Interviews 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.

The main focus was to create a holistic urban prototype that seamlessly blends vertical architecture with horizontal public life. I aimed to design not only two landmark towers but also a new civic destination where architecture acts as both a spatial and symbolic interface between people and their environment. I wanted to achieve a form of architecture that is performative on multiple levels—urban, environmental, cultural, and social. The towers had to command presence on the skyline, yet their base needed to dissolve gently into the public realm, inviting interaction and creating continuity with the surrounding urban fabric. I also focused heavily on passive and active sustainable strategies, integrating vertical green systems, shading techniques, and data-responsive façade treatments to enhance environmental performance.

The award serves as a platform to further build institutional interest and public visibility for the design. While the concept was initially developed for a competition, its structural logic and cultural resonance make it adaptable for real-world implementation. I hope to collaborate with municipalities or private developers to refine and possibly realize the design or adapt its principles to other landmark projects around the world. Furthermore, I plan to publish the work in architectural journals and present it in exhibitions that focus on future cities, hybrid typologies, and the relationship between verticality and landscape.

The initial design phase, including concept development, site analysis, massing studies, and narrative framework, took approximately six months. However, the process was iterative, involving numerous rounds of refinement across architecture, landscape integration, and urban systems.

This was a competition-based design, but I was personally drawn to the brief because of its potential to reimagine how landmarks operate within a city—not just as icons but as catalysts. I saw an opportunity to translate some of my ongoing architectural research—particularly around hybrid urban systems and vertical public life—into a realized form. Although commissioned as a competitive proposal, I pursued the concept with the energy of a personal exploration, pushing the boundaries of what landmark architecture could mean in the context of smaller but rapidly growing Chinese cities.

At present, the design remains a conceptual yet highly developed prototype, and I retain full authorship rights. I am open to discussing production or licensing rights with forward-thinking developers or city authorities. If realized, I envision collaborating with a multidisciplinary team of engineers, developers, and urban strategists to faithfully translate the design into a built reality.

As an architect deeply interested in the intersection of verticality and public life, I have long been exploring how skyscrapers can evolve beyond their traditional roles as private monoliths. I designed this type of work because I wanted to challenge the dominant paradigm of isolated high-rises by creating towers that are integrated, porous, and symbiotic with their surroundings. The Quzhou site was ideal for testing these ideas in a context where tradition, rapid urbanization, and environmental pressures converge.

Yes, the work of Kenzo Tange and Kisho Kurokawa—particularly their visions for Metabolist cities—inspired the idea of modularity and urban megastructures. Additionally, the layered landscape of SANAA’s Rolex Learning Center and the futuristic tectonics of MAD Architects informed how I approached the base condition. Conceptually, I was also influenced by Lebbeus Woods’ visionary architecture, which emphasized the poetic dimension of structure, as well as traditional Chinese landscape paintings, where mountains and clouds are often rendered in abstract harmony.

The target client is a forward-thinking municipality or developer interested in cultural placemaking, sustainability, and architectural innovation. At the user level, the design serves multiple publics: residents, tourists, entrepreneurs, artists, and civic institutions. It’s meant for a diverse urban demographic that values both symbolic and experiential architecture, where landmarks become stages for daily life, cultural events, and ecological regeneration.

What distinguishes this design is its synthesis of tower and topography, creating a continuum from earth to sky. While many skyscrapers aim to stand apart, this design reaches out and folds into the city, allowing nature, people, and structure to co-exist in a layered ecosystem. Moreover, the use of algorithmic façade articulation, adaptive landscape belts, and a multi-sensory ground plane sets it apart from purely commercial or symbolic towers. It is both monumental and participatory, a rarity among vertical structures.

“Quzhou Landmark Towers” is intentionally straightforward to reflect the project’s role as a civic anchor, but the deeper meaning lies in the design’s aspiration to define identity through form and function. The name emphasizes “landmark” not just as a visual or geographic feature, but as a cultural and ecological marker—a point of orientation both physically and spiritually for the city of Quzhou.

I used a combination of Rhino + Grasshopper for parametric massing and environmental analysis, Autodesk Revit for technical modeling and spatial coordination, and Adobe Creative Suite (Photoshop, Illustrator, InDesign) for visual storytelling. Enscape and Lumion were used for real-time rendering, and GIS mapping tools aided in analyzing site and urban context. Grasshopper scripting also played a role in optimizing façade porosity, views, and sun-shading geometry.

The most unique aspect is the fusion of vertical and horizontal typologies, where the towers grow not from podiums but from a flowing terrain of public programs, gardens, and walkable slopes. This design challenges the conventional high-rise model by dissolving its base into a living landscape—a feature that is as symbolic as it is functional. The towers do not dominate but emerge organically, as if sculpted by wind and time.

While I led the conceptual design, I collaborated closely with structural engineers and sustainability consultants, particularly during the refinement phase. Their input shaped aspects such as wind-load optimization, structural core configuration, and passive ventilation strategies. I also consulted with urban ecologists to determine plant species and water retention systems suitable for the park belt. The work benefitted from a tight-knit team of specialists who believed in the vision of integrated urban design.

Technology plays a critical, enabling role in both the design and the experience of the project. From parametric modeling for façade optimization to real-time environmental feedback systems embedded in the towers, the project relies on cutting-edge digital tools to enhance sustainability and occupant comfort. Smart systems are integrated into lighting, HVAC, and irrigation to minimize ecological footprint. Furthermore, the towers are designed to host media facades that can respond to environmental conditions or community events, turning them into living beacons.

Yes, the design was heavily influenced by data-driven site analysis, including wind flow studies, solar orientation, pedestrian traffic modeling, and urban heat island effect mapping. I also conducted comparative typological research on landmark towers in cities with similar climate and scale to identify pitfalls and opportunities. Surveys and demographic analysis of Quzhou’s growth projections also shaped the programmatic mix, ensuring the towers serve real future needs.

One of the main challenges was negotiating the tension between iconicity and accessibility. It’s easy to design an iconic form; it’s harder to ensure that the icon is also livable, adaptable, and community-oriented. Another major challenge was the engineering feasibility of the topography-tower integration, especially the structural transitions at the base. Balancing the visual lightness of the towers with the technical demands of vertical circulation and lateral stability required numerous iterations.

I submitted the design because I believe Quzhou Landmark Towers embody a future-forward vision that merits international dialogue. Competitions provide a valuable platform not only for exposure but also for benchmarking one's work against global standards. I also wanted to test how the project's core ideas—symbolism, sustainability, and social engagement—resonated beyond local or regional contexts.

Designing Quzhou Landmark Towers deepened my understanding of ecological urbanism and hybrid architecture. I learned how to better use digital tools not just for form generation but for data synthesis and environmental simulation. It also pushed me to think about storytelling—not just in visuals, but in how space narrates identity. Most importantly, it reminded me that architecture must be courageous enough to imagine futures, yet grounded enough to serve the present.

I would only add that Quzhou Landmark Towers is not just a project—it’s a thesis about how architecture can become a cultural compass in an age of urban acceleration. It redefines what it means to be a landmark: not merely an object in space, but a node of meaning, ecology, and encounter. It’s a vision I hope to evolve across different cities and contexts, wherever architecture is called upon to inspire both skyline and street life.

The central focus was to dissolve the boundaries between infrastructure, landscape, and public life. I wanted to create a spatial narrative where technology, community, and ecology are interwoven seamlessly. More than just designing a functional piece of urban fabric, I wanted Urban Symbiosis to provoke a deeper reflection on how cities are structured, how we live within them, and how architecture can become a regenerative force rather than a consumptive one. I was also intent on ensuring that this design would remain adaptable—able to change with time, seasons, and urban needs—without losing its essence. My hope was that the project would serve as a catalyst for dialogue on future urbanism and help people emotionally reconnect with their environment.

