. The happiness comes not at completion, but three months later when a plant judged doomed comes back to life.

Three non-design skills have shaped me: 1) Patience (from childhood forest life—plants are not in a hurry), 2) Humility (from massive plant deaths in my first year), 3) Observational discipline (from monthly revisits and photography). The most influential factor is not a person but dead plants—they taught me the truth about soil, light, and water. My journey has been from "controlling nature" to "negotiating with nature."

My growth path: master's in architecture → large design institutes → resignation → three years of low-income botany study → first project (ISB school) → slow portfolio accumulation. Future plans: complete the Interior Landscape Construction textbook and online course, and apply for international design jury roles. Dream project: a Vertical Forest Tower—each floor a different biome, the building itself a living ecosystem.

First, give up the idea of becoming a "legend." Second, do the unglamorous work: spend two years learning irrigation, soil, and plant pathology. Third, find your wound—your design must heal something personal in you. The best advice I received came from Patrick Blanc: "Plants don't read your design specifications." How I grow knowledge: return to your completed projects every month and observe the failures.

Avoid "opening-day thinking"—photographing at completion and leaving. Successful designers must take lifecycle responsibility. Another common mistake: pretending certainty. Tell clients "I don't know, but I will observe and adjust." Most importantly: don't confuse decoration with design. Design is about relationships, not surfaces.

I don't read design news in the morning. I first check the plants—the experimental forest on my balcony, the sample wall in the office. Then emails and project coordination. Mornings are for concepts and spatial simulations. Afternoons might be site revisits or client meetings. Evenings are for organizing photos and notes. The happiest moment in a workday: receiving a site photo showing plants healthier than last week.

I don't follow trends. Problems set design. Trends are just symptoms. When biophilic design became trendy, it wasn't because designers suddenly discovered plants, but because nature deprivation caused a mental health crisis. My inspiration comes from the site—every site revisit is the best trend research. I only care what plants tell me, not what magazines tell me.

I judge by the "Three Deaths Test" : 1) Will it survive the designer's death? 2) Will it survive the client's death? 3) Will it survive the building's death? Good design is resilient, inheritable, and compostable. The "aha" feeling is not visual spectacle but ecological logic cohering—it looks like "it was always meant to be this way."

Design is ready when the system no longer needs me. That is, if I stop intervening, can the plant community self-maintain? Can the client team maintain independently? Design is never "complete," but there is a point called stability. I typically declare "ready" after two years of monthly revisits. Success is not opening day, but the plants still alive two years later.

The Tim Hortons basement forest café. It's not the largest or most expensive, but it taught me the most. We were given a basement with no light, no ventilation—and created a real forest. What makes me proud is not the visuals but the behavior change: customers went from "grab and go" to "stay, bring friends, take photos." It created a new category of experience.

Patrick Blanc—he taught me that botanical knowledge must be inseparable from design sensibility. Ji Cheng—the Ming dynasty author of The Craft of Gardens, whose principle of "borrowing scenery" guides every project. If I could speak with a deceased designer, I would choose Rachel Carson in 1962 and ask how she maintained courage under chemical industry attacks.

I currently work in Beijing. The Chinese garden philosophy "made by humans, yet seems as if opened by heaven" deeply influences me. Music is part of my creative process—I prefer ambient music without lyrics, letting thoughts spread like plants. I believe good design is necessary for social progress because it makes the invisible visible: air quality, stress, biodiversity loss. My small daily positive change: ensuring at least one plant is seen by me.

I work primarily alone, but my ideal partner is a botanist who cannot draw. When hiring, I value three things: 1) Can name ten native plant species; 2) Has experienced plant death and can analyze why; 3) Willing to do monthly site revisits. The core challenge of this industry: clients want "permanent green," but plants die. My responsibility is managing this expectation, not pretending it doesn't exist.

I give back through free teaching and low-cost design for schools and community centers. I believe designer participation in humanitarian projects is not charity but duty.

Three benefits of design awards: 1) Forced self-examination (you must articulate your work in words); 2) Building industry connections (meeting people who truly understand living design); 3) Receiving feedback (judges may point out issues you missed). Competitions taught me: awards don't prove good design; time does. Being "Designer of the Day" is an honor, but more important is the revisit one or two years later.

Two forces shaped my path.
The first was my childhood in the mountains of Nanyang, Henan Province. I basically grew up in a forest. Not visiting a forest—living in it. I knew the names of plants before I knew the names of cities. That early intimacy with nature planted a seed that took decades to sprout.
The second force was crisis. Between 2012 and 2015, Beijing experienced catastrophic smog. I worked in glass towers, breathing filtered air, watching gray skies through sealed windows. One day I realized: we had perfected the art of keeping nature out. Buildings had become fortresses against the environment rather than connectors to it. That realization was unbearable. I didn’t become a designer to build walls. I became a designer to break them—metaphorically—and let nature back in.

I chose it, but the choice was driven by something deeper than career planning. It was a moral imperative.
No one forced me to leave architecture. In fact, many colleagues thought I was making a mistake—giving up a stable, prestigious career to pursue something as marginal as indoor plants. But I felt called. The environmental crisis in Beijing wasn’t abstract data; it was air I was failing to breathe. When you feel your profession is part of the problem, continuing as before becomes impossible.
So yes, I chose. But the choice chose me first.

I design three-dimensional landscapes—vertical gardens, hanging landscapes, rooftop gardens, ground-level landscapes. My portfolio spans widely: from a Japanese restaurant of less than 10 square meters containing 3,000 plants, to a forest café built in a basement with zero natural light, to a living wall suspended high in the headquarters of Lenovo.
What I want to design more of are healing spaces. Hospitals, elderly care facilities, schools—places where the psychological and physiological benefits of plant proximity are most urgently needed. Commercial spaces are wonderful, but I dream of applying this discipline to places that can truly change lives.

First, give up the idea of becoming a "legend." That word implies arrival, completion. Design is never complete. Plants die, spaces evolve, technologies become obsolete. The moment you think you’ve arrived, you’ve left the truth of the work.
What young designers should do:
1.Go deep in one thing, then cross boundaries. I spent many years learning architecture before touching interior landscapes. That depth gave me credibility when I crossed over.
2.Find your wound. Every great designer I know is healing something personal through their work. My wound was separation from nature. Your wound may be different. But design that doesn’t emerge from personal necessity is just decoration.
3.Do the unglamorous work. For two years, I studied irrigation systems, soil chemistry, and plant pathology. No one photographs irrigation pipes. But without them, there is no design.
4.Teach what you learn. I’m writing a textbook not because I’ve mastered everything, but because teaching forces clarity.

