专访 Wutopia Lab 创始人 | 复杂系统下的多元设计理念

Yu Ting, founder of the Shanghai-based Wutopia Lab, explains why his practice is centred on the concept of complex systems, discusses how the use of labyrinths in design enkindles a sense of wonder, and predicts a turn towards an interdisciplinary approach to architecture.

YU TING: As designers, we often see the world from the perspective of a healthy person: after all, we assume that we're going to be strong in mind and body to do our work. But in recent years, because of illness in my family, I've started to see that so many of the spaces that we traverse every day are not suited to the needs of people who aren't able-bodied.

It's critical to imagine the world from the vantage point of the audience I'm designing for. When I started designing spaces for children, I realized that my daughter, who was young at the time, saw her surroundings very differently from me, as an adult who's 1.7 m tall. I've become more concerned with the human body and how it interacts and leaves an imprint on physical spaces. Another growing concern is our identity: whether you're Shanghainese, or someone who's unwell, or someone who's studied abroad, or someone who's from the LGBTQ community – there are countless factors that influence the way you engage with design and the built environment. I try to be conscious of that. So the reason why I've made an effort to design an eclectic array of spaces, is because I'm interested in the affinity between our environment and different types of identities, moods and desires.

I think of the world as adhering to a model of complex systems. Let's take the example of a closed system that is segregated from any outside forces. This is a system that would fail very quickly. If it is to thrive, it needs to be built on a multitude of exchanges and relationships. Some of these relationships may be in conflict, but others will be congruous with each other. Such a variegated system is bound to stay in flux – it cannot be unchanging, because its boundaries are always expanding. It devours simpler systems and makes them obsolete, and its strength is in its sustainability. We could observe the structure of cities, and of architecture, through the prism of the complex system. A reductive approach to either would not be sustainable, because we need to consider the fluidity of elements that govern them. So, an interdisciplinary approach is essential: it helps me to appreciate exactly how complex, and multifarious, our world is.

Yu Ting.

Once I started seeing design and architecture as a series of complex systems, I made a conceptual shift away from what I learnt early in my career, which was Mies van der Rohe's axiom that 'less is more'. I think the latter philosophy runs the risk of being schematic, and working with it might weaken the features of the spaces that we encounter every day. Conceptualizing a dining room as just a dining room, rather than a space that influences and is influenced by other spaces around it, yields a design that is limited in meaning.

In design, whether it's for the interior or exterior, what I aspire towards is 'half-transparency', where there's a sense of communing with invisible elements within the space. I also enjoy tapping into the idea of mingling layers: this is perhaps because I live in Shanghai, where the weather is often grey and cloudy. This isn't a city where we could emulate architecture that interacts with light, the way you might observe somewhere in the Mediterranean. With almost 200 days of gloomy skies every year, what I can do is to harness the effect of shadows on the buildings I design. The contrast between light and darkness, across the Shanghainese landscape, is reminiscent of the composition of traditional Chinese ink painting. What I like to do is to create silhouettes with my designs.

The use of shadow play ties back into my theory of complex systems, which emphasizes a lack of fixity and constancy in our surroundings, and the possibility that the flutter of a wing could lead to a tremor elsewhere. I think it's vital to challenge the complacency of believing that things always stay the same. When the person you love most falls very sick, you start to realize that health, among other things you take for granted, is not something that remains constant. I got used to this fluctuation, and tried to reflect the idea of movement and transition in my work over the years.

The oceanside Tianya Books in Sanya, China is built in a coconut grove.

In China – and I don't know how common this phenomenon is in other parts of the world – it's common for designers to ask the client: 'What sort of style are you aiming for?' And you work according to the client's desires. I think this is totally wrong. You could enrich and bring more value by pushing back occasionally. So it's important to study the proposal, understand why the client wants specific ideas delivered, and take note of the ones that haven't been fully developed or require more thought. That's not to say that the client and the designer should be at conflict with each other – they're just two forces within a complex system, who can meet in the middle but have different ideas to bring to the table, as most human beings do.

I apply the concept of 'glocalization' to my work by taking into account the diversity of meanings that can be generated when individuals come together to contemplate one idea. For example, the visual image of 'mountains' might look very different to a non-Chinese person than to a Chinese one. The objective is never to prove that my idea is superior, but to find that liminal space that feels fresh for everyone involved: this could be done, for example, with the unorthodox use of materials, such as the inclusion of steel where it might not be expected.