The recognition of this project has opened new avenues for further development. I am currently in discussions with several municipalities and private developers interested in adapting Urban Symbiosis to their local contexts. The design is modular by intention, so we plan to tailor it to different scales and climates, whether it’s in a dense megacity or a growing secondary city. I also envision the project being part of a broader research initiative—a platform that continuously evolves by integrating feedback from users, ecological data, and new technological innovations. Eventually, I’d like to publish a monograph that details its evolution, theoretical framework, and implementation, serving both as a case study and a manifesto for regenerative urban design.

The conceptual phase took several months of intensive work, but the seeds of Urban Symbiosis were planted years earlier through various research initiatives and previous design explorations. I would say the full design development spanned over nine months, including iterative modeling, environmental simulations, and stakeholder engagement. A significant portion of time was dedicated to testing different material systems and structural configurations to ensure that the design was not only beautiful and meaningful but also feasible and sustainable. Every detail, from the planting systems to the photovoltaic skins and water management networks, went through multiple iterations before reaching its final state.

This design was not initially commissioned—it was born out of a deep personal drive to explore a future-forward urban typology. The inspiration came during a period of intense reflection on the disconnect between many contemporary urban developments and the pressing environmental and social crises we face today. I was witnessing how so many projects were driven by capital efficiency and aesthetic tokenism, and I wanted to push back against that with a design that would embody purpose, vision, and responsibility. After developing the core idea, I decided to submit it to several competitions and research exhibitions to test its resonance with broader audiences and institutions. The positive response has been incredibly validating.

At this stage, the design remains in the development and promotion phase, but several partnerships are in progress. Given the complexity of the project and its custom infrastructure, I am leaning toward collaborating with specialized urban development firms and public agencies rather than selling or licensing the rights outright. My intention is to remain deeply involved in any built version, from adaptation to realization, to ensure the integrity of the design philosophy is maintained. We are also exploring forming a dedicated design and research consortium to steward Urban Symbiosis through its next stages of life, which may include multiple iterations across different cities worldwide.

I was drawn to this typology because it addresses one of the most urgent dilemmas of our time: how to reconcile urban expansion with ecological collapse. This type of work allows architecture to go beyond form and become a system—a living infrastructure that performs, adapts, and evolves. I’ve always been fascinated by the potential for architecture to act as both a cultural artifact and an environmental agent. With Urban Symbiosis, I had the opportunity to experiment with this dual identity in a highly expressive and scalable way. It wasn’t just about solving a problem; it was about reimagining the possibilities of urban life.

Definitely. I found great inspiration in the works of Louis Kahn and Daniel Libeskind—not necessarily in their aesthetic choices, but in their philosophical depth and the way they embedded meaning into structure. Kahn’s pursuit of timelessness and spatial purity gave me the courage to let parts of Urban Symbiosis be quiet and monumental. Meanwhile, Libeskind’s emotive geometries and his ability to embed narratives of memory into architecture pushed me to think about the experiential dimension of the project—how it could speak to people on both a visceral and intellectual level.

This design targets forward-thinking municipalities, progressive developers, and institutions who see the built environment as a tool for social and ecological advancement—not just profit. It’s especially suited for contexts where cities are grappling with densification, climate adaptation, and the need for public space reactivation. On a human level, the target users are the urban dwellers—families, workers, youth, and elders—who deserve to live in environments that uplift their daily experiences. Urban Symbiosis is for those who want to live in a city that breathes with them, responds to their needs, and fosters a collective sense of ownership and care.

What distinguishes Urban Symbiosis is its holistic ambition. Many projects today claim sustainability or biophilic integration, but they often treat those aspects as add-ons rather than the core structure. In Urban Symbiosis, the ecological systems, human-scale design, and technological interventions are not separate entities—they are deeply interdependent. Another key differentiation is the level of adaptability built into the system. It’s not a static piece of architecture but a dynamic organism, capable of evolving over time. Lastly, the emotional resonance—the way the form evokes curiosity, contemplation, and connection—is a result of very deliberate compositional and spatial decisions that I believe elevate it beyond mere functionalism.

The name Urban Symbiosis emerged naturally from the conceptual underpinnings of the design. I was exploring ways to frame a new kind of relationship between urbanism and ecology—not as oppositional forces but as co-evolving systems. The term “symbiosis” comes from biology, referring to interactions between different organisms that live in close proximity, often benefiting one another. Applying this term to the urban scale was a deliberate provocation: Can architecture move beyond coexistence with nature to a point of active reciprocity? By titling the project Urban Symbiosis, I wanted to embed that question into the identity of the work itself. It’s both a descriptor and a thesis statement—a call to rethink how cities live with their ecosystems.

The project was developed using a combination of parametric modeling tools and environmental analysis software. Rhinoceros 3D with Grasshopper was essential for developing the modular system of the structure and testing different morphological iterations. We used Ladybug and Honeybee to evaluate environmental performance, including solar exposure, daylighting, and thermal comfort. For the landscape and hydrology systems, we simulated water flow patterns and plant growth behavior to inform spatial strategies. Adobe Creative Suite was used for visualization and storytelling, while physical study models also played a crucial role in conceptual testing. The tools were not just technical aids—they were collaborators in the design process, helping to visualize complexity and push the boundaries of what the project could become.

One of the most distinctive aspects of Urban Symbiosis is how it merges ecological infrastructure with architectural form, allowing them to become indistinguishable. The structure is not merely a container for greenery or a building with decorative plantings—it is a living framework that supports water collection, air purification, and biodiversity. The vertical fins, for example, are not just shading devices; they are embedded with ventilation systems and bioskins that support climbing vegetation and filter urban particulates. The public spaces are layered into the system like organs in a body, making the entire project function as a responsive, integrated organism. This level of synergy—between system, structure, and society—is rare in urban architecture, and I believe it’s what gives the

While I led the concept and design direction, Urban Symbiosis was made possible through a collaborative process involving experts in ecology, environmental engineering, and digital fabrication. I worked closely with landscape architects to integrate native plant systems and ensure ecological resilience. Engineers helped me refine the structural system to balance openness with load-bearing efficiency. I also collaborated with sustainability consultants to analyze how the design could meet or exceed green building standards. These collaborations were not one-off consultations but ongoing dialogues, often leading to significant shifts in design strategy. The interdisciplinary exchange was essential—not only for technical validation but for enriching the project with knowledge beyond architecture alone.

Technology in Urban Symbiosis is not merely a support mechanism—it is a design language and a vital agent of transformation. From parametric geometry that optimizes light and airflow to integrated environmental systems that collect and reuse water, technology acts as a bridge between architectural intention and environmental intelligence. I’m particularly interested in how technology can be used not just to make things “smarter,” but to make them more alive—more responsive, adaptive, and symbiotic. The embedded systems in this project allow the building to monitor environmental conditions and respond accordingly, whether that means opening louvered skins, channeling rainwater to planters, or adjusting lighting levels based on human presence. It’s a vision of urban architecture where technology doesn’t distance us from nature, but brings us closer to it.

Absolutely—data played a foundational role in shaping the design. We conducted site-specific climate analysis, pedestrian movement studies, and biodiversity impact assessments. Using tools like ClimateStudio and GIS mapping, we assessed sun paths, prevailing winds, and microclimate behaviors to determine the optimal orientation and form of the structures. Research into local flora and fauna helped us design habitat-supportive green zones within the architectural system. We also looked into precedents from urban ecology—such as green corridors, eco-bridges, and biophilic design frameworks—and synthesized them into a new, scalable typology. This combination of empirical data and contextual research allowed the design to be both visionary and grounded in real-world performance.