Good designers solve problems elegantly. Great designers redefine which problems are worth solving.
A good designer produces a beautiful living wall that stays green for two years. A great designer questions why the building needs a wall instead of a garden, why occupants are separated from nature in the first place, and how the entire architectural paradigm might shift to prevent that separation.
Good designers refine answers. Great designers question the questions themselves.
Also: good designers protect their work. Great designers let it outgrow them. When I design plant landscapes, I know that my precise compositions will be changed by growth, decay, and renewal. The design isn’t mine to protect. That humility, I think, distinguishes good from great.

Excellent design passes what I call the "Three Deaths Test":
1.Will it survive my death? Not physically—everything decays. But the idea, the logic, the ecological system—will it persist beyond my involvement? If the plants die the moment I stop visiting, the design was merely performance.
2.Will it survive the client’s death? That is, will the next owner understand its value? Too many green spaces are demolished during renovation because they were conceived as decoration rather than infrastructure.
3.Will it survive the building’s death? Can the materials, plants, soil be composted, reused, or returned to the earth? Or does the design leave toxic residue?
Design that passes all three deaths is excellent. Design that passes two is good. Design that passes one is competent. Design that passes none is failure.

The value of good design lies in reducing suffering you don’t know you’re experiencing.
We’ve normalized indoor environments that suppress immune systems, reduce cognitive function, and elevate cortisol levels. We mistake headaches, fatigue, and low-grade anxiety for "just work stress." But research consistently shows that proximity to living plants improves air quality, reduces sick leave, accelerates healing, and enhances creativity.
Investing in good design is not a luxury. It’s preventive medicine. It’s productivity infrastructure. It’s mental health support. When a CEO asks me, "How much does this living wall cost?" I ask back, "How much does your company lose annually in sick days, turnover, and creative stagnation?" The living wall is cheaper.

I would design a forest hospital.
Not a hospital with plants in the lobby. But a hospital where the building itself is an extension of the forest—where patient rooms open onto interior gardens, where surgical recovery is surrounded by living walls engineered to release peak oxygen during sleep hours, where chemotherapy infusion areas are greenhouses where patients tend seedlings while receiving treatment.
For whom? For my mother. For everyone’s mother. For anyone who has ever sat in a fluorescent-lit waiting room and felt their life force being sucked into the vinyl flooring. Hospitals should be places of regeneration, not just repair.

A vertical forest tower—in a dense urban core, maybe Beijing or Shanghai—a mixed-use building where each floor is a different biome. Low floors: tropical understory for retail and dining. Middle floors: temperate deciduous forest for offices. High floors: alpine meadow for residential. The exterior: a continuous living skin that changes color with the seasons, managed by an AI system that learns from weather patterns and occupant behavior.
It would cost a fortune. It would require regulatory frameworks that don’t yet exist. It would demand maintenance protocols no one has written. That’s exactly why it’s a dream project.

I don’t have a secret. But I have a practice: I revisit every project at least once a month for two years after completion.
Most designers take photos on opening day and leave. I photograph on day one, day thirty, day ninety, day three hundred. I observe which plants thrive and which struggle. I notice where people naturally gather and where they avoid. I track how seasonal light changes affect plant health.
This practice has given me a database of failures more valuable than any portfolio of successes. I know which species collapse in basement conditions. I know which irrigation schedules breed mold. I know which "beautiful" plants are actually toxic to cats in residential settings.
The secret, if there is one, is that I stay with my work longer than is convenient or profitable.

I don’t have a secret. But I have a practice: I revisit every project at least once a month for two years after completion.
Most designers take photos on opening day and leave. I photograph on day one, day thirty, day ninety, day three hundred. I observe which plants thrive and which struggle. I notice where people naturally gather and where they avoid. I track how seasonal light changes affect plant health.
This practice has given me a database of failures more valuable than any portfolio of successes. I know which species collapse in basement conditions. I know which irrigation schedules breed mold. I know which "beautiful" plants are actually toxic to cats in residential settings.
The secret, if there is one, is that I stay with my work longer than is convenient or profitable.

The Gardens by the Bay in Singapore, designed by Grant Associates and WilkinsonEyre. Specifically the Cloud Forest conservatory.
What moves me is not the scale or the technology—though both are extraordinary—but the emotional narrative. You walk through a mist curtain, ascend a mountain path, pass through rare vegetation, and at the top look down over the world you just traversed. It’s a spatial metaphor for environmental fragility and human responsibility.
I also admire that the project doesn’t pretend to be "natural." It is explicitly artificial, explicitly maintained, explicitly educational. That honesty frees the design from the burden of authenticity. It says: yes, this is constructed; but the message is real. That’s the balance I strive for in my own work.

I don’t have a "greatest" design. But I have one that taught me the most: the Tim Hortons Forest Café.
It wasn’t the most technically complex. Not the largest. Not the most awarded. But it was the most honest.
We were given a basement. No light. No ventilation. A space where, by all conventional logic, plants should not survive. We created a forest there—not through illusion, not through artificial turf and plastic leaves, but through precisely understanding what those specific plants needed and designing a system that provided those conditions.
What makes it feel "great" to me is that it changed behavior. Before, customers grabbed coffee and left. After, they stayed. They brought friends. They took photos not because the space was superficially "Instagrammable," but because they genuinely had never seen a basement forest. The design created a new category of experience.
That’s greatness: not perfection, but category creation.

I improved by becoming a student again at age 35.
When I shifted from architecture to landscape, I knew nothing about botany, soil science, or plant pathology. I enrolled in classes. I apprenticed myself to horticulturists. I spent weekends at botanical gardens with a notebook, drawing leaf structures, recording growth patterns. I was humiliated daily by my own ignorance.
That humiliation was the best thing that ever happened to my design practice. It broke the arrogance that architectural training can instill—the belief that design intelligence is enough, that technical knowledge is merely execution.
For others: find the domain where you are most ignorant, and go there. If you’re a graphic designer, learn materials science. If you’re a product designer, learn behavioral economics. If you’re a fashion designer, learn microbiology. The boundary of your ignorance is the boundary of your growth.

I would be a forest ranger in the mountains of Henan.
Not a romantic answer, an honest one. If I couldn’t bring nature into human spaces, I would simply live inside nature. The work of protecting watersheds, monitoring wildlife corridors, or replanting native species after fires—that is design at a geological scale. It’s slow, invisible, essential.

