Interview with Xiyao Wang

My path into design began less with a single moment and more as an accumulation of visual curiosity—from watching scaffolding rise on Beijing’s ever-changing skyline as a child to my teenage sketches of imagined cities. There was no one influence, but a sustained internal urge to mediate between form and life. Design became my way to make sense of the world, and architectural education allowed me to sharpen that language.

I prioritize spatial empathy, contextual sensitivity, and narrative integrity. My work often begins with tactile sketching or modeling before transitioning into digital parametric workflows. Whether I’m designing a tower or a sculptural stair, I try to maintain a human-centered logic behind the form, integrating environmental responsiveness, layered symbolism, and experiential sequencing.

Design feels like controlled surrender—a mix of anticipation, frustration, and subtle joy. I especially enjoy the moment when disparate ideas begin to cohere, like solving a puzzle with no fixed edges. There’s a satisfaction not in finality, but in discovering that the solution can carry layers of meaning while remaining functional.

Living between cultures—China and the U.S.—has taught me to navigate contradiction and hybridity, which directly informs my design language. Beyond that, my interest in cinema and literature has helped me understand rhythm, framing, and atmosphere in space-making. I believe designers need strong narrative intuition and interdisciplinary openness to truly resonate with users.

My trajectory is increasingly hybrid: merging large-scale architecture with conceptual art and spatial installations. I’d love to design a memorial park or an immersive museum where architecture dissolves into narrative and emotion. I’m also interested in building a research-based think tank within my studio to explore design's socio-political agency.

Understand that ambiguity is your ally—clarity comes later. Don’t rush to find your “style”; instead, sharpen your values. Be skeptical of trends, but not closed to evolution. My biggest lesson: take care of your mental health; creative burnout is real. The best advice I received was to treat every project as a question, not an answer.

Design is less about ego and more about synthesis. Seek collaborations that challenge your assumptions. Study deeply—philosophy, ecology, history—and let that inform your aesthetics. And always return to the user’s lived experience. A successful designer is not the loudest but the most attuned.

My day usually starts early with a moment of quiet—often journaling or reading before the first meeting. Mornings are for deep design work or critiques; afternoons are usually packed with client reviews or team coordination. I try to carve out an hour in the evening to sketch freely or walk. Coffee breaks and spontaneous conversations with my team are the best moments.

I treat trends more like background signals rather than directions. I follow academic journals, attend exhibitions, and talk with younger designers to understand emerging concerns. Still, I try not to let trends dictate my work. Instead, I aim for a timeless quality shaped by context and cultural resonance.

A well-designed project quietly improves life. It doesn’t need to shout to be recognized—it simply works, emotionally and functionally. I look for clarity in concept, sensitivity to context, and a certain poetic quality. If it leaves a lasting impression and invites return visits, it’s likely well designed.

Readiness in design feels like a deep exhale—when the form and function align and the narrative flows. I know a design is ready when every change starts to feel cosmetic, not essential. That said, I often revisit old work mentally, and some ideas quietly evolve in later projects.

Each project has its own weight, but Urban Symbiosis stands out for how it balances scale with subtlety. It's an urban green spine that merges infrastructure, public space, and ecology in a seamless loop. It was challenging to orchestrate systems, programs, and user flows while keeping the experience intuitive and uplifting.

Two names come to mind: Louis Kahn and Daniel Simon. Kahn’s work taught me the profound power of silence in architecture—how light, material, and geometry can evoke a sense of the eternal. His buildings aren’t just functional; they feel spiritual. On the other hand, Daniel Simon—though from the world of concept vehicles and speculative design—has influenced my imagination profoundly. His futuristic visions are cinematic yet believable, grounded in form logic and material storytelling. Their work sits on opposite ends of the spectrum, but both remind me that great design transcends time.

I split my time between New York and Beijing, which constantly reminds me how fluid urban identity can be. Music, especially ambient and experimental, is a companion during design phases. My upbringing in China instilled a respect for ritual and collective memory, which shows up in my projects—even if abstractly.

At Extended Play Lab, we emphasize dialogue over hierarchy. My philosophy is simple: rigor with empathy. We’re collaborative but critical, always pushing boundaries while supporting each other’s voice. I value curiosity and resilience in collaborators. What can’t be forgotten in our work culture is that experimentation is non-negotiable.