One major challenge was balancing formal ambition with ecological functionality. It’s one thing to imagine a green architectural vision, and another to make it work structurally, economically, and environmentally. There were tensions between the lightweight porous form I envisioned and the need to support complex infrastructural systems. Another difficulty was visualizing the long-term evolution of the space—how it would age, grow, and change with seasons and human use. We developed phasing strategies and growth maps, but the unpredictability of natural systems required a more flexible mindset than traditional architecture. Finally, communicating the complexity of the design to stakeholders—who may not be used to thinking in systemic or regenerative terms—was a challenge that required careful storytelling and visualization.

I believe that architecture is not just about building—it’s also about building discourse. Submitting Urban Symbiosis to an international competition was a way to test its relevance beyond local or academic contexts. I wanted to see how the idea would resonate with a global audience of designers, critics, and institutions. Awards like the A’ Design Award provide a platform not only for recognition but for dialogue and peer review. It was also a strategic step: by entering the project into a visible, credible platform, I hoped to attract potential collaborators, sponsors, or city partners who could help bring the vision to life. In that sense, the submission was as much about idea propagation as it was about professional development.

Designing Urban Symbiosis deepened my understanding of the interconnectedness between systems—natural, urban, and human. I learned to relinquish a certain degree of control in order to allow the design to be truly ecological and adaptive. It also challenged me to become more fluent in technical disciplines beyond architecture: from hydrology to botany to environmental systems engineering. Perhaps most importantly, it taught me the value of patience and persistence. Many of the ideas took time to mature and required multiple iterations before they found their proper expression. On a personal level, the project reaffirmed my belief that architecture can—and must—be a force for positive transformation, not only in form but in the ethics and futures it proposes.

What I’d like to emphasize, perhaps more than anything, is that Urban Symbiosis is not a singular project—it’s a framework. It’s meant to evolve with each iteration, responding to different cities, climates, and communities. I see it as part of a larger cultural shift, where architecture reclaims its role as a civic agent and a planetary citizen. The challenges we face today—climate change, urban inequality, ecological collapse—require design that is bold, systemic, and deeply empathetic. Urban Symbiosis is my contribution to that conversation. And I hope that through this recognition, it can inspire others to build not just structures, but relationships—between people, places, and the planet.

My primary focus was to create a civic structure that is multifunctional, resilient, and deeply embedded in its context. I wanted to achieve a new typology that merges public space with essential infrastructure—a place where people don’t just pass through, but linger, interact, and thrive. The bridge offers shaded marketplaces, water storage facilities, and even a platform for emergency relief or temporary shelters during flooding. My goal was to design an architecture that responds to both the poetic and practical dimensions of life along the river—a platform for everyday rituals and seasonal transformation.

Hydro Bridge is a conceptual prototype, but I envision adapting it for implementation in flood-prone or underserved regions across South and Southeast Asia. The recognition from this award offers visibility and credibility, which I plan to leverage in approaching NGOs, city planners, and international development agencies. I am currently exploring possibilities for funding and partnerships to bring the design to life, potentially beginning with a pilot project in Nepal or Bangladesh. I also see the design being adapted into an educational toolkit on adaptive infrastructure and resilient public space.

The initial conceptual phase took about six months, during which I conducted field research, feasibility studies, and iterative design development. However, the idea had been germinating for much longer—rooted in earlier academic explorations and observations I made while traveling through South Asia. The design evolved through sketches, physical models, parametric studies, and contextual analysis. It’s a project that matured over time, becoming more robust with each layer of investigation.

This was a self-initiated project, born from a desire to explore how architecture could respond meaningfully to underserved communities and vulnerable ecosystems. It was not commissioned but driven by an impulse to address real-world challenges through speculative yet grounded design. The idea came to me while studying water infrastructure and rural-urban intersections. I saw how essential yet neglected river crossings often are, and I wanted to challenge the idea that such utilitarian structures couldn't also be civic and poetic.

At this point, the design remains a conceptual prototype, though it is ready for adaptation and implementation. I am open to collaborating with public agencies, NGOs, or design-build firms that focus on social impact projects. My intention is not necessarily to commercialize the design but to ensure its realization in communities that could benefit from it. I am actively seeking the right partners and funding mechanisms to prototype the bridge on-site, with local materials and construction methods.

I have always been interested in infrastructural architecture—not just as engineering feats, but as cultural artifacts. In many parts of the world, bridges are among the few pieces of public infrastructure that carry symbolic, economic, and social weight simultaneously. The river systems of Nepal and India are particularly fascinating because they are simultaneously sacred, agricultural, and destructive. I wanted to design something that honored these complex roles while offering pragmatic solutions to real challenges—such as flooding, lack of public gathering spaces, and absence of local marketplaces.

Yes, I was inspired by the infrastructural pragmatism of rural footbridges in Southeast Asia and the sculptural utility of works by architects like Shigeru Ban and Wang Shu, who find elegance in simple, tectonic responses to local materials and needs. I also studied ancient stepwells in India and the flood-adaptive stilt structures of the Mekong Delta. These precedents offered insight into how design can be resilient, contextual, and multifunctional without relying on high technology or excessive ornamentation.

The primary users are local residents—farmers, vendors, children, and elders—who rely on the river for their daily lives. Secondary users include seasonal visitors, relief organizations during flood emergencies, and tourists exploring cultural or ecological routes. In a broader sense, the “customer” is the community itself, as the project is designed to be collectively beneficial rather than client-specific. It is meant for a public realm that transcends individual ownership.

What sets Hydro Bridge apart is its hybrid identity: it is simultaneously a bridge, a public plaza, a water infrastructure, and a seasonal emergency hub. Most bridges are single-purpose structures, but this one is polyfunctional and temporally responsive. It adapts with the river’s rise and fall; it stores water during the dry season and transforms into a pier or refuge during floods. Unlike conventional designs that remain static, Hydro Bridge is alive—it shifts in purpose, function, and meaning over time.

The name Hydro Bridge directly references its central theme: the dynamic interaction between water and structure. “Hydro” acknowledges the bridge’s engagement with river systems—not just crossing water, but working with it. The name is meant to be functional and evocative, suggesting both a technological response to hydrology and a poetic reading of a structure shaped by liquid forces. It captures the idea that the bridge is as much about the flow of people and culture as it is about the flow of water.

I used Rhino and Grasshopper for parametric modeling, enabling me to test various structural geometries and water flow responses. GIS data and topographical mapping tools were used to assess flood zones and landscape behavior. Adobe Creative Suite helped with storytelling and diagrams, while physical models in foam and cardboard were used to test spatial sequences and massing. The project also benefited from simple but effective sketching tools to keep ideas fluid and grounded.

The most unique aspect is the bridge’s temporal adaptability—it’s designed not only for different user groups but also for different seasons. It blurs boundaries between infrastructure and public realm, between object and landscape. Its ability to store water, create marketplaces, and provide flood-time shelters makes it both a community resource and a climate-adaptive system. It doesn't impose itself on the river—it listens, reacts, and harmonizes with it.

I consulted with local engineers and environmental researchers during the concept phase, especially regarding water management and flood risk. Though it was a largely self-driven design, I benefited from informal input from Nepali civil engineers familiar with regional hydrology. If the project progresses into a built phase, I plan to work closely with local artisans, masons, and NGOs to ensure that materials, techniques, and labor align with cultural and environmental conditions.

Technology serves a subtle but critical role. It enabled precision in understanding seasonal hydrological behavior and helped simulate structural responses to different loads and weather events. However, the design intentionally resists overreliance on advanced technologies—it favors low-tech, robust solutions suited for rural contexts. In that sense, technology was used more for analysis and prototyping than for the final output, which remains grounded in vernacular methods and accessible materials.

Yes, extensive site analysis and data research formed the backbone of the design. I studied river behavior across seasons, analyzed rainfall and flood frequency, mapped local pedestrian and vehicular patterns, and researched regional construction materials and costs. I also studied case studies of flood-resilient infrastructure, both ancient and contemporary, to develop an adaptive logic that was both innovative and rooted in local history. These layers of research ensured that the project was both visionary and viable.