Design is the intentional establishment of relationships.
Between people and space. Between space and nature. Between nature and technology. Between technology and culture. Between culture and time.
Every design decision is a decision about relationship. When I place a fern near a seating area, I’m not choosing a plant. I’m creating a relationship between a human nervous system and a 400-million-year evolutionary lineage. When I specify an automated irrigation system, I’m negotiating between human convenience and botanical autonomy.
Bad design creates destructive relationships: humans dominate nature, technology suppresses biology, short-term needs destroy long-term systems. Good design creates symbiotic relationships: humans are nourished by nature, technology serves biology, present needs align with future flourishing.
That’s why I say design is not decoration. Decoration is about surfaces. Design is about relationships.

My client at ISB—the International School of Beijing. They took a risk on an unknown designer with unproven expertise. Their trust gave me the portfolio to attract subsequent clients. Without that first belief, there is no story.
Patrick Blanc, who treated me as a peer rather than a student during our collaboration. That respect accelerated my confidence and technical development.

Pain helped me. Specifically, the pain of watching plants die.
In my first year, I lost entire installations. Thousands of plants. Tens of thousands of yuan. I sat in failed projects under emergency lighting, looking at brown leaves, wondering if I had made a catastrophic career mistake.
Each death taught me something. Root rot taught me about drainage gradients. Leaf scorch taught me about light spectrum quality from LED grow lights. Sudden collapse taught me about mycorrhizal networks and soil microbiology.
I became a good designer through study. I became who I am through failure. The dead plants were my teachers. I owe them everything.

Designers should present work as process, not product.
Show the failures. Show the dead plants. Show the abandoned sketches. Show the client meetings where budgets were cut in half. Show the maintenance logs from two years after completion.
When I present the Tim Hortons project, I include photos from month three when three species were struggling and we had to replace the irrigation schedule. I include the emails where the client complained about water stains on the floor. I include the revised lighting plan that cost an extra 40,000 yuan.
This transparency doesn’t weaken the portfolio. It strengthens it. It proves that design is not a lucky accident but a navigated complexity. Clients don’t hire designers for perfect conditions. They hire us for imperfect conditions. Showing how we navigate imperfection is the most persuasive presentation.

I am preparing two parallel tracks.
Track one: textbook. The Interior Landscape Construction textbook, co-authored with colleagues from the Department of Landscape Architecture at Tsinghua University, will be published this year. It’s the first systematic textbook for this discipline in China. At the same time, I am developing an online course, Practical Course on Interior Landscape Construction.
Track two: international jury roles. I am applying for positions as a judge for the IAI Global Design Award and other international competitions. This represents a shift from participant to evaluator, from practitioner to standard-setter.

They expect certainty. They expect me to walk into a space and immediately know which plants will thrive, which systems will work, which budgets are sufficient.
I deliberately disappoint this expectation. I tell clients: "I don’t know. I hypothesize. I test. I observe. I adjust." The most dangerous designer is the one who pretends to certainty. Plants are living systems; they surprise us. Buildings are human systems; they change. A designer who claims omniscience is either lying or has stopped learning.
What I offer is rigorous uncertainty. I offer a methodology for navigating the unknown. I offer a track record of adapting when initial assumptions fail. I offer transparency about risk.
A respected designer shouldn’t be an oracle. They should be a navigator—skilled at reading conditions, adjusting course, and reaching port despite storms.

Design can create a better society by making the invisible visible.
Air quality is invisible until it’s measured. Stress is invisible until it manifests as illness. Biodiversity loss is invisible until ecosystems collapse. Good design makes these invisible forces tangible.
When a child touches a living wall and asks why the leaf shapes are different, they’re learning about adaptation. When an office worker notices that the air near the green core smells different, they’re experiencing air purification. When a patient in a hospital garden watches a butterfly emerge from a chrysalis, they’re witnessing transformation.
These moments of visibility accumulate into awareness. Awareness accumulates into values. Values accumulate into behavior. Behavior accumulates into culture. Culture accumulates into society.
Design is the first domino.

The completion of the book Interior Landscape Construction is the thing that excites me most recently. In this book, I have systematically organized the design types, design concepts, design methods, and other issues related to interior landscapes, and I have also included some of my own works. This book is the culmination of my research and work over the past several years.

The ISB school projects give me the most lasting fulfillment—not because they were technically the most complex, but because I watched children grow up with the plants.
I designed the first living wall there in 2017. Then a rooftop garden. Then a stairwell landscape. Then an orchard. Over five years, I watched third-graders become eighth-graders. I watched them learn to identify species, understand seasonal cycles, care for living things.
Fulfillment isn’t in the object. It’s in the relationships that form around the object.

Three changes:
First, an end to "greenwashing." Too many projects install a few pots of plants, photograph them for marketing, and let them die. I want industry standards that require proof of plant survival rates, not just installation photos.
Second, biophilic design in building codes. Just as buildings must meet fire safety and accessibility standards, they should meet minimum biophilic standards—natural light thresholds, air quality requirements, minimum plant biomass.
Third, designer responsibility for lifecycle. Currently, designers are paid for installation and then leave. I want contracts that bind designers to minimum-term maintenance outcomes. This would fundamentally change how we design—toward durability rather than spectacle.

The design field is heading toward synthetic ecology—the intentional design of ecosystems rather than objects.
We’re moving from designing chairs to designing microbial communities. From selecting colors to engineering light spectra that support circadian rhythms. From specifying materials to cultivating mycorrhizal networks that connect plants across a building.
The next frontier is not aesthetic. It’s biological. The designers who will lead are those who read soil tests as fluently as color swatches, who understand bacterial nitrogen fixation as intuitively as structural load-bearing.
This is frightening for many designers. It requires a level of scientific literacy that design education doesn’t yet provide. But it’s also liberating. It expands our impact from the visual to the living.

I begin with silence.
Before sketches, before site visits, before client meetings—I sit with the problem in my mind for several days. I don’t research. I don’t sketch. I just hold the question: a basement café, a high wall, a school corridor.
In this silence, images arise unbidden. The basement becomes a cave, then a forest floor, then a mushroom colony. The high wall becomes a cliff, then a bird’s nest, then a waterfall. I don’t control these images. I observe them.
Only after this silent incubation do I visit the site. When I do, I see differently. The silence has prepared my perception. I notice air currents, dust accumulation patterns, acoustic reflections—things I would have missed if I arrived with pre-formed concepts.
Begin with silence. The design is already there; you’re just discovering it.