I mentor younger designers through university crits and online platforms and occasionally take on public or low-budget community projects that align with my values. I see design as a form of service—our spatial decisions influence behavior, memory, and justice. That’s a responsibility I don’t take lightly.

Participating in the A’ Design Award has opened up new dialogues with an incredibly diverse global community. The recognition lends credibility when advocating for more experimental projects. Three key benefits for me: increased visibility, networking with thought leaders, and the motivation to continually elevate my work. Being named Designer of the Day was an unexpected but deeply appreciated affirmation of the path I’ve chosen.

I became a designer because I’m drawn to the tension between permanence and impermanence — between what we build and what we feel. Design, for me, is a way to both materialize and challenge the systems that shape our everyday lives. It’s never just about creating something functional or beautiful, but about giving form to unseen relationships — social, historical, emotional. What motivates me is the possibility of influencing how people experience the world. Whether it's through the intimacy of a staircase or the scale of a public plaza, I’m always thinking about how architecture can provoke reflection, foster belonging, and rewire spatial norms. Design is my way of contributing to culture without using words — it’s how I ask questions and suggest alternate ways of living.

It was very much a choice, though that choice was shaped by many indirect forces. I wasn’t “forced” in the literal sense, but my environment played a huge role. Growing up in a rapidly urbanizing Chinese city, I witnessed both the grandeur and the brutality of transformation. Neighborhoods disappeared overnight; traditions became commodities. These shifts made me realize how spatial decisions — often made behind closed doors — affect millions. I wanted to be part of that conversation, not as a passive observer, but as someone who could reshape the narrative. So I chose to design, not out of obligation, but from a deep sense of responsibility and curiosity. Design gave me agency, and I’ve never looked back.

My work spans from large-scale urban and architectural projects to sculptural installations and conceptual art. I’ve designed office towers, mixed-use complexes, interior environments, and speculative public structures like the Hydro-Bridge. I also produce art installations like Fusili, which investigate memory, dreams, and subconscious geometries. Lately, I’ve been drawn to hybrid typologies — designs that can’t be boxed into one category, like a bridge that’s also a public square, or a sculpture that doubles as a memorial. I wish to design more civic spaces that merge infrastructure, storytelling, and ecological intelligence. I’m especially interested in creating more work that invites participation — not just in use, but in meaning-making.

First, don’t aim to become a “legend” — aim to stay honest, curious, and resilient. The idea of becoming legendary can distract from the more critical work of developing your own voice and values. Young designers should expose themselves to as many disciplines, cultures, and real-life contexts as possible. Learn to draw from literature, philosophy, cinema, and even dreams. Build stamina for rejection and ambiguity, because design isn’t a linear path. Don’t just chase awards; chase questions. Most importantly, cultivate the ability to care — about people, about details, about the invisible consequences of your decisions. Design isn't just about what you make; it's about what you leave behind and how it changes others.

A good designer can solve problems with clarity, style, and technical proficiency. They know how to meet a brief and deliver something functional, elegant, and coherent. A great designer, however, goes beyond that — they don’t just solve problems; they reframe them. Great designers have the ability to question the assumptions behind a problem and propose new narratives. Their work resonates emotionally, culturally, and even spiritually, without needing to shout. There’s often a timeless quality in the way great designers embed ideas into material form. They leave space for interpretation while maintaining conceptual rigor. Ultimately, a great designer operates with conviction but remains radically open to change — they treat design not as a means to an end, but as a medium for critical thinking and cultural dialogue.

Really good design creates an experience that’s both memorable and meaningful. It transcends trends, avoids gimmicks, and holds up under scrutiny — intellectually, emotionally, and physically. I evaluate good design by asking a few questions: Does it engage its users in unexpected ways? Does it reflect a deep understanding of context — historical, social, ecological? Is it aware of its own temporality? Good design should be responsive and layered; it should reveal more the longer you engage with it. Some designs whisper rather than shout, but they stay with you. A truly successful design also carries an internal logic — where structure, material, and intention align — yet still allows for human improvisation and freedom.