One of the main challenges was reconciling the ambition of the design with the realities of local construction practices and funding mechanisms. How could I create a form expressive enough to communicate a new idea, but simple enough to be built affordably and sustainably? Another challenge was addressing safety and resilience during flood season—ensuring that the bridge remains a refuge, not a liability. Finally, proposing a new typology meant facing skepticism: not everyone immediately understands why a bridge should do more than span a river.

Submitting to the A' Design Award was a way to amplify the message and open up new possibilities for realization. I believed the project had a compelling story and a strong social mission—one that could resonate beyond its immediate geographic context. International recognition allows projects like this to step out of the speculative realm and into a more actionable sphere. It was also a way to connect with others in the design community working on infrastructure and resilience.

I learned how to balance poetry and pragmatism, vision and viability. The project pushed me to think not just like an architect, but like a systems thinker, anthropologist, and humanitarian. I became more sensitive to the nuances of informal economies, seasonal rituals, and climate variability. It also reaffirmed my belief in architecture as a social catalyst—one that doesn’t wait for commissions but initiates conversations and imagines new futures.

I would like to emphasize that Hydro Bridge is more than a design—it’s a proposition. It suggests a way forward for infrastructure that is ecological, inclusive, and beautiful. In a time when climate change and urbanization are colliding in unprecedented ways, we need public works that do more, mean more, and serve more. Hydro Bridge invites us to think of every crossing as a place—not just to pass over, but to arrive at something better.

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.

Lujiazui is defined by an intense, hyper-kinetic energy—it is a landscape of glass, steel, neon, and relentless speed. To create a true sanctuary within this environment, the design could not simply ignore the city; it had to establish a deliberate psychological equilibrium with it. We treated the apartment envelope as a sensory decompression chamber.We countered the cold, corporate materials of the external financial district by wrapping the interior in a deeply tactile, warm palette of muted cream panels, soft wood underfoot, and rich, dark wood veneers. Outward urban engagement is preserved through expansive glazing that captures the dramatic Shanghai skyline, framing it almost like a living piece of art. However, by softening the interior acoustics and utilizing indirect, low-glare architectural lighting coves, we allowed the occupants to observe the kinetic energy of the city from a position of absolute safety, quietude, and emotional grounding.

The qualitative research process completely transformed our approach to the apartment's spatial hierarchy. Through observational studies and in-depth interviews, we discovered a profound disconnect between standard real estate layouts and the actual lifestyle of modern urban professionals. We realized that our clients did not desire a series of closed, single-purpose rooms; rather, they suffered from "micro-isolation" within their own homes, particularly when one person was working late in a closed study while the other was in the living area.What surprised us most was how much the perception of physical space relies on visual continuity rather than raw square footage. This insight directly led us to remove a major demising wall, instantly unifying the living space and the study. To maintain acoustic privacy without sacrificing social connection, we introduced an interior window frame into the home office. This subtle layer of visual porosity ensures that even when performing separate tasks, the occupants remain tethered to a shared domestic life.

Urban Serenity Apartment powerfully embodies the criteria of space optimization and material excellence by rejecting ostentation in favor of structural and atmospheric precision. The innovation lies in its fluid topography—how the space uses calibrated material contrasts, transitioning from deep, compressed wooden corridors into bright, expansive communal zones. It honors traditional Chinese spatial harmony and the classic Haipai modernism of Shanghai, yet expresses it through a clean, international minimalist language.Receiving the Iron A' Design Award signals a major shift in the global conversation surrounding residential interior design. It indicates that the industry is moving away from luxury defined by surface ornamentation or excess square footage. Instead, the future of residential design is moving toward emotional resilience, psychological wellness, and hyper-adaptability. The home is being recognized as a critical sanctuary that must effortlessly support work, rest, and human connection within dense, high-pressure urban centers.

The disruption of the Shanghai lockdowns stretched our timeline from 2020 to 2022, forcing us into an extended, enforced period of reflection. Initially, the delays were a heavy logistical and emotional burden. However, as the world experienced unprecedented periods of domestic confinement, our relationship with the project underwent a profound metamorphosis. The apartment ceased to be just a design assignment; it became a real-time case study in existential survival and psychological comfort.This extra time ultimately became an unexpected creative opportunity to pressure-test our design thesis. Living through the pandemic made us hyper-aware of the micro-detailing required for a home to truly heal its occupants. We used the prolonged interval to rigorously refine the home-office boundaries, enhance the acoustic isolation between zones, and perfectly calibrate the warmth of the lighting coves. The delay stripped away any remaining superficial elements, ensuring that the completed apartment was completely optimized as a resilient, deeply therapeutic, and enduring personal sanctuary.

The original 160-square-meter layout suffered from typical twentieth-century domestic compartmentalization, which choked off natural light and forced a rigid, isolated way of living. My primary objective was to unlock the apartment's latent atmospheric potential. The chain of reasoning was simple: light is a premium material in dense urban centers like Shanghai. By identifying the wall dividing the living room and the study as non-load-bearing, we realized we could radically deconstruct the floor plan, allowing daylight to penetrate deep into the home's core and establishing an unbroken visual connection with the outside world.Achieving total spatial fluidity within an existing concrete building requires negotiating with structural realities, not fighting them. While the partition wall came down, we were left with immutable vertical infrastructure and overhead beams. Rather than attempting to disguise these structural elements, we celebrated them as spatial markers. We wrapped the columns in custom wall paneling and integrated them into built-in storage units. This allowed us to define distinct functional zones without erecting a single physical barrier, creating a boundaryless canvas that feels profoundly open yet structurally grounded.

Designing high-rise facades for prominent international offices forces you to master the physics of boundaries—how a structure regulates light, temperature, acoustics, and views at a macro urban scale. Transitioning to an intimate residential scale like Urban Serenity Apartment is essentially an inversion of that process. It is about taking that macro-level performance criteria and applying it to the micro-metabolism of a single home. The facade dictates how the building meets the city; the interior design dictates how the human spirit survives it. As patterns of living and working become permanently hybridized, the home can no longer be a passive container. It must perform dynamically. Moving forward into future projects, I see the integration of performance-driven design and deep spatial psychology as non-negotiable. Whether designing a supertall skyscraper or a private flat, the goal remains identical: manipulating light, shadow, and materiality to optimize human well-being, proving that architectural rigor and deep human empathy must always feed into one another.

Instead of relying on obvious surface decorations, we dug into the deeper, foundational concepts of traditional Chinese architecture—specifically the dualities of Shi and Xu (Solid and Void) and the classical garden garden-craft technique of Yuan (layered depth). Traditional Chinese houses are experienced as a series of shifting thresholds where spaces are intentionally revealed or withheld to create a sense of infinite discovery within a finite boundary. We translated these ancient principles into an entirely contemporary material and atmospheric lexicon. The entry sequence functions as a "solid" compressed corridor that deliberately builds anticipation before releasing the visitor into the bright "void" of the open communal area. The interior window looking into the study frames views much like a traditional garden pavilion portal, offering glimpses of life happening in an adjacent zone. By executing these concepts through clean architectural planes, muted cream panels, and rich wood veneers, we captured the meditative, rhythmic soul of Chinese tradition without mimicking its historic form.