"The plant is not in a hurry, yet everything is accomplished."
My adaptation of Laozi. In an industry obsessed with speed, deliverables, and deadlines, I remind myself that the organisms I work with operate on geological time. A fern unfurls over days. An oak decides its shape over decades. A forest establishes its character over centuries.
My motto is not an excuse for laziness. It’s a discipline of patience. It means: don’t force solutions before problems are fully understood. Don’t specify plants before growth patterns are known. Don’t declare completion before stability is achieved.
Haste is the enemy of living design.

Neither. Problems set design. Trends are just visible symptoms of deeper problems.
When biophilic design became trendy around 2018, it wasn’t because designers suddenly discovered plants. It was because urban populations had reached a critical threshold of nature deprivation, and the resulting mental health crisis had become undeniable.
A trend is a signal. The signal is that separation from nature is causing harm. The design response is reconnection.
Designers who chase trends are chasing symptoms. Designers who read problems are addressing causes. I don’t care whether living walls are fashionable this year or next. I care whether humans are separated from nature. As long as that separation exists, the design response remains necessary—trendy or not.
So: problems set design. Trends are just weather. Problems are climate.

Technology plays the role of translator.
Nature speaks in wavelengths, chemical gradients, and temporal rhythms. Humans speak in comfort, beauty, and meaning. Technology translates between the two languages.
Sensors translate soil moisture into irrigation schedules. LED systems translate solar spectra into growth phases. Building automation translates air quality data into ventilation adjustments. Without technology, we cannot maintain living systems in hostile environments.
But technology must remain invisible in the final experience. Visitors to the Tim Hortons space should feel the forest, not admire the irrigation system. Technology should be as unnoticed as the lungs are to breathing.
When technology becomes visible, it fails. When it becomes indispensable yet imperceptible, it succeeds.

Spatial modeling: AutoCAD, SketchUp, Rhino, and Revit for BIM coordination.
Environmental simulation: Professional software for light analysis and airflow modeling.
Plant database: A proprietary database developed through years of project tracking, containing growth rates, light requirements, and compatibility matrices for over 200 species.
Irrigation design: Hydraulic calculation software integrated with building MEP systems.
Presentation: Photoshop and InDesign.
But my most important piece of equipment is a twelve-year-old Nikon camera. It records every project at monthly intervals. Its memory cards contain 40,000 photos of plants growing, dying, recovering, and thriving. This visual archive is irreplaceable.
My most important software is my notebook. Handwritten observations, sketches, failure logs, and client conversations. Digital tools for precision. Analog tools for thinking.

In my specific discipline, these elements function differently than in traditional design:
Color is not chosen; it emerges. I don’t specify leaf color. I specify species, and their colors change with season, health, and age. The "palette" is alive. This requires a relinquishment of control—something many designers find frightening.
Materials are primarily organic: soil, moss, bark, living wood. These materials degrade, compost, and regenerate. They require cyclical thinking rather than permanence thinking. A stone wall is designed for eternity. A moss wall is designed for transformation.
Environment is not the container for design; it is the co-designer. The basement environment of Tim Hortons dictated every decision. The high-altitude winds at Lenovo determined structural choices. I don’t impose design on environment. I negotiate with it.
This is the essential difference between traditional design and living design: in living design, color, materials, and environment are collaborators, not materials.

I hope they ask:
"Which plant died first, and why?" This question reveals that the asker understands design as process, not product.
"What will this space smell like in three years?" Olfactory design is completely neglected in visual culture. A space with jasmine and gardenia smells different from one with ferns and moss. Scent is memory; it’s emotion; it’s healing.
"What happens when the power goes out?" This tests whether the design has resilience or merely convenience. My systems have backup protocols, but I want clients to ask about fragility before assuming permanence.
"Could my grandmother maintain this?" Accessibility in design usually means wheelchair ramps. But ecological accessibility—can an elderly person with limited mobility and limited knowledge care for this system?—is rarely considered.
These questions don’t flatter me. They challenge me. That’s why I want them.

First: "What problem does it solve?" Not "How beautiful is it?" or "How innovative is the technology?" but "What human condition prompted its existence?"
Second: "What did they sacrifice?" Every design involves trade-offs. Speed versus durability. Cost versus quality. Aesthetics versus function. I try to identify what was sacrificed, because that reveals the designer’s values.
Third: "How will it age?" Not physically—everything ages. But how will its meaning age? As society changes, will it become more valuable or less? An iPhone is less interesting to me now than at launch, because its problems have become visible. A well-designed public park becomes more interesting over time, because its benefits compound.
Fourth: "Can I steal this?" Not literally. But what principle, what method, what courage can I adapt to my own work? All designers are thieves of methods. The honest ones admit it.

My ideal design partner is a botanist who cannot draw.
I can draw. I can compose space. I can manage client relationships. What I cannot do—and will never fully do—is understand the inner life of plants the way a dedicated scientist can. A botanist who cannot draw brings knowledge I cannot access. I bring spatial thinking they cannot access. Together, we create what neither can achieve alone.
I believe deeply in co-design, but not in the fashionable sense of "workshops" and "stakeholder consultations." I mean the ancient sense: two people with different bodies of knowledge collaborating toward a shared goal that exceeds any individual’s capacity.

I would like to meet Ji Cheng in 1631, the year he completed The Craft of Gardens.
I would ask him: "Do you know that 400 years later, a designer will try to apply your principles inside buildings with no soil, no rain, no seasons? Would you consider this a betrayal of your philosophy, or its fulfillment?"
I would also like to meet Rachel Carson in 1962, the year she published Silent Spring. I would ask: "How did you maintain your courage when the chemical industry attacked you? How did you protect your integrity when your design work—your writing—threatened powerful interests?"
I would also like to meet myself at 25, the year I graduated from architecture school. I would tell him: "Your love of architecture is not wrong. But you are not yet whole. The part of you that misses the forest is not a weakness to overcome. It’s a compass to follow."
Time is relative. These conversations happen daily in my mind.

In a thousand years, if we survive, I believe cities will be indistinguishable from forests.
Not because we will have covered buildings with plants—though we will—but because the conceptual boundary between "city" and "nature" will have dissolved. We will no longer speak of "bringing nature into cities," because cities will be understood as a form of nature. We will no longer design "green spaces," because all spaces will be evaluated by their ecological function.
Buildings will breathe, metabolize, and regenerate like organisms. Materials will be grown, not manufactured. Waste will be nutrients. Energy will be photosynthesis.
Or we will not survive, and the forest will reclaim our cities without our assistance. Plants will not mourn us. They will simply grow through our concrete, dissolve our steel, compost our plastics.
Either way, the plants win. My work is just trying to ensure that humans are still present to witness their victory.