Good design has both visible and invisible value. On the surface, it improves daily life — making spaces more usable, intuitive, and dignified. But on a deeper level, it shapes our behaviors, our mental states, our collective rituals. When we walk into a thoughtfully designed space, we often feel more present, more connected, more human. That’s no accident. Design can heal, empower, provoke, or reconcile. It influences how communities form, how memories are kept, how identities are expressed. Investing in good design is not about luxury; it's about foresight. It’s about creating environments that are adaptable, inclusive, and resilient. When we overlook design, we pay the price through inefficiency, alienation, and waste — both material and cultural. So good design isn’t a bonus; it’s foundational.

I would design a memorial park dedicated to disappearing cultural rituals — a space that preserves intangible heritage not as museum objects, but as living experiences. It would be designed for the elderly, the youth, and intergenerational communities, especially in urban environments where ancestral wisdom often gets lost in the speed of modern life. The space wouldn’t be static — it would evolve with seasons and stories, integrating performance, ritual, food, and everyday intimacy. I imagine a place where the architecture doesn’t just house activities but acts as a mediator between silence and storytelling. If I had more time, I’d devote energy to designing such civic environments that operate outside commercial logic, focused entirely on memory, empathy, and renewal.

One dream project that’s been on my mind is a network of micro-architecture pavilions scattered across neglected urban voids — residual spaces under highways, in-between buildings, or beside rivers. Each would serve a unique civic function: some would be gathering spots, others mobile classrooms, or spaces for silent reflection. They’d be modest in size but monumental in intent — a dispersed infrastructure of care. These pavilions would not impose but invite, subtly transforming leftover urban space into pockets of meaning. The dream is not just to build them, but to collaborate with local communities, artists, and historians to shape them together — turning forgotten fragments of the city into a collective artwork stitched across geography. It’s a long-term vision about reclaiming the in-between.

If I had to name one secret ingredient, it would be attunement. Not just listening, but really tuning in — to people, to place, to time. Design isn’t just about originality or beauty; it’s about resonance. I try to stay sensitive to the subtle cues that often go unnoticed: how a space feels at dusk versus at dawn, how people move when they think no one is watching, how materials age over decades. I also try to remain curious, never fully satisfied, always circling back and re-examining assumptions. Another key part of my “recipe” is synthesis — I draw from literature, cinema, dreams, conversations, and urban flâneuring just as much as from architectural precedent. The aim is not to find answers, but to create conditions for meaningful experience. That humility before complexity, combined with a deep appetite for life — that’s what keeps the work evolving.

I’ve always admired Louis Kahn — not just his work, but his thinking. His sense of silence in architecture, the way he gives dignity to light and brick, speaks to me on a very deep level. There’s a timelessness in his buildings that feels sacred without being dogmatic. I’m also drawn to the work of Daniel Simon, whose conceptual vehicles transcend utility and embody a speculative beauty — his designs occupy that thrilling space between science fiction and mechanical realism.

One of my favorite architectural works is the Salk Institute by Louis Kahn. That central plaza, flanked by two symmetrical lab buildings, culminating in a narrow water channel that disappears into the Pacific — it’s more than a design; it’s a spatial poem. There’s this incredible tension between monumentality and intimacy, permanence and impermanence. Another favorite is the Dymaxion Car by Buckminster Fuller — not because it was commercially successful, but because it was radically imaginative. It questioned everything from form to aerodynamics to urban infrastructure. I’m drawn to designs that are rigorous yet emotionally affecting — where logic meets lyricism. I also admire Carlo Scarpa’s Brion Cemetery: the detailing, the material tactility, the reverence for death and water — it’s a masterpiece of layered symbolism and restraint.

One of my most significant designs is Urban Symbiosis — a project that seeks to integrate architectural infrastructure with ecological rhythm in a dense urban context. What makes it special to me is how it weaves together multiple systems — circulation, energy, human rituals — into a fluid landscape of cohabitation. The design features dual towers connected through green terraces and a public spine, but what I’m most proud of is the choreography of experiences it enables: walking barefoot across planted roofs, pausing under filtered sunlight, witnessing the city breathe through vents shaped like sculpture. It’s a design that doesn’t just look good on paper or in renders — it lives. People linger there. Birds nest. Rainwater flows visibly across its surface. It’s not static architecture; it’s an evolving system. That, to me, is when design succeeds — when it becomes part of life, not a backdrop to it.

