Neither of us actually started out intending to be architects; Naomi originally set out to be a designer in film and theater, realizing later that there was so much overlap with how spaces can tell a story. Meanwhile, Liang was pursuing engineering but ultimately leaned more toward the more creative side of problem-solving. Architecture became the perfect convergence point for both of us—a space where logic, narrative, and cinematic atmosphere could meet.

We believe architecture should fundamentally respond to its local context and conditions. Our approach always starts with deeply understanding the site and its environment, letting those native factors organically guide the design so the resulting project feels intrinsically tied to its location. Once we understand the site’s physical parameters, we shift our focus to the atmosphere and emotion of the spaces. We ask ourselves: How do we accentuate the inherent characteristics of this land? How do we want people to experience it? What does the procession feel like?

It is a bit of a bottom-up approach where we prioritize the emotional journey and the immediate sensory experience of a room. The overall plans, spatial programming, and macro-level logistics usually string together afterward, meeting our atmospheric concepts right in the middle. 

We find immense beauty in rawness, so we always look for ways to honor and enhance material truths. Material selection is intimately tied to locality and is really important in establishing a project’s atmosphere. For example, if a space needs to evoke the visceral sensation of squeezing through a narrow canyon, we instinctively lean toward fluid yet heavily striated materials like rammed earth.

Conversely, for our project Down in the Clouds, we deliberately wanted to contrast the site rather than mimic it. We used PVC and metal to create a sense of unfamiliarity with scale and material, creating an intervention that feels somewhat alien to its environment.

Among our built works, Down in the Clouds holds a special place for us. It was one of our very first projects built as a young practice, and collaborating on it with our friends at Practice on Earth infused the entire process with an experimental spirit, particularly in the unfamiliarity of scale and material. But beyond the design itself, what really sticks with us is the visceral, real-world impact it had on the local village community. We can plan and design for a specific impact, but the unexpected ways a community actually lives in and embraces a space is often far more meaningful. 

If we’re including ongoing work – we also have a project in Tibet that we are incredibly proud of – it’s brewing in the background, but we’ll have to wait for this one. 

We always find our ultimate inspiration in nature. Whenever we need to re-center our practice or our minds, we simply find a way to be in natural environments—absorbing the textures and the light, along with their messiness in the landscape. 

The architectural landscape has shifted so dramatically over the last few decades that it sometimes feels as if it has turned over a new leaf. Today, there is a much higher cost for taking risks. Risk aversion isn’t just an economic issue; it is deeply systemic. We are operating within an environment bound by heavy legal liabilities, hyper-standardized industry norms, and procurement models that prioritize predictability over innovation. This is often instilled early on—genuine experimentation is frequently reframed as a compliance liability rather than a vital creative pursuit.

I don’t think a paradigm-shifting project like the Centre Pompidou would get built in today’s climate. While much of this caution is understandably a reflection of our current times, we still romanticize a period when there was a broader appetite for daring ideas. We hope more projects can carve out space where architects and builders can collaborate on-site and actively challenge conventions.