I don’t have fans. I have witnesses.
People who have seen a basement turn into a forest. People who have watched children learn to care for living things. People who have sat in a green core and felt their breathing slow without knowing why.
What I want them to know:
About me: I am not a master. I am a student who has studied longer than most. The difference between me and a beginner is not talent but persistence. I have failed more times than most beginners have tried.

自然空间（北京）工程设计有限公司成立于2017年，专注于室内景观设计、智能绿化和垂直绿化。我们是中国最早系统性地将室内景观视为独立学科，而不仅仅是室内设计的一个装饰分支的团队之一。

我们的客户包括联想集团全球总部、北京集团蓝谷、民生银行和中国航空工业集团等财富500强企业，以及国际品牌如添荣顿咖啡和北京国际学校（ISB）。

对我来说，设计是一种“重建人与自然联系”的媒介。

许多人把植物景观看作只是“装饰品”——装修完成后才添加的，几盆盆栽放在角落里。但我一直认为，植物景观应与建筑结构和电气系统并列，作为空间规划的核心元素。尤其是在后疫情时代，人们对自然、健康和生态的渴望变得前所未有的强烈。良好的设计应让人们即使在室内也能感受到大自然的疗愈力量，实现古典中国园林理论中描述的空间体验：“可步行、可观赏、可通行且宜居”。

设计不是创造一个完美的静态物体，而是创造一个生命能够持续成长的系统。

我最擅长和最喜欢的是为商业空间设计室内植物景观，尤其是那些“条件差”的空间。

例如，地下室没有自然光的咖啡馆，或者高处不规则的垂直墙壁，或者只有几平方米的小餐厅需要容纳整个生态系统。项目的限制越多，创造力就越能激发。Senwei花园日本餐厅面积仅230平方米;在68平方米的空间内，我们布置了六种不同的植物景观，使用了60多个物种和3000种独立植物，但地面面积不到10平方米。在极其有限的空间中创造高密度植物生态的挑战，是我特别乐于接受的。

我也喜欢为企业总部设计室内绿化，比如联想全球总部那不规则的垂直植物墙。将自然带入高海拔空间，将垂直表面转化为生态界面所带来的成就感令人深感满足。

有两个项目对我意义特别重大。

第一个是千尾花园日本餐厅。在230平方米的空间内，我们布置了六种不同类型的植物景观，分布在68平方米内，使用了60多个物种和3000种独立植物，但地面面积不到10平方米。技术挑战在于如何在最小空间内实现高密度植物配置，同时确保每株植物获得充足的光照和通风。这个项目让我获得了法国INNODESIGN“全球百大创新设计师”奖和华鼎“绿色创意设计师奖”——这份工作奠定了我在行业中的地位。

第二家是蒂姆·霍顿森林咖啡馆，于2022年完工。这是一个地下室封闭空间，几乎没有自然光，通风也很差。我们借鉴了中国古典园林“可步行、可观赏、可通行且宜居”的原则，打造了一个多功能的“绿色核心”景观区，成为整个咖啡馆的核心。顾客进入空间时会立刻被这个绿色核心吸引，然后围绕它展开他们的活动。该项目荣获2025年美国缪斯设计金奖。

这两个项目共有的是：在极端限制下，它们实现了人类与自然之间深刻的重新连接。

我于2017年创立了这家公司。我最早的项目之一是为北京国际学校（ISB）在顺义设计教学楼的植物墙和入口景观。该项目获得了教师和学生的高度认可。随后，我设计并建造了一个屋顶花园、小学和初中部的楼梯间景观，以及学校的果园。看到学校在我设计下逐渐获得更多绿化，逐渐成为我心中理想的校园，这让我感到极大的职业成就感。这种持续的合作非常有成就感。

从技术上讲，我最看重垂直绿化系统和智能工厂维护系统。优质景观必须配备监测土壤湿度、光强、空气温度和湿度的传感器，并配备自动灌溉和辅助照明。

在材料方面，我始终坚持使用活植物作为核心材料，而非人工植物。只有真实的生命才能带来真正的疗愈。

当我沉浸在大自然中时，我感到最有创造力。我的思绪完全放松，能够观察无数植物在它们的自然栖息地中，从中汲取灵感。

我重点关注五个关键方面：

首先，生态功能。植物景观不是装饰;他们必须真正改善室内生态环境——空气净化、湿度调节、视觉修复，甚至生物多样性。没有这些，设计就失败了。

第二，空间效率。如何在最小空间内实现最大的生态效益。森威园仅占10平方米的3000株植物，正是这一逻辑的极端体现。

第三，人与自然的深度连接。这种设计真的能让人们感受到大自然的疗愈力量，而不仅仅是“看见”植物吗？这需要考虑血液循环路径、休息点、视线，甚至嗅觉和触觉体验。

第四，可持续性和智能。这些植物能活多久？这个系统能否自我维持？维护成本可控吗？这些问题必须在设计阶段解决。

第五，文化融合。将中国古典园林设计的智慧——如月门框架、亭阁氛围和顺序视线——与现代科技融合，赋予空间鲜明的中国风情。

首先，是一种使命感。“重建人与自然的联系”不是风格上的选择，而是我承担的责任。尤其是在像北京这样人口稠密的大都市，人们迫切需要绿意。

其次，是一种紧迫感。在雾霾期间的经历让我持续焦虑——我们还有多少时间可以改善室内环境？每一次植物死亡都提醒我们：设计必须更加严谨。

还有令人振奋的感觉。当我发现一种能匹配极端空间条件植物的解决方案时，那种“原来是这样实现的”的顿悟令人上瘾。

最后，敬畏植物生命。植物不是材料;他们是有生命的存在。你必须尊重它们的生长模式，绝不能为了视觉效果而牺牲它们的健康。这种敬意让我在设计实践中保持克制和深思熟虑。

植物景观与建筑之间最大的区别在于：建筑完成后，它就完成了;植物景观完成后，才刚刚开始。

看着植物在空间中扎根、发芽、绽放，看到顾客停下来拍照，在绿色核心中放松——那种成就感是渐进且持续的。Tim Hortons开业后，我特意观察：许多进入该空间的人无意识地被那绿色核心吸引，不自觉地放慢了脚步。这些“人类被大自然治愈”的时刻比任何奖项都更令人满足。

但也有焦虑。植物可能会生病甚至死亡;季节变化会影响它们的状况。即使在设计交付后，我仍会继续追踪维护状况，比如照顾正在成长的孩子。这种“设计无终点”的理念，既是植物景观设计独有的负担，也是独特的魅力。

还有一种连续性。建筑或许几十年未变，但植物景观每天都在变化。春天的新叶，秋天落叶——这种时间流动性赋予空间一种生命的存在感。

I believe successful design must meet five criteria:

First, reconnection. It genuinely rebuilds the bond between humans and nature, not merely providing visual decoration. In this space, people's breathing, emotions, and behaviors undergo positive transformation.