To become a better designer, you must first become a better observer. Start by noticing the unnoticed — how people wait at bus stops, how shadows migrate across a room, how your own emotions shift in different spatial contexts. Travel is helpful, yes, but so is sitting in silence in your neighborhood. I also think writing helps immensely — forcing yourself to articulate ideas clarifies what you’re really trying to say with form. Personally, I kept visual journals and wrote short essays even as a student, because I found that design isn’t just drawn — it’s thought. I also expose myself to other disciplines: theater, ethnography, speculative fiction, even quantum theory. These ideas percolate and find their way into projects. Lastly, and most importantly, I listen. To collaborators, to clients, to the environment. Good design is never just about your vision — it’s about tuning into a wider field of forces and giving them form.

If I hadn't pursued design, I believe I would have become either a filmmaker or a writer. Storytelling has always fascinated me — the way a narrative can carry people through time, space, and emotion. Architecture is, in many ways, an embodied form of storytelling: you’re guiding someone through a space instead of through pages or frames. Filmmaking, especially, offers a similar spatial language — montage, rhythm, atmosphere. Growing up, I was drawn to directors like Andrei Tarkovsky and Wong Kar-wai, who use space and time as poetic devices. So even if I had chosen another path, I think I’d still be creating experiences — just in a different medium. The desire to create moments that linger in the mind and stir something within people has always been at the heart of what I do.

Design, to me, is the intentional shaping of relationships — between people, between matter, between time and emotion. It’s not merely about objects or structures; it’s about orchestrating experience. Good design reveals possibilities; great design awakens meaning. In architecture, design is not only the creation of form but also the crafting of atmospheres that shape how people live, connect, grieve, celebrate, and dream. Design is both analytical and poetic: it solves problems while also posing questions. Ultimately, design is about responsibility — the power to impact how others live demands a deep ethic of care. When I design, I’m not just producing a product; I’m influencing futures.

No one achieves anything alone. I've been fortunate to have a constellation of supporters throughout different phases of my life. My family gave me the courage to pursue architecture even when it meant walking a more uncertain, nonlinear path. At Tsinghua and Harvard, I had mentors who challenged my thinking while also recognizing the unique lens I brought — professors who taught me that rigor and imagination are not opposites but partners. Professionally, I’ve had the honor of working with teams that trusted my intuition and allowed me to lead with a sense of exploration. And then there are peers — collaborators who keep me sharp, who offer critique not out of competition but out of mutual respect. Every step forward has been made with others at my side or behind the scenes, cheering me on.

What’s helped most is resilience through iteration. I’ve never been afraid of failing on paper. In fact, I fail constantly — in models, in sketches, in prototypes — so that the built work can succeed. I also maintain an emotional openness to the world; I try to stay permeable, which can be difficult in a field that often rewards rigidity or signature style. But I believe design is evolutionary. Reading deeply — literature, philosophy, even science — has also given me a wider lens through which to see the world. And I learn from people: from masons on construction sites, from students, from everyday inhabitants. The combination of curiosity, emotional intelligence, and relentless craft has been essential.

There have been many — some visible, others internal. Like many young designers, I had to earn trust in an industry where large commissions are often dictated by seniority or politics. Sometimes, being too conceptual or poetic was seen as impractical in a fast-paced, profit-driven world. Early in my career, I also struggled with the pressure to define a signature “style” — a temptation I resisted. I wanted my work to be idea-driven, not aesthetics-driven. That meant some projects took longer to get accepted or realized. There were also moments of exhaustion — juggling deadlines, perfectionism, and the emotional labor of leadership. But through these challenges, I learned that perseverance, vision, and staying true to one’s ethos eventually carve their own path.

Designers should present their work as storytellers, not just as professionals showcasing results. A project isn’t just drawings and renders; it’s a journey. Every presentation should reveal the intent, the emotion, the constraints, the epiphanies. I believe in showing process — the sketches, the failed versions, the rough models — because that vulnerability invites trust and understanding. Visual clarity is crucial, but so is narrative structure. And never underestimate the power of silence or of a well-posed question during a presentation. A designer should guide the audience to feel the design, not just comprehend it.