When you eliminate physical walls, you lose your traditional boundaries; color and materiality must step in to assume that structural responsibility. In Urban Serenity Apartment, the color palette acts as an invisible choreography tool. We used a strict chromatic contrast to define the emotional atmosphere of each zone. The highly active, sun-drenched living and working areas are wrapped in bright, reflective, muted cream tones to maximize the volume of natural light. Conversely, the social and culinary nodes—the bar and kitchen—are enveloped in dark, deeply grained wood veneers to instill an immediate sense of intimacy, focus, and physical grounding. The collaboration with the homeowner was instrumental in refining this chromatic vision. Initially, our studio explored a slightly more contrasting, graphic palette. However, the client's deeply personal relationship with calm, tactile, and unpretentious textures pushed us to strip away any unnecessary visual noise. They desired an environment that felt completely therapeutic. This dialogue altered our vision in the best way possible, steering us toward a highly calibrated, monochromatic harmony that relies on variations in texture and sheen—rather than loud hue shifts—to articulate spatial transitions.

Above all else, I hope readers and design enthusiasts recognize that a home does not need excess square footage to achieve true luxury or monumental elegance. Luxury is a psychological condition. It is found in the fluid ease with which a space accommodates your daily human rituals, the warmth of the light falling across a textured surface, and its ability to act as a resilient, healing sanctuary against the relentless kinetic pressures of the outside world.

Commercial exhibition spaces often overwhelm visitors with continuous, high-stimulus marketing data, which triggers cognitive fatigue. Our research in Applied Spatial Psychology led us to introduce a deliberate "sensory reset." We achieved this by funneling visitors through a low, dim, and deeply toned transitional corridor (compression) immediately following the monumental sand table area. This intentional drop in scale resets the visitor's psychological baseline before releasing them into the bright, double-height grand hall bar (release).The physical impact was immediate. Instead of rushing through the layout, visitors visibly slowed their pace upon entering the compressed zone, dropping their voices to a whisper. When they emerged into the "release" of the light-filled lobby bar, their body language opened up. This psychological transition fostered a significantly higher emotional readiness, lengthening dwell time and transforming high-pressure sales conversations into relaxed, natural dialogues.

Reactivating a concept as culturally heavy as "Tian Yuan Di Fang" (Round Sky, Square Earth) requires avoiding literal historic pastiche. We treated the philosophy not as an ornamental motif, but as an organizational framework. By translating the "sky" into a minimalist, circular soft-membrane stretch ceiling and the "earth" into a clean, square floor plate anchoring the real estate model, we honored the ancient cosmological balance using entirely contemporary geometric lines and lighting tech.The tension is most powerfully felt at the exact intersection of the sand table zone. Here, cutting-edge, future-forward real estate models sit directly beneath an ancient cosmological metaphor. This juxtaposition proves that traditional philosophy is not an obsolete historical relic; rather, it is a highly functional tool capable of anchoring hyper-modern commercial real estate within a deeper cultural narrative.

Winning the Silver A' Design Award in the Interior Space, Retail and Exhibition Design category provides a vital global platform to challenge a common misconception: that contemporary minimalism must be inherently Western or sterile.I hope the international design community receives Echo Oriental as a case study in how ancient spatial philosophies can solve modern design problems. Oriental philosophy is inherently sustainable and psychological—it is about the harmony between human interiority and the external environment. I want global practitioners to see that drawing from regional heritage is not about decorating a surface, but about utilizing a time-tested spatial choreography that enriches the human experience.

The breakthrough occurred when we finalized the exact alignment of the sightlines at the intersection of the North-South and East-West axes. Initially, we worried the 400-square-meter footprint would feel restrictive. However, the moment we staggered the thresholds—hiding the VIP lounge behind a green marble feature wall and adding strategic scenic openings—the layout instantly unlocked.This project revealed that monumentality is completely independent of raw square footage. True grandeur is a psychological construct born from contrast and tempo. By controlling what the eye sees and what it is denied through a structured sequence of thresholds, a relatively compact footprint can feel vast, deep, and infinitely layered. Perceived monumentality is not about size; it is about the depth of the journey.

Beginning with a hand sketch affords an immediate, unmediated connection to spatial emotion and human scale that digital tools simply cannot replicate early on. Software inherently demands inputs—dimensions, coordinates, and boundaries—which forces a designer to think about geometric perfection before understanding atmospheric intent. A sketch captures the raw fluid energy of an idea, allowing me to explore the feeling of a spatial threshold, the weight of a shadow, or the sweeping gesture of a curve with complete freedom.The transition from sketch to 3D software was less about correction and more about translation. The loose, evocative lines of the initial sketches defined the emotional target—such as the desired drama of the central vault. Moving into digital modeling allowed us to test those intuitive gestures against rigorous material tolerances, ensuring that the complex geometry of the leaf-embossed gold panels conformed perfectly to the structural arc without losing the poetic fluidity of the initial drawing.

To ensure the connection to Taihu Park remained emotionally resonant without becoming a literal caricature, we relied heavily on spatial abstraction and phenomenological cues. Visitors do not need to know the specific geography of the park to subconsciously respond to its presence. The connection is embedded in the environment’s somatic qualities: the deep, forest-like tranquility of the green marble wainscoting, the fluid curves of the walls, and the dappled, golden illumination cast by the embossed ceiling.We essentially translated the exterior landscape into an interior micro-climate of textures and light. By replicating the atmospheric qualities of nature—the feeling of walking beneath a dense forest canopy or standing beside still water—the space communicates a sense of serene shelter. It bypasses conscious analysis and directly targets the visitor's emotional memory, evoking peace and belonging from the moment they enter.

Operating from a global design capital like New York while executing a project in Wenzhou created a highly productive conceptual detachment. Rather than getting bogged down in localized, fleeting commercial trends or surface-level pastiche, the geographic distance forced Extended Play Lab to look at Chinese cosmological traditions through a highly focused, architectural lens. It required us to ask what the core essence of these spatial traditions truly was.This distance ultimately became our greatest asset. It demanded rigorous clarity in our conceptual diagrams and forced us to distill ancient principles into clean, universally legible architectural gestures. By cross-pollinating a New York sensibility regarding spatial efficiency and neo-luxury with Wenzhou's profound cultural heritage, we avoided the trap of nostalgia. The result is a showroom that feels deeply authentic to its site yet radically fresh on the international stage.

The placement and proportion of the scenic openings within the VIP areas were meticulously calculated using human sightlines as the primary metric. Borrowing from the traditional Chinese garden technique of kuangjing (framed scenery), we mapped these openings based on the visitor’s transition from a kinetic state—walking down the compressed corridor—to a static state, sitting within the VIP lounge. The proportions were kept deliberately slender and controlled to act as precise architectural lenses, capturing vignettes of greenery, light, and material texture. Without these openings, the VIP areas would have felt isolated, breaking the continuity of the spatial narrative. Instead, they introduce a layer of visual porosity and rhythm. They act as "spatial commas"—brief, quiet moments of relief that prevent claustrophobia in enclosed zones. By allowing glimpses of the broader natural narrative to filter into private conversations, they maintain a subconscious thread of connectivity, ensuring the overall emotional arc remains fluid and unfragmented.

The single most transferable lesson from Echo Oriental is that cultural heritage and historical cosmology must dictate the bones of an architecture before they ever touch its surfaces. Too often, contemporary commercial interiors treat tradition as an skin—a pattern on a screen or a calligraphic texture applied to a wall.In Echo Oriental, the narrative is embedded in the structural layout: the crossing axes govern the circulation, and the "Tian Yuan Di Fang" concept dictates the volume and verticality of the main hall. When the fundamental choreography of the space is built entirely upon a philosophical thesis, commerce and ceremony cease to conflict. The ceremony provides the emotional value that elevates the commercial experience, proving that meaningful storytelling and market viability can genuinely coexist in a unified design.