Second, ecological sustainability. Plants must grow healthily over the long term, the system must sustain itself, and maintenance costs must be controllable. If half the plants die within three years, the design has failed.

Third, spatial integration. It must seamlessly fuse with architectural structures and functional requirements, becoming the core of the space rather than an appendage. Like the green core at Tim Hortons, it is not merely landscape but the organizational center of the space.

Fourth, user experience. It should evoke the classical Chinese garden sensibility of "walkable, viewable, traversable, and habitable," creating desire for exploration and comfort in lingering.

Fifth, technological innovation. It must resolve specific spatial constraints (underground, high altitude, minimal space) and achieve breakthroughs. This kind of technical accumulation can drive the entire industry forward.

My evaluative priorities are as follows:

First, ecological goal achievement. This is the foundational criterion. Are the plants alive? Has air quality improved? Have people's physical and mental states changed? Without ecological goal achievement, no amount of beauty matters.

Second, technical feasibility. Under specific environmental conditions, can this solution truly be implemented? Have hard issues such as lighting, ventilation, irrigation, and structural loading been resolved?

Third, spatial efficiency. Has maximum ecological benefit been achieved with minimum footprint? Is there wasted space or resources?

Fourth, cultural depth. Has traditional Chinese garden wisdom been integrated and modernized? Is there simple copying or symbolic pastiche?

Fifth, user feedback. Do occupants feel the healing power of nature? Have their behavioral patterns undergone positive change?

Put simply: first ask whether they are alive, then ask whether they are beautiful.

I believe designers bear responsibility on at least five levels:

First, rebuilding the connection between humans and nature. In the process of urbanization, high-rise buildings have increasingly severed our bond with nature. Designers have a responsibility to mend this rift. We are not engaged in "beautification" but in "restoration."

Second, improving indoor environmental quality. As I reflected during the smog years, indoor air quality and ecological health are fundamental human rights. Designers should use their professional capabilities to ensure better micro-environments within every building.

Third, spreading ecological awareness. Through design works, we educate the public. When someone sits down in the green core at Tim Hortons, they may not realize they are being "designed," but they feel the healing of nature. This unconscious education is more effective than preaching.

Fourth, advancing industry standards. By developing courses and writing textbooks, we seek to crystallize practical experience, transforming indoor landscape from a "craft" into a discipline with theory, standards, and transmissible knowledge.

Fifth, sustainable practice. Promoting intelligent, systematic plant landscapes to reduce resource waste. For example, replacing manual watering with smart irrigation, and using locally adapted plants instead of high-maintenance exotic species.

Designers are not artists who answer only to themselves. Every decision we make affects the daily environments of thousands.

I have explicitly proposed the concept of the 3.0 era of indoor plant landscapes:

The 1.0 era was single-pot decoration. Buying a few pots of devil's ivy or money trees for corners—primarily decorative, without systematic thinking.

The 2.0 era was elementary vertical greening. Beginning to use plant walls and vertical planting, but with relatively crude technology, manual maintenance dependence, and many projects losing half their plants within three years.

The 3.0 era is systematization and intelligence. Plant landscapes are no longer after-the-fact decoration but core elements of spatial planning standing alongside architectural structures and electrical systems. They incorporate sensors, automated irrigation, supplemental lighting, data monitoring—capable of self-diagnosis and self-regulation.

Future trends:

First, interdisciplinary integration will deepen. Landscape + interior design + architecture + intelligent technology + ecology—designers with single skills will be eliminated.

Second, post-pandemic demand explosion. People's attention to nature, health, and immunity will not recede; indoor landscapes will shift from "nice-to-have" to "essential."

Third, from visual orientation to experiential orientation. No longer pursuing "looking green" but "feeling natural." This involves comprehensive design of soundscapes, scent, touch, even microbiological environments.

Fourth, standardization and customization coexisting. Basic modules can be standardized for production, but each project's ecological strategy must be customized.

我的作品主要以商业空间装置的形式呈现，而非传统的画廊或博物馆展览。Tim Hortons森林咖啡馆、Senwei Garden日本餐厅和联想全球总部——这些空间本身就是“常设展览”，每天对公众开放，人们在真实使用场景中体验设计。

这种“活展览”比画廊更让我感兴趣。画廊作品被“观赏”;咖啡馆的绿色核心是“使用过”的。当一位母亲和孩子坐在植物墙边喝咖啡，孩子伸手触摸一片叶子时——这种互动是任何艺术博物馆都无法复制的。

如果未来出现合适的主题和场地，我不会拒绝展览，但这种形式可能会打破传统——或许是一个可居住的展览空间，或者需要持续维护才能维持的空间。

我的灵感来自四个层面：

第一层，童年自然体验。我在河南南阳的山区长大，基本上童年是在森林里度过的。与植物、昆虫及季节变化的亲密共存，是我设计理念的根本源泉。我现在在室内景观中所做的，基本上是在混凝土城市中重建童年森林的记忆。

第二层是古典中国园林。我明确借鉴了园林制作的“可步行、可观赏、可通行且宜居”的原则，以及传统技术如月门构图、亭阁氛围和通往隐居的蜿蜒小径。这些并非简单的象征借鉴，而是空间组织逻辑的现代化。例如，Tim Hortons的绿色核心是“亭子”的现代版本——空间的视觉焦点，也是人们的自然聚集中心。

第三层是自然生态观测。我观察真实的森林——植物是如何分层生长的？哪些物种更喜欢共生？哪些需要隔离？这些生态规律直接转化为我的植物配置策略。

第四层，社会问题。雾霾、疫情、城市孤独——这些社会痛点是我设计的起点。不是“我想做什么？”而是“社会需要什么？”

激发创造力的方法是回归自然观察，然后将观察到的规律转化为空间语言。

风格描述：

我的风格可以总结为“自然主义+技术理性”和“东方大气+现代空间”。以植物生态学为核心，同时强调系统化、智能的技术支持;将古典中国庭园的氛围注入现代商业空间。

驱动力：

首先，是与大自然的亲密童年关系——那是我的精神家园。其次，在雾霾年代对室内环境问题的强烈关注——那是我职业生涯的转折点。第三，疫情后紧迫的需求健康空间——这是我的代际机遇。

主要特征：

1. 系统的植物景观：不是单盆装饰，而是完整的生态系统。
2. 极高的空间效率：在极小空间内创造丰富的植物群落。
3. 文化深度：传统园艺智慧的现代翻译，而非象征性的仿作。
4. 技术整合：与国际先进技术合作，解决受限条件挑战。

对设计的态度：

我把自己比作松树——“常青、坚韧、具有文化意义。”我的目标是在混凝土城市中播下绿色希望，让植物景观成为连接人与自然的精神桥梁。

设计不是炫技;它在解决问题。不是一次性消费，而是长期的陪伴。

I live and work in Beijing; my company is also registered here.