I'm also very intrigued by the genre of magic realism, and by writers like Gabriel Garcia Márquez, in the transformation and exaggeration of everyday details. The aim is to provoke you to see that there might be a reality beyond what is immediately experienced, which we have neglected, as we brush up against the world. By making the smallest changes to the shape or contour of an object or space, we invite people to think more deeply about the relationship between reality and imagination.

The Aranya Kids Restaurant in Qinhuangdao, China.

Jorge Luis Borges's most significant impact on me comes from a slightly obscure passage that's also found in Michel Foucault's The Order of Things. It's called Celestial Emporium of Benevolent Knowledge, and is a seemingly absurd list that divides animals found in China into 14 different categories. It taught me that when you ceaselessly differentiate and classify, you can create a sense of infinity, by building a labyrinth of knowledge. Whether or not you've received training in design, you tend to classify a piece of information by comparing its likeness to another. If you're faced with large, complex amounts of information, then standing out is about finding that line between categories, and placing yourself there. You startle people when you manage to find that space.

Which brings me on to another theme that I am fascinated by in architecture: labyrinths. They appeal to my love of metaphorical richness and complexity, and so I try to elicit the intrigue and wonder of exploring a labyrinthine space in all the projects I take on. For instance, Satori Harbor resembles a city of books where readers can lose themselves, while Duoyun Books is inspired by the visual communion of mountains and water. But the underlying theme that connects both designs is that they draw on the idea of labyrinths, encouraging visitors to burrow deeper.

Open-ended conversations with my daughter definitely helped to shape the designs for children's spaces, including the Aranya Kids Restaurant and Lolly-Laputan. I was always careful not to ask her exactly what she wanted to see, because I think those answers might end up obfuscating the overall vision for the design. Rather, I would go with her to a play area and note meaningful points in our conversation. For example, she might comment that I should go slower when climbing up or down a play area, because it was too tall for her legs. If I had tried to interview her, my questions would have come from the perspective of an adult, which I think would have been counterproductive for my design process. Aspects of design that might be important to adults are unimportant to a child: high-quality materials, the use of colours. What she cares about is whether or not the space is one in which she can feel excited and happy.

Wutopia Lab's Blue Heart is a sharable 'living room' within walking distance from a Chengdu xiao qu.

In China, urban development has taken place very rapidly, but you'll find that most people live in residential areas called xiao qu, which have no communal space. You could go to someone's home without the opportunity to mingle with others in that district. Once you get used to the space, it also influences your personality: you start to dismiss the importance of social encounters, or you feel suspicious of them.

Typically, in Shanghai, many people dislike inviting friends over to their homes. There are various reasons for this: it could be that their apartments are too small, or too messy and therefore unpresentable. For these people, there isn't a 'middle ground', so to speak, where they can meet and entertain their friends in a homely setting. So every household starts to become more and more like an isolated island in a seemingly vast, lonely space. The only alternatives for communal interaction are in overwhelmingly public areas, like cafés or malls, and meeting up with people there feels like part of a more formal arrangement. The way things are, people don't associate their local communities with familiarity, comfort or trust, because even their neighbours are strangers to them.

So I started thinking and observing the most ubiquitous ways that people interact in residential spaces. There are two: the first is when they're walking their dogs and the second is when they're out with their children. Both activities generate the possibility of friendly conversation. Whether you're a CEO or an ordinary person, if you and your neighbour pass each other with your children, you start chatting, and in that moment any markers of identity or class dissipate. Wutopia's Blue Heart project aspires towards the breaking down of these barriers to communication, diminishing the feel of residential spaces as isolated islands. There are rooms for reading, for women and for children, as well as a free space for socializing.

Wutopia Lab's Satori Harbor Library is conceived as a city within a city, situated in the HQ of an e-commerce company.

During the lockdown in China, you would hear some people saying that they were glad to not have to go out of the house, and to surf the internet all day long. Two months on, the overwhelming sentiment was that people longed to see another person, to smell them, even if they used to think they smelled bad [laughs]. I think this goes to show that humans are social creatures at heart, even if we like posturing as misanthropic. A life without meaningful communication with another human being is an excruciating one. I think lockdown has given designers the chance to reflect on our work: we're always innovating when it comes to spaces, scenes and so on, but how many of these spaces are insular, and don't do much to make an individual feel like their presence makes a difference? I think that a lot more can be done to improve design, in this respect.

Regardless of how advanced techniques and technologies in architecture get, I'm mindful that people, and human relationships, should always sit at the heart of the discipline. The disciplinary tools we use to understand our emotions, our bodies and our minds may evolve over time, but the purpose of design remains the same: to scrutinize and investigate society and individuals.

This interview was originally featured in Frame 142. Get your copy here.