Parametric design allowed me to engage in an iterative dialogue between form, function, and environmental responsiveness. Working with Grasshopper and Rhino, I generated a matrix of bridge geometries that responded to specific inputs: span length, seasonal flow volume, pedestrian circulation, water catchment needs, and material constraints. These algorithms helped identify optimal forms that performed both structurally and environmentally, minimizing material use while maximizing utility and visual clarity. The 7-meter height was not arbitrary—it emerged as the minimum elevation required to withstand floodwaters during peak monsoon season, and parametric modeling allowed us to test how various elevations affected shadow patterns, airflow, and drainage behaviors. The resulting arched profile—part bridge, part canopy—would not have been possible through traditional methods alone. Computational tools made it possible to synthesize engineering logic with a sculptural form that feels both grounded and elevated within its natural setting.

This multifunctional concept stemmed from extensive research during the early design phase. I learned that during heavy rains, many homes are temporarily vacated due to flooding, and safe public shelters are extremely limited. Rather than designing a single-use bridge, I began to envision it as a civic structure—a protective infrastructure that could become a haven. The arched canopy and reinforced flooring system were adapted to allow for elevated dry areas during flood conditions. Integrated storage benches, power-access points, and filtered light through the translucent roof all support basic shelter functions. It became not just a piece of infrastructure but a space for dignity, connection, and survival. By embedding emergency-use scenarios into the everyday design, Hydro Bridge empowers the community to reclaim control over the uncertainties of their environment and fosters a sense of preparedness embedded in the very landscape they inhabit.

The water collection system evolved through multidisciplinary research involving hydrology, vernacular water management practices in Nepal, and low-tech sustainability strategies. I started by mapping rainfall data across different seasons and analyzing roof angles and runoff coefficients to calculate potential collection yields. The design team and I conducted site studies and observed how traditional Nepalese homes used sloped roofs and earthen channels to redirect water into clay cisterns. This local wisdom became a foundation. I then designed the roof of Hydro Bridge using translucent, shatter-resistant glass panels embedded with microgrooves that channel rainwater into a central gutters. These, in turn, feed into modular storage tanks beneath the bridge deck. The glass panels serve a dual purpose—they allow daylight to penetrate during the day and become a lightbox at night when lit from below by embedded solar-powered LEDs. This combination of passive technology and traditional logic ensured the design stayed ecologically responsive without becoming overly reliant on external infrastructure.

The surrounding landscape—terraced hillsides, braided rivers, and foot-worn paths—was not just context but material in shaping the design language. Rather than impose a foreign object on the site, I wanted the bridge to feel like an extension of the land, much like the stone staircases and retaining walls crafted by hand over generations. I drew inspiration from the way these traditional elements express simplicity and tactility. The bridge’s structure adopts a subtle curvature echoing the river’s natural flow, while its materials—concrete, local stone, and glass—were selected for their durability and regional familiarity. The underside of the bridge references traditional wooden eaves with rhythmic framing members that soften the visual mass and frame views of the river below. Even the way people cross the bridge mirrors the quiet, unhurried pace of the village trails. Ultimately, Hydro Bridge stands not as an interruption but as a poetic continuum of Chyasikot’s relationship with nature, time, and place.

Hydro Bridge emerged as a direct response to Chyasikot’s need for resilient, flexible infrastructure that could adapt to Nepal’s dramatic seasonal shifts. From the earliest stages, it was clear that no single discipline could address the project's complexity in isolation. The core design team included myself as the lead architect, structural engineers specializing in lightweight spans, and a local hydrologist familiar with the Nakkhu River basin.We began with a shared mapping of the river’s behavior—hydrologists contributed flow models, floodplain studies, and seasonal projections. That data informed the basic envelope of the bridge, setting parameters for safe elevation and anchoring systems. Structural engineers then stepped in to propose a space truss system, which offered both the lightness and strength required for the span, and the flexibility for integrated drainage and modular adaptation. Meanwhile, we worked together to create roof geometries optimized for water collection and daylighting, ensuring the bridge could act both as infrastructure and public shelter.

At its core, Hydro Bridge is not just a means of crossing—it is a place of gathering. In dry seasons, the bridge is a civic promenade, with shaded walkways, seating ledges, and framed views of the riverbanks. It's where people pause, talk, observe, and occasionally host small community events or pop-up markets. The structure was intentionally designed with a slower, more deliberate rhythm of circulation to invite these kinds of interactions. We used locally inspired spatial proportions to give it a familiar sense of scale and comfort.During monsoon season, the transformation is equally significant. Elevated walkways ensure continued access even during flooding, while dry platforms beneath the canopy become informal refuge spaces. The bridge’s lighting, powered by solar panels, offers a rare sense of safety and visibility during storms, encouraging people to treat the structure as a safe harbor, not just a corridor. By embodying both infrastructural necessity and communal identity, Hydro Bridge becomes a flexible platform for both survival and social life, proving that public design must support not only functional movement but emotional connection.

The integrated water collection and storage system within Hydro Bridge offers a low-tech but high-impact solution to an ongoing resource issue in Chyasikot. During monsoon, large amounts of rainwater are often lost to runoff due to limited infrastructure. We designed the bridge to act like an elongated rain-harvesting roof. Its glass canopy is embedded with micro-grooves that channel water into a network of concealed gutters, which feed into modular storage tanks located beneath the walking deck and adjacent landscape.These tanks are accessible through simple filtration spouts, allowing the stored water to be used for agricultural irrigation, community cleaning, or even small-scale emergency supply. Because the tanks are modular, their capacity can be scaled depending on future needs. In a community where reliable infrastructure is rare, this passive collection system offers water security with almost zero energy input. It also educates the community through visibility—people can see how their bridge is not just spanning a river but actively stewarding the watershed.

The key to Hydro Bridge’s adaptability lies in its space truss system—a triangulated structural framework that distributes loads efficiently while allowing the bridge to remain light and open. This truss system is composed of modular steel members designed for on-site assembly, which minimized disruption to the natural landscape and simplified maintenance.What makes this space truss unique is its double-functionality. Not only does it provide structural stability for a 7-meter-high span, but it also creates cavities within the bridge’s body for storing water tanks, lighting conduits, and even emergency supplies. The truss is clad with prefabricated floor panels and translucent glass roofing that can be replaced independently if damaged, allowing the bridge to be partially disassembled and updated over time.Moreover, the bridge’s decking is designed with a slotted drainage system that channels overflow rainwater away during heavy storms, preventing pooling and maintaining structural integrity. Together, these technical strategies make the bridge a living infrastructure—able to breathe with the seasons rather than fight them.

Hydro Bridge represents a shift in thinking—from static infrastructure to adaptive, community-oriented ecosystems. Its core principles—seasonal responsiveness, multifunctionality, and human-centric design—can serve as a blueprint for future projects in regions vulnerable to climate volatility.Instead of designing one-use bridges, roads, or shelters, we should ask: Can this structure evolve? Can it offer more than one function? Can it help communities prepare for uncertainty, not just respond to it? Hydro Bridge shows that with the right tools—parametric design, local consultation, and integrated sustainability—we can create infrastructure that anticipates change, rather than being crippled by it.For regions across South and Southeast Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa, and parts of Latin America, where monsoons, droughts, and economic limitations intersect, the Hydro Bridge model suggests that resilience doesn’t need to be high-tech or expensive. It just needs to be attuned to place, adaptable to use, and rooted in the lives of people it serves.

The subway station is not an afterthought in Urban Symbiosis—it is the heart of the project. In many cities, infrastructure is hidden or relegated to the background, treated more as a service node than a civic space. I wanted to challenge this paradigm by celebrating public transportation as the central connective tissue of urban life. Embedding the subway entrance directly between the two programmatic towers is a symbolic and spatial gesture that reflects our belief in transit-oriented development and urban equity.This move ensures seamless integration between daily life and mass mobility. Commuters, residents, and workers intersect at this point of convergence, creating spontaneous urban interactions. It turns what would typically be a private boundary—the space between two towers—into a vibrant public corridor. This central transit hub becomes a civic anchor that reinforces the tower's identity as not just a building, but a piece of city-making infrastructure.

