What first drew you into fashion, and what keeps you going?
I first stepped into fashion because of something as simple and magical as the Barbie movies I watched as a child – I remember the princess who drew on herself with a brush, and a glowing dress instantly appeared. I started learning to draw when I was four, but no matter how much I drew, my pen never had that kind of magic. As I grew older, I learned that a glowing dress requires countless hours and steps to create. Fashion design, I discovered, was the fastest way to learn how to make that magic real, which is why I chose it as my one and only major for my undergraduate studies.
By the time I entered RCA for my MA, I already knew how to make a sparkling dress – in fact, I had dozens. But I didn’t know what I wanted to say next. So I chose fashion again, hoping to find my answer. Through the guidance of my friends and tutors, I slowly discovered my direction and my reason to keep going: fashion allows me to weave my perception of the world into reality. Fashion is not just clothing – it is a living mythology, turning the body into a vessel for storytelling and draping thoughts and emotions in something tangible.
I keep going because this path keeps offering me new answers about life, death, and rebirth. It allows me to seek out the miracles in human history where people used patterns and fabrics to express faith. Fashion has shown me the endless connections between humanity, nature, and desire – and I am willing to weave those connections again and again, even if it means building them on the ruins of tragedy.
Your collection begins with the death of the last unicorn. How does grief shape your design? Does it affect your choices of texture, color, or structure?
I do not grieve for grief’s sake. But living in the world today – even though I grew up in Shanghai, a place of absolute peace – my two years in London made me deeply aware of how war and disease carve pain into life. It reminded me of the time of the Black Death, when across the globe, human lives were devastated by plague and war – a truly dark age of civilization. Using the Elizabethan plague era as a reference for my story is my way of warning against repeating the same cycle of greed and desire.
My romantic-tragic ending is set in a world where this warning comes too late – where a group of heroes give everything to restart the world and offer life another chance. In reality, we may not get that chance.
Grief gives my design weight – and breath. It makes me choose materials that feel “alive” to the touch: silk threads that invite your fingers, sheer fabrics that tremble with the wind, metals that hold folds and scars. My colors are born from the laws of the world’s cycle: deathly whites, scorched golds, bleeding reds, and the endless colors of renewal.
Structurally, I favor the logic of dissection and re-stitching – clothing that feels as though it was once torn apart and then reborn, carrying both its wounds and its power to heal. To me, grief is not an ending – it is a door to the next breath.
In your universe, the princess ascends to godhood through sacrifice. How does your collection explore the tension between vulnerability and empowerment in fashion?
I believe true strength grows from the most fragile places. My garments expose loose threads, unfinished edges – they acknowledge vulnerability instead of hiding it. At the same time, I make my clothes into ceremonial armor, so that the wearer seems to declare: I was broken, and I still exist.
In my story, sacrifice is not passive – it is a deliberate choice, an act of taking on weight and offering oneself, in order to transcend. Vulnerability and power are not opposites – they are like two ends of a single breath, each impossible without the other.
What kind of emotions do you hope your audience feels when they see your collection?
I hope that in a single instant, they feel something strike their heart – perhaps grief, perhaps love, perhaps a sudden tenderness for the world. I hope that after seeing it, they might pause to look down at a flower, stroke a wounded animal, or hold a quiet vigil at night for something they once lost. My work is not meant to give answers, but to invite feeling – to let the audience feel the pain of the world, and to feel that it is still capable of being mended.
Is there a question about your work that no one has ever asked, but you wish they would?
I wish someone would ask me: “Have you fallen in love with the world while making clothes?”
My answer is: yes.
When I was in middle school, I experienced severe bullying, and my family’s indifference forced me to bear the pain of loneliness and ridicule alone. I was mocked for being too tall and too thin – those memories made me hate the world. But every cut I make now feels like tracing the curves of the earth, every thread feels like sewing myself back to the world. Fashion helped me stitch together my dreams, but also the broken pieces of my heart.
Making clothes has taught me to love the human body again, to love the wrinkles left by time, to love the sound of wind brushing against fabric. It even gave me back the ability to love another person. Fashion, for me, is not a way to escape the world – it is my way of returning to it, tenderly, again and again.