The influence of cultural heritage is absolute.

Classical Chinese gardens are my most important design vocabulary. The eight characters "walkable, viewable, traversable, and habitable" form the underlying logic of nearly every project. The moon-gate framing technique taught me how to control sight lines and create pictorial compositions; the pavilion's atmospheric function helped me understand the psychology of "focal spaces"; the sequential organization of winding paths taught me that "anticipation" is more powerful than "immediate revelation."

These are not stylistic choices; they are cultural DNA. For a Chinese designer, ignorance of one's own garden tradition is a profound loss.

Advantages:

China's profound garden culture provides unique design language; the urbanization process generates massive demand for indoor landscapes; traditional culture offers differentiated competitiveness in international projects.

Challenges:

Industry perception remains stuck at the "decoration" level; promoting systematic concepts requires significant educational investment. Many clients' first question is "how much for a few potted plants?" rather than "how can we improve the indoor ecology?" Changing this perception requires long-term, industry-wide effort.

My collaboration experience spans several types of enterprises:

Collaboration with Fortune 500 companies—Lenovo Group, BAIC Group, Minsheng Bank, Aviation Industry Corporation of China. These clients have high standards, regulated processes, and rigorous technical reviews. We must provide complete structural load calculations, plant maintenance plans, even return-on-investment analyses.

Collaboration with international brands—Tim Hortons Coffee, ISB International School. These clients value brand experience consistency. Tim Hortons' "forest" theme must find balance between global standards and Chinese local character.

Collaboration with international technical partners—working with French plant wall inventor Patrick Blanc on the Raycom Info Tech Center project. This collaboration exposed me to cutting-edge international technology and taught me how to adapt it to local conditions.

In terms of collaboration model, I emphasize full-cycle service: from conceptual design, technical development, to plant maintenance. Plant landscapes are not "turnkey projects"; after delivery, they often require 2-3 years of maintenance tracking to ensure ecosystem stability.

Core principle: understand the client's business objectives and achieve them through ecological means. For example, the green core at the cafe is not merely for aesthetics but for increasing customer dwell time and enhancing the consumption experience.

Advice for companies:

First, examine technical integration capability. An excellent designer should be able to integrate plant ecology with building systems (structure, MEP, drainage), not merely produce visual schemes. Ask them: what is the weight load of the plant wall? How is irrigation water discharged? What is the supplemental light spectrum? If they cannot answer, they are not experts.

Second, examine long-term thinking. Plant landscapes are "living systems"; assess the designer's maintenance planning capability. Ask them: what will this plant wall look like in three years? What are the maintenance costs? What is the plant replacement cycle?

Third, examine cultural integration. Can they fuse corporate brand culture with spatial ecology? Tim Hortons' "forest" theme was not chosen arbitrarily; it matches the brand DNA.

Fourth, examine constrained-condition experience. Can they achieve ecological goals in harsh conditions such as underground, high altitude, or minimal space? This directly tests genuine technical strength.

Advice for designers:

Understand business objectives. Design is not merely ecological idealism; it must serve business operational needs. Cafe circulation paths, dwell times, table turnover rates—these are all issues design must address. Avoid "self-indulgent" design.

My design process is roughly divided into seven stages:

Stage one: site analysis. Assessing all spatial constraints—light intensity and direction, ventilation, temperature and humidity ranges, structural load capacity, drainage interface locations. For Tim Hortons' basement space, light was virtually zero; this was the hardest constraint.

Stage two: ecological goal setting. Clarifying the ecological functions to be achieved—air purification, visual healing, biodiversity, even soundscape improvement. Different goals determine different plant strategies.

Stage three: cultural concept implantation. Selecting cultural motifs based on spatial nature and brand requirements. Tim Hortons uses "forest," Senwei Garden uses "Japanese dry landscape + modern ecology," Lenovo headquarters uses "tech-nature."

Stage four: technical solution. Selecting plant configuration forms—plant walls, vertical greening, high-density potted combinations, water feature + plant composite systems, etc. Determining irrigation methods, supplemental lighting schemes, and substrate selection.

Stage five: plant selection. Screening suitable plants based on environmental conditions. Shade-tolerant species for underground spaces, wind-resistant species for high-altitude walls, succulents or ferns for dry spaces. A single project may use over 60 species.

Stage six: system integration. Coordinating with architectural structure, electrical, and drainage systems. Plant wall loads must be confirmed by structural engineers; irrigation systems must interface with building automation.

Stage seven: intelligent maintenance. Designing sensor layouts, automated irrigation programs, and supplemental lighting schedules. After delivery, entering a 2-3 year maintenance debugging period, optimizing the system based on plant growth data.

The entire process may take from two months to one year, depending on project complexity.

基于我的经验和价值观，给年轻设计师的六条建议：

首先，从问题开始，而不是风格。不要一开始就想“我想做什么样的设计风格？”，而是要思考“社会需要什么？”我从雾霾问题转向室内景观，这并非出于风格选择，而是出于问题驱动。

其次，跨学科学习是必不可少的。建筑+景观+室内+智能技术——单一技能无法迎合未来。只会渲染的设计师将被人工智能取代，但懂得植物生态、建筑结构和智能系统的多才多艺人才不会。

第三，重视传统文化资源。古典中国庭园是其独特的优势;学会为现代语境翻译它们。不要只是照搬日本干旱的风景或北欧极简主义;我们有自己的文化宝库。

第四，硬技能与柔和视野。工厂维护、系统集成——这些技术技能必须扎实，但对自然的感知必须保持敏感。不要成为只管理数据的“技术官僚”。

第五，接受受限的环境。最恶劣的环境（地下、高海拔、极小空间）往往是最大创新的起点。好的设计无法走出舒适区。

第六，长远主义。植物景观是“活设计”，需要耐心的陪伴来促进生长，而非快速交付。做个时间的朋友。

优势：

强烈的使命感。以“重建人与自然的联系”为目标，很难迷失方向。在这个行业里，知道自己为什么做这件事比知道怎么做更重要。

高技术门槛。植物生态+建筑技术的跨学科能力难以复制。这不是速成课能学到的;它需要长期的项目积累和植物观察。

深厚的文化根基。古典中国园林的智慧赋予了独特的设计语言，在国际市场上具备差异化的竞争力。

市场需求明确。在后疫情时代，室内景观的需求正在增长;方向是对的。

缺点/挑战：

行业认知落后。市场仍然大多将植物景观视为“装饰”;推广系统化概念需要大量的教育投入。许多客户的第一个问题是“几盆植物多少钱？”