One of the central challenges of designing Urban Symbiosis was orchestrating the delicate balance between constant public flow and residential seclusion. Our solution emerged through both spatial hierarchy and programmatic choreography. I established a clear gradient of accessibility—from the most public, like the transit plaza and commercial arcade, to semi-public co-working and amenity zones, and finally to fully private residential quarters.Circulation was a critical tool in this balancing act. I developed dedicated cores and access points for each major user group, while still allowing for controlled zones of overlap where interaction is meaningful and intentional. For example, residents can access amenity spaces such as the gym or co-working lounge without passing through the public retail corridor. Conversely, office workers and visitors experience the vibrant ground-level ecosystem without disrupting the privacy of residential life above.The architecture facilitates coexistence without friction—enabling different communities to share space while maintaining their own rhythms and boundaries. It’s a choreography of movement and access that allows the building to function as a shared organism without compromising individual comfort.

Amenity spaces in Urban Symbiosis are not peripheral; they are the social backbone of the entire project. I intentionally placed them at the seams—where office and residential volumes meet, and where the public realm transitions into private space. This strategic positioning turns transitional areas into opportunities for cross-programmatic engagement.For instance, the co-working lounge sits at a vertical threshold between the towers, with panoramic views that are equally accessible to office tenants and residents. This makes it a natural magnet for activity throughout the day. Similarly, the restaurants and fitness centers are located along circulation paths that invite both passersby and long-term occupants, fostering micro-communities anchored by shared use.Rather than isolating amenities in each program, I designed them as shared resources that are spatially and visually connected. This promotes serendipitous interaction and a stronger sense of community—qualities often missing in traditional high-rise developments.

The energy optimization strategy in Urban Symbiosis was informed by a close analysis of diurnal and seasonal usage patterns in office and residential programs. What became evident was the complementary nature of their peak demands. Office spaces typically require more cooling and lighting during working hours, while residential units see spikes in the early morning and evening. By co-locating these uses horizontally, I was able to create a more consistent and predictable energy load profile across the building. This smoother demand curve reduces strain on HVAC systems and opens the door for shared battery storage and thermal regulation solutions.Moreover, I integrated passive shading devices and a responsive façade system that modulates daylight and heat gain according to the occupancy pattern of each zone. These strategies were not just conceptual—they were supported by iterative simulations using real climate data and occupancy projections, ensuring the building performs at a high level while remaining comfortable for all users.

Integrating with the High Line was not just a design decision—it was a philosophical one. The High Line, with its layered public accessibility and urban biodiversity, represents a rare moment where infrastructure, ecology, and culture converge. When I began shaping the street-level experience of Urban Symbiosis, I didn’t want the project to be an isolated object; it needed to contribute to and extend the public realm. The sunken garden became the architectural and conceptual bridge.By carving the garden below street level, I allowed for a natural descent into the building’s public zone while maintaining permeability to the High Line above. This move introduced multiple strata of interaction—pedestrian at-grade, garden immersion below, and elevated transit and leisure above. It created a vertical urban landscape where movement is continuous and multidirectional, echoing the dynamic nature of New York’s pedestrian ecology. This approach reshaped the entire site strategy, compelling me to think of the project not as a pair of towers, but as a responsive terrain of flows and experiences.

Sustainability in Urban Symbiosis wasn’t treated as an afterthought or checklist; it was embedded in every architectural move. The choice of an all-electric system came early on, informed by the increasing decarbonization of New York City’s grid and legislative shifts such as Local Law 97. I designed the systems with the future in mind—anticipating that clean electricity will become the dominant urban energy model.Material selection followed a similarly rigorous logic. I leaned toward low-embodied carbon materials, including high-recycled-content steel and prefabricated concrete panels where applicable. The façade uses triple-glazed curtain walls with integrated shading fins, tuned through iterative simulations to minimize solar heat gain while maximizing natural daylight. The roof areas are equipped for photovoltaic integration, and stormwater is captured through a green roof and cistern network to support landscape irrigation.The holistic sustainability strategy aligns with the building’s social goals: by reducing mechanical footprint and energy demand, I created more space and resources to dedicate to communal functions. To me, good environmental design is not just about metrics—it's about architectural generosity.

Parametric tools were essential in reconciling the project’s many layers—public/private access, programmatic diversity, energy performance, and vertical circulation. I used Grasshopper and Rhino to model and simulate multiple variables at once, creating a dynamic platform where the building could “learn” from the data I fed into it.For example, pedestrian flow simulations revealed pinch points around subway access, which led me to redesign the core-to-entrance alignments for better permeability. Energy usage patterns were fed into optimization algorithms that shaped floor heights, window-to-wall ratios, and system zoning. I also tested solar exposure on various tower orientations to fine-tune the staggered layout of the residential and office wings.This technological fluency allowed me to work not just reactively but proactively—forecasting performance outcomes before they became problems. The final design is the result of this iterative, data-rich process, one that balanced intuition with quantifiable intelligence.

I was very conscious of scale from the beginning. Super-tall buildings often become impersonal, and I wanted to resist that tendency by embedding small-scale social spaces throughout the vertical stack. I introduced a series of “neighborhood nodes” at regular intervals—double-height communal terraces, shared kitchens, work lounges, and play zones—that break the monotony of the tower and allow for casual interactions.At the ground and mid-level podiums, I emphasized tactile materials, warm lighting, and greenery to counterbalance the sleekness of the high-rise envelope. The sunken garden and the public atrium were scaled with pedestrians in mind—balancing openness with intimacy. Even the circulation zones—elevator lobbies, corridors, stairwells—were treated as design opportunities, with natural light, seating niches, and artwork integrated into their fabric.This attention to micro-experiences within a macro-form allowed me to create a building that feels personal despite its scale. Architecture, at its best, serves the individual just as thoughtfully as it serves the city.

The journey from 2017 to 2024 was transformative—not only for the project but for me as a designer. The initial concept of Urban Symbiosis was rooted in critique: I was frustrated by how mixed-use towers often segregate functions vertically, missing opportunities for synergy. As the design evolved, that critique matured into a constructive proposal—one that used integration as both form and function.Over the years, the project absorbed changes in urban behavior, energy codes, construction technology, and even pandemic-related shifts in how people use space. Each shift forced me to adapt. For instance, remote work trends influenced the expansion of co-working and semi-private lounges. Public health concerns inspired better ventilation strategies and more generous outdoor terraces. These were not compromises—they enriched the project.Most importantly, I came to see the project not just as a design but as a system of ideas: about time-sharing, access, coexistence, and resilience. Urban Symbiosis became a testing ground for architectural empathy—how to design for many lives moving through one space, all while holding the city together.

Integrating greenery at a vertical scale of 150 meters is as much a technical challenge as a poetic ambition. One of the foremost concerns was survivability—ensuring that plant species could withstand high wind speeds, solar exposure, and changing microclimates at various elevations. My solution involved a zoned planting system: Different plant species were selected for their tolerance and ecological compatibility at each height band, with lower levels incorporating broader-leafed, shade-tolerant species and upper levels using wind-resistant, drought-hardy varieties.Another key challenge was the integration of irrigation and maintenance systems. Rather than treat green façades as afterthoughts, I embedded planters and drainage directly into the tower envelope through a modular façade system. Each green module includes automated drip irrigation, soil sensors, and drainage weeping systems, all connected to a centralized water management platform. These systems were coordinated with façade engineers and landscape consultants from the early design phase to ensure coherence between aesthetics and operations.Ultimately, this green layer is more than visual—it filters air, shades interiors, and reconnects urban life to the cycles of growth and decay. Its successful implementation required the fusion of design sensibility with deeply technical, interdisciplinary coordination

Quzhou’s topography is defined by soft hills, river basins, and a kind of primordial calm that deeply resonated with me. As I explored the city’s geomorphology and cultural landmarks—from the Shuiting Gate to the surrounding mountains—I was struck by how its landscape reads like a continuous scroll: layered, gentle, and fluid. I wanted to mirror that terrain in architectural form, turning the project’s base into an extension of the city’s natural narrative.The undulating green belt at the foot of the towers was conceived as a contemporary interpretation of Chinese garden design principles, particularly the concept of shan-shui (mountain-water). But instead of enclosing nature within walls, I unfurled it into an open, civic terrain that connects different public programs—performance spaces, retail, leisure zones—underneath and around the towers. The flowing contours invite movement and rest, reflecting the tempo of the landscape rather than the rigidity of typical urban grids.This approach was only possible after an immersive research process—studying historical texts, walking the region through satellite mapping and topographic modeling, and analyzing traditional feng shui patterns that shape the city’s spiritual geography. The design’s smooth interface between architecture and terrain is, in essence, a spatialized homage to Quzhou’s identity.

