Aoccho
- Anna Lilli Garai
- Jun 26
- 6 min read
Aoccho is a digital artist based in New York City who mainly works with motion graphics. She explores how what we see connects with sound, language, and emotion. Growing up with different languages and cultures, she often begins with a sentence or a sound and turns it into moving images that reflect thoughts and feelings. Her work plays with the sound of speech, the meaning of words, and how we remember things. In addition to personal projects, she has also worked with both cultural and commercial clients.
Q: What was it about infographics that made you feel like visuals could actually tell a story on their own?
A: It actually came about as part of a process—and inspiration. At the time, I was in graduate school studying history, and my research focused on 17th-century nautical charts. That was the Age of Discovery in the Western world, when every voyage was an adventure. So many unpredictable factors at sea could determine whether a journey would succeed or fail. I found these stories fascinating, and I kept wondering: How can I make this more engaging for others? How can I tell it in a way that draws people in?
Back then, I was using PowerPoint to present my research—just text and still images—and I would manually trace sailing routes while explaining them. I kept thinking, wouldn’t it be much more compelling if these old nautical charts could move?
Around that time, I came across the term "infographics," and it was a lightbulb moment. I realized that a single icon or image could convey meaning or tell a story—without needing any accompanying text. One simple but often overlooked example is public restroom signage: when you see the icon of someone in pants, you know it's the men's room; when you see a skirt, you know it's the women's. You don’t need to read “Men” or “Women” to understand. Later on, this expanded—like with icons that are half pants and half skirt, which signal a unisex or all-gender restroom.
A perfect example of how infographics and motion graphics work together is the Wi-Fi icon. Whether it has three arcs or five, you instantly know what it means: if only one or two arcs are lit, the signal is weak. If the arcs are animating outward from the center one by one, you know it’s trying to connect. The slower the animation, the more difficult the connection. These are tiny visual cues that don’t need any text—people just get it.
After learning about infographics and motion graphics, I decided to pivot my career from writing stories with text to telling them through motion graphics. And honestly, I really enjoy it! Haha.
Q: How has sound changed the way you think about movement or emotion in your work?
A: When I hear a sound that resonates with me emotionally, I focus on fully experiencing it in the moment—its feeling, mood, and the images it evokes. Then, I try to depict it visually.
I usually start by describing the qualities of the sound: Is it high-pitched and sharp? Or low, deep, and steady? How does it evolve over time? Does it begin low and then become rapid? Are there shifts or contrasts in the middle?
At the same time, I pay close attention to how the sound influences my emotional state. What kind of emotion does it trigger? And what is the nature of my emotional experience in response? Interestingly, my emotional response doesn’t always directly align with the sound’s inherent qualities. For example, a sound might be long, low, and stable, yet it might make me feel something brief, fast, and joyfully exciting.
Often, these sonic-emotional experiences also come with imagined visuals—colors or color patterns. I might “see” a color appear suddenly, gradually, or as a soft gradient, depending on how the sound feels.
These imagined responses—how I emotionally and visually perceive a sound—often form the foundation for the rhythm and emotion of a new piece. That’s usually where a new work begins. :)
Q: Are there certain languages that just click visually for you—like they naturally turn into images?
A: Actually, there isn’t a specific language that always clicks visually for me—as if it naturally turns into images. What really draws me in and sparks inspiration is the mood or emotional tone of a language’s context, and sometimes, it’s as subtle as the pronunciation or intonation of a single word. Certain syllables feel soft, others sharp; some carry weight, while others drift like breath. These sonic textures often create a kind of emotional imagery in my mind, even before I think about their literal meaning.
So it’s less about the language itself, and more about how it feels in a specific moment—how it resonates emotionally. I’ve found this especially true with Taiwanese. There’s a raw clarity and warmth in the way it’s spoken—direct, rhythmic, and full of feeling. It’s a language that lands with weight, like something meant to be heard and felt at the same time.
On the other hand, Italian has a musicality and expressiveness that feels sculptural to me—almost like carving sound into shape. Both languages affect me viscerally, not just intellectually.
Sometimes a word in English will echo visually because of how it sounds; other times, a Taiwanese Mandarin, Taiwanese, Japanese, or Italian word will trigger something because of its layered meanings or rhythmic quality. I think this ties back to the way I experience language as a sensory material, not just a tool for communication.
I’m always looking for that spark—when a word, in any language, feels like it’s already halfway to becoming an image.
Q: When you start with a word or a sound, what makes you want to keep going with it?
A: When I start creating from a single word or a sound, it means I feel something for it—there's a sense of resonance.
It acts like a trigger, flipping a switch in my imagination and sparking inspiration. That feeling might come from the rhythm, the intonation, or the emotion the sound or word evokes. Sometimes I immediately associate it with a color, a rhythm, a sense of space, or a hazy yet vivid atmosphere—just like I described earlier.
For me, the beginning of a new piece always starts with sensation and imagination. I build outward from that emotional connection, translating it into visual and rhythmic forms, gradually shaping a complete context and structure. The process of creation is really about turning these internal experiences and perceptions into a visual language that others can feel. And often, starting from a word or a sound will take me in a creative direction I never could have predicted.
Q: In “Before Even Beginning,” you’re right at that first moment of an idea. Do you try to hold onto that feeling, or let it shift as you go?
A: In "Before Even Beginning," I visualize the juncture where a new idea suddenly emerges, as well as the process of shaping that idea into something more defined. This series is my attempt to visually portray the moment when intuition, inspiration, and perception begin to form into a concrete thought—essentially, just as the title suggests, the state before anything has officially begun, before a work even enters the stage of creation.
I’m especially fascinated by that subtle yet electric moment—when a sound, a word, or an emotion is first stirred, even before it has taken shape as a clear idea. It’s a deeply intuitive, emotional moment. And when that feeling is triggered, I often experience a burst of overlapping sensations and thoughts all at once—each one shifting and flickering from second to second. I don’t try to cling to any of them too tightly, but I do try to stay attuned to that frequency, letting it guide me.
Sometimes the initial feeling is vivid and distinct, but more often, it shifts gradually—and I follow that evolution. I see that transformation as an essential part of the creative process. The work progresses and transforms in response to the emotions or rhythm of the moment, and my role is to remain open and perceptive, allowing that original spark to naturally evolve into visual form and language, rather than forcing it into a predefined shape. Even if the final work ends up looking quite different from the initial spark, I hope the viewer can still sense the resonance of that first moment.
Q: When something starts from such a personal or sensory place, how do you make sure others can still find their way into it?
A: Honestly, I don’t think this question applies only to art—it’s something I feel even in daily conversations. Whether it’s a casual chat, an article someone writes, or a podcast I listen to, everything we take in is coming from someone’s personal lens or sensory experience. My own work is just a visual record of my perceptions—how I translate what I feel into images. I’ve never really focused on controlling how the audience should see “me” through the work, or what exactly they’re supposed to take from it.
I think of it more like this: “Hey, this is one of my thoughts, one of my perspectives—feel free to take a look. And if you have any thoughts, I’d love to hear them!” That kind of openness feels more true to how I see communication, both in art and in life.