强烈的维持依赖。工厂是“活设计”，交付后需要长期维护，责任界限模糊。植物死亡直接影响设计评估，涉及许多不可控因素。

技术风险很高。每个项目都是“定制实验”;没有100%可复现的标准解决方案。一个项目的成功经历在另一个环境中可能完全失败。

标准化困难。每个项目的照明、通风和负载条件不同，使得标准化复制变得困难，这与建筑设计不同。这限制了可扩展性。

I have two golden rules:

The first: "Plant landscapes are not decoration, but core spatial planning elements standing alongside architectural structures and electrical systems."

This rule compels me to insist on "early-stage involvement" in every project—not waiting until building renovation is complete to "place plants," but participating in spatial planning during the architectural scheme stage. Plant wall locations, loads, and drainage interfaces must be determined during the structural phase.

The second: "Rebuild the connection between humans and nature."

This rule keeps me focused on the ultimate effect of design—not "does it look green?" but "do people feel nature?" Even if a space has many plants, if people merely pass through without pausing or interacting, the design has failed.

The relationship between the two rules is this: the first is a technical principle, ensuring the design can be implemented and sustained; the second is a value principle, ensuring the design has meaning and warmth.

Based on my experience, the most important skills in order of priority:

First, ecological integration capability. Integrating plant growth patterns with building systems (lighting, ventilation, drainage, structural loads). This is the core technical barrier.

Second, innovation under constraints. Achieving ecological goals in minimal space and harsh environments. Underground, high altitude, enclosed spaces—these "impossible" conditions force genuine innovation.

Third, cultural translation capability. Transforming traditional garden wisdom into modern spatial language. Not copying moon gates wholesale, but understanding the spatial psychology of "framing" and then realizing it with modern materials.

Fourth, long-term maintenance planning. Design is not the endpoint; one must plan for plant growth over 3-5 years or longer. Understanding plant physiological cycles, pest and disease control, and replacement strategies.

Fifth, interdisciplinary communication. Collaborating with architects, interior designers, MEP engineers, and botanists. Being able to speak their language while helping them understand the needs of plants.

Sixth, business acumen. Understanding corporate clients' brand needs and operational logic. Design must serve business objectives, not override them.

Based on my professional orientation, the five most frequently asked questions:

First, "How long will the plants live?"
This is clients' primary concern about the sustainability of plant landscapes. My answer: if properly designed, core plants can live indefinitely, but intelligent maintenance systems are strongly recommended.

Second, "Is maintenance troublesome?"
Concern about post-construction maintenance costs. My answer: 3.0-era intelligent systems can substantially reduce manual maintenance intensity. Sensors + automated irrigation + remote monitoring can essentially achieve "unattended operation."

Third, "How is this different from placing a few potted plants?"
A cognitive barrier regarding the value of systematic plant landscapes. My answer: single potted plants are decoration; plant wall systems are ecological infrastructure. The former improves mood; the latter improves air quality, regulates humidity, and reduces noise.

Fourth, "Can underground/high altitude/enclosed spaces be done?"
Questions about technical feasibility. My answer: yes, but customized technical solutions are required. Tim Hortons is underground; Lenovo is at high altitude—we have done both.

Fifth, "Is it expensive?"
Concerns about return on investment. My answer: initial investment is indeed higher than artificial plants, but total cost over 3-5 years (including maintenance and replacement) is actually lower, and the ecological benefits are incomparable to artificial plants.

My clients fall into three main categories:

Fortune 500 and large enterprises:
- Lenovo Group Global Headquarters (high-altitude irregular plant wall)
- BAIC Group Blue Valley
- Minsheng Bank Ecological Finance Center
- Aviation Industry Corporation of China

International brands:
- Tim Hortons Coffee (Forest Cafe)
- ISB International School (Beijing Shunyi International School, rooftop garden)

Commercial spaces:
- Wanda Shopping Mall
- Senwei Garden Japanese Restaurant
- Raycom Info Tech Center (plant wall in collaboration with Blanc)

What these clients share is this: high standards for spatial quality, willingness to invest in long-term ecological benefits, and understanding that design is not merely "good-looking" but "good-performing.

I most enjoy high-difficulty, constrained-condition indoor landscape design.

Four reasons:

First, the challenge is intense. Underground enclosed spaces (Tim Hortons), high-altitude irregular walls (Lenovo), high-density greening in minimal space (Senwei Garden)—each is an "impossible mission." The more constraints, the more creativity is stimulated.

Second, technical breakthroughs. Innovative solutions for lighting, ventilation, irrigation, and loading are required. Each constrained project accumulates new technical experience, driving industry progress.

Third, significant social impact. Creating nature in the worst conditions best embodies the mission of "rebuilding the connection between humans and nature." An underground cafe's green core may change people's stereotype that "nature is impossible indoors" more effectively than a ground-level garden.

Fourth, profound sense of achievement. The journey from "impossible" to "realized" is the most satisfying. When a client says "I thought plants were impossible underground," and then sees a forest emerge—that expression of surprise is the designer's greatest reward.

Near-term plans (1-2 years):

First, textbook publication. The co-authored "Indoor Landscape Construction" is forthcoming, an important step in systematizing industry knowledge.

Second, course iteration. Continuing to promote and update the "Indoor Landscape Construction Practical Course," cultivating more indoor landscape professionals.

Third, international judge status. Recently applying for judge qualifications at the IAI Global Design Award and other international awards, shifting from "competitor" to "juror," participating in industry standard-setting through a different avenue.

Long-term vision:

Sowing green hope within concrete cities, making plant landscapes a spiritual bridge connecting humans with nature. I hope that one day, entering any office building, shopping mall, or school, one will see authentic plant ecology rather than artificial plastic.

公司网站：www.zrkjbj.com

这是自然空间（北京）工程设计有限公司的官方网站，展示我们主导的项目案例。我是公司的创始人兼设计总监;网站上展示的所有项目均由我领导。

公司地址：北京朝阳区