One of my upcoming projects is a high-altitude observation deck and souvenir shop for the Ping An Finance Centre in Shenzhen. It’s a small project in footprint but ambitious in spirit — integrating sensory experience, urban memory, and consumer culture into a poetic encounter above the clouds. I’m also continuing work on experimental installations, such as my Fusili sculpture series, which explore subconscious landscapes. Looking forward, I’m interested in cross-disciplinary works that blend architecture with film, AI, and social infrastructure. You can expect more projects that engage both public space and personal memory, challenging how we relate to cities, to nature, and to ourselves

My ultimate goal is to create designs that change the way people see the world — not through spectacle, but through depth. I want my work to catalyze a sense of presence, to make people feel more alive in space. Whether through a building, a public plaza, or an ephemeral pavilion, I aim to touch something fundamental — a memory, a rhythm, a longing. I’m not interested in architecture that’s just photogenic; I want to create places that age with grace, that are remembered in dreams. Long term, I’d love to establish an institute or foundation that supports design research around death, memory, and urban afterlives — areas I believe design has yet to fully explore.

People expect consistency, leadership, and innovation — but I think the most important expectation is clarity of vision. As an established designer, I’m often asked to guide teams, mentor emerging talent, and take responsibility not just for aesthetics but for ethics. Clients look to me for solutions that are both beautiful and feasible. Colleagues expect generosity in collaboration. Audiences expect work that speaks beyond the moment. I try to meet these expectations with integrity, but also surprise — because part of being a designer is expanding the expectations themselves.

Design has the power to shape behavior, perception, and emotion. It influences how we interact with each other, how we feel in public, how we remember. A well-designed plaza can foster civic pride. A sensitive housing block can dignify daily life. A poetic stair can inspire reflection. Design is not just about making things “nice” — it’s about crafting the conditions for equity, inclusion, and sustainability. Good design listens. It questions hierarchies. It reflects care. In a time of environmental crisis and social fragmentation, designers must act as stewards — creating forms that heal, that connect, that uplift. I believe design, at its best, is a quiet form of activism — transforming the world not with slogans, but with space.

I'm designing a small house/spaceship, it’s a personal project with no client and it’s fun.

Urban Symbiosis was particularly fulfilling. It reconciled ecological needs with civic space, which I believe is critical now.

I’d love to see more slowness. Less spectacle. More care. More unfinished, evolving forms.

I think we’re moving into a post-object era—where experience, interaction, and impermanence matter more than form.

It varies. Some take weeks, some take years. The emotional timing matters more than the calendar.

I always begin by visiting the site without expectations. I want to be surprised, even disturbed, by its reality.

“Reveal what is hidden, but never explain too much.”

Design sets the framework. Culture, memory, and politics set the trends.

Technology is an extension of intuition. I use it not to wow, but to question what’s possible.

Rhino, Grasshopper, Enscape for iteration; pen and tracing paper for truth.

Color and materials are emotional triggers. They do the storytelling when form falls silent.

I wish people would ask, “What were you afraid of when designing this?”

I wonder about its origin—what need, what feeling, what void led to its creation?

My ideal partner is someone from a completely different discipline. Yes, I believe deeply in co-design. Friction breeds invention.

Conversations with urban historians and psychogeographers have had the deepest influence on me—not just architects.

Invisible Cities by Calvino, The Eyes of the Skin by Pallasmaa, and The Poetics of Space by Bachelard shaped how I think about place.

I refined my skills by doing and redoing. Also by documenting my process obsessively—photography, writing, sketching.

I’d love to speak with Italo Calvino about cities that don’t exist, but feel like they do.

Awards are fleeting. Recognition is nice, but I’m more interested in resonance—does the work stay alive?

Favorite color: fog grey. Place: Beijing in Autumn. Food: comfort food. Season: summer. Thing: my Leica. Brand: I prefer unbranded.

Once, a client asked if a stair I designed was “too sad.” I took it as a compliment. We kept it.

A good day is when something unresolved finally clicks. It’s a quiet rush, not loud, but lasting.

As a child, I was obsessed with mazes and legos. I think that says enough.

A thousand years from now, perhaps we’ll design with memory itself. Architecture won’t be built—it’ll be experienced mentally.

I hope people see my work as fragments of a longer story—unfinished, open to interpretation, and rooted in feeling.

