Wei-Cheng Huang

Being recognised by the French Design Awards is both an honour and an important affirmation of my design approach. As an independent design studio, we invest considerable thought in decisions that may not immediately appear dramatic, such as preserving an existing surface, adjusting the quality of light, or allowing old and new materials to coexist. This recognition confirms that a project rooted in local context and everyday experience can still communicate across cultural boundaries. It has also given me greater confidence to continue developing a design language that is honest, restrained, and attentive to the history of each space.

As the award has only recently been announced, it would be premature to claim that it has already created major commercial opportunities. Its most immediate impact has been the confidence and encouragement it has given both me and my studio. It provides independent international recognition of our work and helps clients understand the values behind our design process. More importantly, it gives us a stronger foundation from which to present Taiwanese interior design to a wider audience. I hope it will lead to meaningful conversations, collaborations, and opportunities to work on projects involving renovation, cultural context, and adaptive reuse.

Experimentation is essential to my process because materials and light cannot be fully understood through drawings or renderings alone. We test proportions, textures, lighting temperatures, and construction details before deciding on the final solution. In The Living Archive, the material display area was designed with adjustable colour-temperature lighting. Different materials can appear significantly warmer, cooler, darker, or flatter under different lighting conditions. By experimenting with these variations, the display became more than a sample wall—it became a practical tool that allows clients to understand how materials may respond within their future environments.

One of my most unusual sources of inspiration was not a new object or visual reference, but the imperfections left behind in a fifty-year-old building. In The Living Archive, the original red flooring, terrazzo stair handrail, patterned glass, and iron door all carried traces of previous use. Instead of treating these elements as problems to be removed, I viewed them as fragments of the building’s memory. Their colours, textures, and signs of age became the starting point for the new design. Sometimes the most meaningful inspiration already exists within a space; the designer’s role is simply to notice it.

I wish more people understood that design is not simply the selection of a style or the production of an attractive image. It is a continuous process of identifying problems, setting priorities, testing possibilities, and coordinating countless decisions involving function, structure, budget, materials, lighting, and construction. The most visible feature is not always the most important decision. Sometimes good design means removing an unnecessary element, preserving something imperfect, or resolving a detail that users may never consciously notice. A successful space is created through the consistency of many thoughtful decisions rather than one dramatic gesture.

I begin by understanding the need behind a client’s request rather than responding only to its literal form. Clients often describe a preferred image or style, but beneath that preference may be a desire for comfort, identity, efficiency, or a particular atmosphere. My responsibility is to translate those underlying needs into a coherent spatial solution. When my recommendation differs from the client’s initial idea, I explain the practical consequences and design reasoning clearly. Staying true to my ideas does not mean imposing a personal style; it means protecting the logic, quality, and long-term value of the project while respecting the people who will use it.

The project involved renovating the ground floor of a fifty-year-old, narrow building in Tainan. An existing mezzanine reduced part of the ceiling height to approximately 1.9 metres, while the long plan made it difficult for natural light to reach the interior. We removed the central portion of the mezzanine to create an approximately four-metre-high material exhibition space. The metal structure at the front was removed and replaced with a courtyard to introduce daylight. Adjustable membrane lighting and linear lighting were used to supplement areas where natural light remained limited. At the same time, original elements were carefully preserved so that improving the space did not erase its history

When I encounter a creative block, I step away from the drawing and return to observation. I visit buildings, material showrooms, cafés, streets, and unfamiliar neighbourhoods, paying attention to how people naturally occupy spaces and how light changes throughout the day. I also revisit the project’s original constraints. Creative blocks often occur when too many references or possibilities distract us from the actual problem. By simplifying the question and returning to the users, the site, and the purpose of the project, I can usually rediscover a clearer direction. For me, creativity is often recharged through careful observation rather than forced production.

I bring a sense of respect, honesty, and responsibility into my work. I believe designers should respect the history of an existing building, use materials honestly, and remain responsible for how design decisions affect construction, budget, maintenance, and everyday use. Working with renovation projects has taught me that newness is not automatically more valuable. Existing imperfections can create identity and emotional depth when they are handled thoughtfully. I therefore try to avoid unnecessary decoration and focus on what genuinely improves the space. My goal is to create interiors that feel considered and distinctive without losing their connection to real life.

Do not focus only on developing a recognisable visual style. Learn how spaces are actually constructed, observe how people use them, and understand why certain details succeed or fail. Design ability grows through curiosity, site experience, communication, and the willingness to revise your own decisions. It is also important not to measure progress only through awards or online attention. Recognition can be encouraging, but lasting development comes from treating every project seriously, including small projects with difficult limitations. Constraints are not obstacles to creativity; they are often what help a designer develop an individual point of view.

I would choose to collaborate with Tadao Ando. I greatly admire his ability to create emotional intensity through a restrained architectural language, particularly his use of natural light, material honesty, geometry, and silence. His work demonstrates that an atmosphere does not require excessive decoration; it can emerge from carefully controlled relationships between light, material, proportion, and movement. I would be especially interested in exploring how his architectural clarity could interact with my interest in existing buildings and preserved traces of time. Such a collaboration would be an opportunity to study how restraint can make memory and human experience more visible.

I wish people would ask, “Why did you preserve these old and imperfect elements instead of replacing everything with something new?” My answer would be that renovation should not automatically erase what came before. Existing materials and marks of use give a building identity, continuity, and a connection to the people who once occupied it. By placing these traces alongside contemporary interventions, we allow different periods of time to remain visible within the same space. For me, good renovation is not about making an old building appear completely new; it is about helping it continue its story with clarity and relevance.