I’ve always been obsessed with collision — the kind that leaves a mark. Cultures, materials, ideas — all crashing into one another until something new, something truer emerges. I grew up between New York and Taiwan, never fully belonging to either, constantly switching codes, accents, and skins. Maybe that’s why I create the way I do: out of friction, out of the need to make contradiction feel like home.

 

Parsons School of Design taught me how beauty is built — the architecture of fabric, the choreography of image. Venice taught me how meaning shifts, reforms, and resists — how art carries memory while questioning what it preserves. Between those worlds — art and fashion — I learned that construction and destruction are the same gesture, just seen from opposite sides of the mirror.

 

My work tears things apart to see what still breathes underneath. I move between art and fashion, between what’s considered precious and what’s thrown away. Each piece becomes a reconstruction — an act of rebellion disguised as elegance.

 

Art, for me, is never still. It shifts, flirts, decays, seduces. It remembers and forgets all at once. I live in that tension — the space where beauty and ruins meet.