My studio, Extended Play Lab, is based in New York and was founded as an interdisciplinary practice exploring architecture, urbanism, interior design, and conceptual installations. We’re particularly interested in the intersection of technology, memory, and space — using design to create not only functional environments but also emotional and cultural experiences. Many of our works respond to urban complexity, seeking symbiotic relationships between nature and infrastructure.

Design is finding order and beauty in a chaotic world. It is a process of distillation — identifying patterns, clarifying purpose, and shaping form. To me, design is also a human act, grounded in empathy. It bridges the abstract with the tangible, transforming ideas into experiences that move people.

I’m most drawn to designs that engage directly with people — spaces that hold, support, and adapt to human presence. Whether it's a tower lobby, a public plaza, or an interior installation, I find joy in shaping environments where people interact, feel, and remember.

The Aston Martin Valkyrie. It’s a masterpiece of engineering and design synergy — every line has a purpose, and yet it’s effortlessly elegant. The car pushes the limits of what's possible, not only in speed but in form. I admire how it’s both aggressively modern and timelessly beautiful, a balance I often strive for in architecture.

A toilet — quite literally. When I was interning at Nikken Sekkei in Tokyo, my first assignment was to survey the existing restrooms at company headquarters and redesign them. It was humbling and, in hindsight, a formative experience. It taught me that no design task is too small to be approached with thoughtfulness and precision.

I’m fascinated by architectural glass and perforated metal — materials that mediate between transparency and opacity. I also enjoy working with parametric modeling tools like Rhino and Grasshopper, which allow me to explore geometry, environmental response, and material behavior with great fluidity.

I feel most creative after experiencing something emotionally resonant — a powerful film, a thought-provoking book, or an inspiring conversation with someone I care about. These moments spark ideas and remind me why I design.

I focus equally on function and expression. The design must serve its purpose well — structurally, spatially, environmentally — but it must also speak to people. I try to integrate logic and poetry, utility and meaning.

Designing is an emotional journey. I feel excitement when ideas begin to form, anxiety when challenges arise, and ultimately a deep sense of enjoyment when I begin to see the design take shape in a meaningful way.

Fulfillment. There’s something incredibly rewarding in seeing an idea move from sketch to reality — especially when people begin to inhabit the space, creating their own narratives within it.

A successful design has a clear purpose, achieves that purpose, and expresses it inherently. You can read a good design without needing an explanation — it resonates visually, spatially, and emotionally.

The integration of form and function is the first thing I notice. A design that looks beautiful but doesn’t work is incomplete; likewise, a purely functional piece without aesthetic or spatial quality feels uninspired.

Designers shape the world people live in — we have a responsibility to do so ethically, sustainably, and inclusively. We must be mindful of environmental impacts and strive for solutions that regenerate rather than deplete. Socially, design should empower communities and enhance quality of life.

Design is becoming increasingly interdisciplinary, with technology, ecology, and social consciousness at its core. The future will see design acting as a catalyst for healing — from climate-responsive architecture to inclusive urban design. It will be more adaptive, more participatory, and deeply rooted in context.

My last exhibition was in February this year at 4C Gallery in Los Angeles, where my sculpture Fusili was shown. I’ll be participating in the 40 x 40 A’Design Award Exhibition in New York later this year, and I’m also preparing for a show at the CICA Museum in Korea at the end of the year.

My inspiration comes from life itself — the cities I walk, the conversations I have, the stories I hear. I feed my creativity by staying curious, observing patterns in nature, art, and behavior, and remaining open to new perspectives. Travel and literature are also constant sources.

My style is contextual and human-centered, often balancing fluid geometries with grounded materiality. I explore this style because I believe design should resonate with both the immediate environment and the human psyche. My approach always begins with a deep understanding of site, program, and emotion — and then I iterate with clarity and intent.

I live in New York City, but I was born and raised in China. My cultural heritage deeply influences my design thinking — particularly the philosophical idea of balance between humanity and nature, which is embedded in traditional Chinese aesthetics. Living in New York exposes me to constant diversity and innovation, which is energizing. The con, perhaps, is the fast-paced nature of the city, which sometimes makes it hard to pause and reflect.

