Yi Chun Lin

Yi Chun Lin combines her background in graphic design with a more personal visual approach, creating works that blend structure and spontaneity. Drawing from everyday experiences and her cultural background, she works with digital tools, color, and layered imagery to explore identity, memory, and perception. Her projects often shift between design and art, but always stay connected to a clear visual language that feels both thoughtful and direct.

Gaze - Digital drawing, 2025

Q: Your work blends structured design with digital experimentation. What’s the first thing you look for when starting a new piece?

A: I usually begin by quietly observing everyday things—like how a plastic bag moves in the wind, or the way people fidget when they’re thinking. But instead of just recording what I see, I let my imagination spiral out. I start asking questions that don’t make any logical sense, like: "If Cupid took the subway, where would he go?" or "What if I went on a dating show and got matched with a shark?" Those little daydreams crack something open in my brain. They pull familiar objects or situations into weird, impossible contexts—and that’s where the fun begins.

I think I’m drawn to the structure of real life precisely because I enjoy messing with it. There’s a beauty in how the world is designed to make sense, and I like to gently flip that sense on its head. I take those absurd sparks and start shaping them into something visual—blending intuitive play with a graphic designer’s instinct for balance, rhythm, and clarity. Structure helps me make the chaos legible, but it’s the absurd questions that get me started.

Q: Living in New York with a Taiwanese background, how do these two worlds show up in your process?

A: Back in Taiwan, I was always drawn to the textures and rhythms of the city—things like night markets, neighborhood alleyways, the strange mix of chaos and familiarity that fills everyday life. A lot of my earlier work focused on documenting the environment I grew up in—where I lived, what I saw outside my window, or the small rituals that made up a typical day. I’ve always liked observing how a city behaves—not just architecturally, but emotionally. How people move, how they decorate space, what feels temporary and what stays.

After moving to New York, that instinct didn’t go away—it just shifted. I’m still watching the city closely, but now I’m an outsider in someone else’s rhythm. That contrast sharpened my sense of what I notice and how I translate it into visual work. I often find myself drawn to in-between spaces, places that feel overlooked or transitional. Maybe that’s because I live between two cultural tempos—Taiwanese subtlety and New York’s raw immediacy.

Both places taught me different ways of paying attention. In Taiwan, I learned to notice the quiet details. In New York, I learned to hold onto them even when everything around me is moving too fast. That tension shows up in my process—I like mixing clarity with ambiguity, nostalgia with edge, softness with noise.

Q: Color plays a strong role in your work. Do certain palettes feel more personal to you?

A: I’ve been sensitive to color for as long as I can remember. Even as a kid, I would fixate on the way certain colors clashed or vibrated against each other. I’ve always been drawn to bold, saturated palettes—colors that don’t behave, that demand space. It’s not about being loud for the sake of it, but about the kind of emotional tension and energy those colors carry.

Growing up in Taiwan, I was surrounded by color in ways that felt unfiltered and raw. 

The traditional outdoor stages—the yétái performances with their layered neon backdrops, glittery costumes, and plastic flowers—left a strong impression on me. Same with the night markets: the red signs, the fluorescent lighting, the way fruits, food stalls, and toys all fought for your attention visually. That visual noise became something I now associate with warmth, celebration, and life.

I think those memories shaped the way I use color now. Even when I’m working digitally or on more abstract pieces, there’s often a kind of controlled chaos in my palette. I like pairing warm and cold tones in unexpected ways, or using "ugly-pretty" color combinations that create tension. It feels honest to me—like a reflection of how I experience the world: layered, messy, a little too much, but always vivid.

Q: You’ve won several awards in design. Has that experience shaped how you approach your more experimental pieces?

A: Yes—it made me realize how much of my design training was built around problem-solving, clarity, and delivering results. Winning awards affirmed that I was good at those things, but it also made me question what I could make when there wasn’t a brief, a client, or a right answer.

Stepping into experimental work, I had to unlearn that need for resolution. Shifting out of “solution mode” and into curiosity gave me a new kind of freedom. 

It let me follow strange ideas without justifying them, to explore the irrational, surreal, or personal without trying to make them immediately legible.

That shift taught me to trust my own language—even when it doesn’t make sense to others right away. The confidence I gained through awards gave me permission to take those risks.

Final - Digital drawing, 2025

Q: When you're working on something more conceptual or intuitive, do you approach it differently than a design commission?

A: Definitely. With a commission, I start by defining goals—what needs to be communicated, who it’s for, how it should function. There's usually a linear path: research, ideation, refinement, delivery.

But with conceptual or intuitive work, the process is slower and less defined. I might start with a texture, a phrase from a dream, or just a weird feeling I want to hold onto. There’s no deadline, no client—just me trying to listen to what the work wants to become. Sometimes I spend days just staring at something, not touching it, until it clicks.

It’s more emotional, more atmospheric. There’s room for detours, for doubt, for moments where nothing “productive” happens. But I’ve learned to value that space—it’s where the unexpected things emerge, and where my voice feels most honest.

Q: What keeps you returning to visual storytelling when you want to express something complex?

A: Because visual language can hold contradiction and ambiguity in ways spoken or written language often can’t. When something is too layered, too emotional, or too difficult to say directly, I turn to images—symbols, textures, color arrangements, or spatial tension—to carry those meanings. It allows me to leave space for the viewer to feel rather than just understand.

I’m drawn to that open-endedness. Sometimes even I don’t fully know what I’m trying to express until much later. There’s something comforting about building a narrative through fragments—letting a mood, a shape, or a color speak first, before I even try to name what it means. Visual storytelling lets me process things sideways—it gives me a way to sit with complexity without rushing to define it.

It also feels more honest to how my thoughts actually form—not in straight lines, but in loops, echoes, and flashes. Through images, I can create a kind of emotional map—one that might not give clear directions, but still leads somewhere. And maybe that’s why I keep returning to it: because it gives me permission to not have all the answers, but to still speak.