The sustainability strategy for Quzhou Landmark was both passive and active, beginning with the core premise that energy performance must be integrated from the earliest site decisions. The towers were oriented to minimize heat gain while maximizing access to natural daylight. I used parametric modeling to analyze sun paths and wind directions, which informed the shape and articulation of the towers’ façades. Shading fins, operable louvers, and double-skin glazing were positioned based on these simulations to balance thermal performance with aesthetic clarity.A significant portion of the cooling load is mitigated through the green façade system, which not only insulates the building but also enhances evapotranspiration at the tower surface. At the podium and landscape levels, bioswales, green roofs, and permeable paving systems support stormwater management and reduce the urban heat island effect. The mixed-use program was also carefully calibrated so that complementary occupancy schedules (e.g., offices vs. cultural programs) reduce peak energy demand and enable more efficient HVAC zoning.Finally, I integrated photovoltaic arrays into roof areas and explored geothermal exchange systems beneath the green belt. The key was seeing sustainability not as an applied layer, but as an architectural driver—resulting in a form that is at once responsive, performative, and expressive.

The site’s adjacency to Quzhou West Station presented a dual challenge: it was a gateway into the city—a highly visible and programmatically intense urban node—but it also required sensitivity to cultural memory and regional character. I approached this by thinking in terms of civic choreography: how people move, gather, and perceive space as they transition from transit infrastructure into the everyday life of the city.The twin towers serve as visual anchors, but their base is open, porous, and deeply informed by local culture. Rather than a sealed podium, I created an open-air cultural plaza that hosts exhibitions, performances, and seasonal events. The landscape elements recall local rock formations and water meanders. Materials like textured stone, bamboo composites, and terracotta panels reference regional craft, even as they are made with contemporary precision.Functionally, the project embraces the tempo of modern life—housing offices, retail, and community services—but does so through a lens of ritual and continuity. The circulation strategy borrows from temple and garden precedents, where spatial progression is slow, ceremonial, and contemplative. In this way, the project doesn’t just accommodate both heritage and progress—it binds them into one spatial narrative.

The decision to use dual towers was both symbolic and urbanistic. Quzhou is a city in transition—poised between historical legacy and future ambition. I wanted the towers to act as a gateway, not only spatially in the master plan but culturally in the city’s evolving identity. The dual forms reflect balance, duality, and dialogue—key concepts in Chinese philosophy. Instead of a singular monument asserting dominance, the twin towers create a visual rhythm, like architectural punctuation marks on the skyline, suggesting openness and coexistence.From an urban perspective, the configuration enhances connectivity and orientation. The space between the towers becomes an important civic axis, aligning with Quzhou West Station and framing views into the city. It allows sunlight to reach the landscape and reduces wind tunnel effects—problems often caused by bulky single-tower developments. This openness supports a porous ground-level condition, ensuring permeability and blending the towers into a larger green spine. The twin forms become not just objects but participants in the city’s daily life.

Collaboration with local experts was essential to grounding the design in Quzhou’s cultural and spatial DNA. Conversations with urban planners revealed the city’s ambitions to define a new civic identity while preserving its ecological heritage. This guided my approach to making the greenbelt not just a buffer zone but an activated public realm—a modern interpretation of the Chinese garden as a civic commons.Historians shared stories and documents about Quzhou’s traditional architecture, its temple rituals, and how historical cities in the region mediated transitions between sacred and mundane space. These insights shaped my use of thresholds, layering, and materiality. For example, the progression from the transit plaza through the cultural podium and up into the towers echoes ritual ascents in temple complexes, where movement corresponds to a shift in spatial and emotional experience.The façade treatment—specifically the integration of texture and vertical layering—also draws inspiration from ancient city walls and calligraphic scrolls. This collaboration reminded me that innovation doesn’t preclude tradition; in fact, some of the most forward-thinking designs emerge when we listen deeply to what the land and its people have to say.

The Quzhou Landmark Mixed Use Towers employ a side-core structural scheme for both towers, which was a deliberate choice to maximize open floorplates and flexibility in program distribution. This configuration allows for unobstructed views, efficient layouts for offices and hotel rooms, and spatial adaptability over time—key considerations for a project designed to be both iconic and functionally resilient.From a material standpoint, the structural system combines reinforced concrete cores with a steel-framed floor system. The use of concrete was strategic, not only for its structural robustness and fire resistance but also for its thermal mass properties, which contribute to passive environmental regulation. In a region like Quzhou with humid summers and cold winters, the thermal inertia of concrete helps reduce reliance on mechanical systems.Steel, on the other hand, was employed in the floor plates and cantilevered portions of the podium and sky gardens to enable longer spans and lighter construction. This hybrid system allowed for a balance of strength and elegance, with steel enabling the expressive, curved geometries of the landscape-integrated podium while concrete provided the backbone of the towers.Sustainability also informed material choices. Where possible, we specified high-performance concrete with fly ash and slag content to reduce embodied carbon. Steel components were sourced with recycled content and fabricated using modular construction techniques, minimizing waste. Additionally, the unitized curtain wall system is designed with integrated external shading and high-performance glazing to meet China’s evolving green building standards.Altogether, the side-core configuration, paired with this thoughtful material strategy, enabled the towers to embody both architectural clarity and environmental responsibility—qualities that reflect the broader ambition of the project to serve as a sustainable and symbolic civic landmark for Quzhou.

Its integration of public transit, green space, cultural programs, and mixed-use verticality within a single project creates a multi-scalar urban ecosystem. I hope this becomes a reference point for municipalities and developers who seek to design not just iconic buildings but enduring communities. The landscape-driven masterplan, porous ground plane, and high-performance façade are scalable strategies, adaptable to other cities with different geographic and social conditions.Ultimately, the project demonstrates that urban growth and ecological stewardship are not mutually exclusive. Through intelligent design and a reverence for local context, we can reimagine density as something humanistic, sustainable, and deeply rooted in place.

The greatest challenge was to harmonize the dense, vertical mixed-use programming—offices, cultural venues, retail, and public amenities—with a landscape that felt continuous and intuitive. My approach was to dissolve the typical podium tower model. Instead of a solid, monolithic base, I created a terraced, sinuous ground plane that physically and visually connects the towers to the park-like greenbelt. Public programs are embedded in this topography—partially sunken, partially open-air—to maintain fluidity while optimizing land use.Circulation was carefully choreographed. Each function has a dedicated access point, but movement is layered and overlapping in key moments to create encounters and a sense of shared civic life. Vertical zoning places quieter cultural functions closer to the ground and workspaces higher up, preserving tranquility while offering views. Every square meter had to work harder—not just as floor space, but as part of a larger ecosystem of movement, light, and atmosphere. By embedding architectural elements into a landscape logic, the project achieves a hybrid condition: dense yet open, monumental yet responsive.