I work collaboratively with companies, often leading design from concept through execution. I believe in open communication and co-creation — listening to clients’ visions, guiding them with expertise, and building a shared narrative that becomes the foundation of the design. My process is rigorous but flexible, always anchored by the project’s larger purpose.

Look for designers who not only have a strong portfolio but also ask the right questions. Good designers don’t just deliver what’s asked — they reveal what’s possible. Companies should choose collaborators who understand context, listen deeply, and have a clear, authentic point of view.

My process always begins with intent. I ask: What does the client want to achieve? What does the site or context demand? And just as importantly — what do I want the work to contribute? After establishing goals, I gather references, explore analogies, and seek inspiration from art, film, nature, or even a passing moment. Then I begin sketching, modeling, testing — iterating until the form feels inevitable.

•My Bandai Star Wars model kits — they’re miniature marvels of sci-fi storytelling and Japanese engineering.
•Diecast car models — elegant, precise, and beautifully crafted.
•Material samples — some are custom materials I developed for past projects; they serve as tactile memory and inspiration.
•Designer furniture I’ve collected over time — pieces that remind me how function can meet sculptural form.
•The view from my window — natural light and changing seasons are the most honest and dynamic design elements.

My day usually begins with coffee and sketching — digital or on paper. Mornings are often for focused design work, reviewing drawings, or checking progress on ongoing projects. Afternoons are spent in meetings with clients or collaborators. Evenings are when I read, research, or sometimes revisit design ideas in a looser, more experimental way. There’s often a balance between structure and improvisation in my day.

Stay curious and stay patient. The best design ideas often come from outside your field — art, science, even failure. Develop your voice, but don’t rush it. And most importantly, design is not just about making things look good — it’s about making people feel something, understand something, or live better. That’s the responsibility we carry.

The positive: You get to imagine, create, and shape how people experience the world — that’s a privilege. The negative: It can be mentally and emotionally taxing. You’re constantly giving yourself to ideas, and that’s not always easy to sustain. But if you love it, the rewards outweigh the challenges.

Clarity through complexity. The more complex the conditions, the more clarity your design must achieve — in form, in experience, and in message.

Talent is a start, but what matters most is your ability to listen, think critically, and adapt. Empathy, storytelling, and technical fluency are just as essential as creativity.

I work primarily with digital tools — Rhino, Grasshopper, Enscape, and Adobe software. I sketch on my iPad using Procreate or Concepts. I also prototype physically, using 3D printing or traditional materials. For inspiration, I read widely — architecture, fiction, philosophy — and stay attuned to what’s happening in both culture and technology. Increasingly, I also use AI tools to test formal ideas or generate visuals.

I set clear milestones and define decision points early on. It’s important to give each phase — research, design, refinement — its due time without spiraling into endless iterations. I also know when to walk away and come back with fresh eyes.

It really depends on the scale and complexity — an installation might take a few weeks, while a large architectural project could take years. But regardless of size, I try to keep a rhythm of decision-making that balances exploration with pragmatism.

“How did you come up with this idea?”
And the answer is usually: “By listening — to the site, to the context, to the people.”

Working at Kohn Pedersen Fox (KPF) — where I led and contributed to major international projects. It shaped my understanding of large-scale design, integrated teams, and the relationship between vision and delivery.

They range from private individuals — many of whom work in consulting, real estate, or finance — to commercial businesses in the food, retail, and tourism sectors. I enjoy the diversity because each client brings a new story to tell.

Projects that intersect with culture and memory — spaces that hold emotional weight. I also love working on urban-scale designs that embed public use with storytelling. These projects remind me that architecture is both a vessel and a voice.

To bring more thoughtful design into the world — across architecture, interiors, and installations. I’m especially interested in public works and cultural spaces that create dialogue between people and their environment.

Both. I often develop the core concept myself but refine it through teamwork — whether at my studio or in collaboration with consultants, fabricators, or artists. Design thrives in conversation.

I’m currently designing a luxury supertall condo in Asia — it’s an exciting challenge because of the scale, complexity, and aspiration. It’s about redefining vertical living while maintaining a sense of intimacy and identity.

You can find me on Instagram at @ayepile, or through my studio’s website: https://eplabdotstudio.wordpress.com.

Only that design is not just about solving problems — it’s about asking better questions. I believe we need more designers who are not afraid to challenge assumptions and imagine radically better futures.