Haozhe Li
ILLUSTRATOR
Haozhe Li is an illustrator based in New York City. She completed her MFA in Illustration at theFashion Institute of Technology in 2023. Haozhe explores different media, integrating traditional painting techniques into modern illustration, with a current focus on pastel. Her work combines abstract and figurative art, aiming to express clear intentions while inviting viewers to form their own interpretations.
JULY 16, 2025
Hi Haozhe! What’s a recent scene from daily life that made you smile or pause?
One little moment that always makes me pause and smile happens every time I step out of my home. I walk down this corridor lined with trees and plants, and in the summer, the sunlight catches them just right, making the leaves glow with this incredibly tender, vibrant green. What really gets me are those little speckles of light filtering through the leaves and dancing on the ground – they look like scattered diamonds sparkling on the pavement. It’s a beautiful reminder that even the pockets of nature tucked into our cities can stop you in your tracks and fill you with wonder.
One little moment that always makes me pause and smile happens every time I step out of my home. I walk down this corridor lined with trees and plants, and in the summer, the sunlight catches them just right, making the leaves glow with this incredibly tender, vibrant green. What really gets me are those little speckles of light filtering through the leaves and dancing on the ground – they look like scattered diamonds sparkling on the pavement. It’s a beautiful reminder that even the pockets of nature tucked into our cities can stop you in your tracks and fill you with wonder.
What does a typical workday look like for you? Do you have any quiet rituals or habits while working?
A typical workday starts with me checking and prioritizing emails from clients or collaborators. Once that's sorted, I dive into my main creative work—focusing on the illustrations I planned the day before. To transition into that creative headspace, I almost always watch some painting or drawing videos online. It’s like a quiet ritual that helps me settle in, absorb some inspiration, and gently step into the world of arts for the day.
Where do you usually like to draw, do space and surroundings affect your process?
I primarily work in my studio. The space itself deeply influences my process – I surround my desk with posters collected from various art festivals. They’re like visual anchors, reminding me of creativity and community. I also need my tools meticulously organized by category. There’s something about that ritualistic precision and orderly setup that brings me a sense of calm. It clears mental clutter and creates the focused, tranquil space where my best work happens.
Your work often feels soft and peaceful. Do you think that reflects how you experience the world?
Yes, I think that softness and peace in my work are deeply connected to how I choose to engage with the world now. A few years ago, I tended to approach things with much more intensity and a more rigid perspective. But through my personal journey—experiences that taught me resilience and reflection—I’ve found that embracing a gentler outlook fundamentally changed my perspective. It’s not just an artistic style; it’s a way of moving through life that brings me clarity and calm. That inner peace I actively cultivate now naturally flows into the art I create.
What kinds of materials or textures are you drawn to, and how do they influence your creative process?
My palette has changed a lot over the past 5 years as I’ve developed my design vocabulary, and I’m sure it will keep changing as I work on more projects. As of right now, the materials, textures, and colors I work with are very much informed by my clients. In my day-to-day work in retail design, I work with quite bold colors and materials like acrylic and milled forms, while in my own practice, I find myself drawn to more natural materials like wood, wicker, and leather.
Nature, animals, and human connection appear frequently in your illustrations. What draws you to these themes?
These themes is deeply influenced by Éric Rohmer’s films—particularly the quiet poetry he finds in everyday moments. The way he frames nature, captures subtle human interactions, and finds meaning in ordinary encounters resonates with me profoundly. His visual rhythm—the soft light, the unhurried conversations, the gentle coexistence of people and their environments—seeps into my own creative language. It’s less about replicating his style, and more about carrying forward that same reverence for life’s quiet, truthful beauty into my illustrations.
What is important to a good spatial experience?
Even though my background is in architecture, I find myself drawn to furniture, objects, spatial, and experiential design because of their tactile components. I think design should be inviting, playful, stop someone from their routine, and spark interest or conversation. When it becomes really interesting, I think it is when design makes you want to interact with it, beyond looking at it, when it makes you want to touch, to feel, to engage. Mixing soft with hard materials is an instant way to activate that sensorial experience, making it an amazing tool to use for any type of designer.
Can you tell us more about how you use pastel, both in terms of materials and mood?
I approach pastels with a tempera-inspired layering technique, building colors gradually in thin, translucent veils. Initially, I focus entirely on establishing the foundation through value relationships—perfecting the interplay of light and shadow in monochrome. After this structural balance feels resolved do I introduce color harmonies.
The papier-mâché frames you create feel like an extension of the drawing. How did this idea start?
This idea began during my graduation exhibition. After completing the paintings themselves, I felt traditional frames would create a visual disconnect—they felt too rigid against the organic textures in my work. I remembered seeing artists sculpt with papier-mâché, and something clicked: its raw, tactile quality echoed the handcrafted essence of my pieces. So I experimented, adapting the technique to frame-making. It wasn’t just decoration; it became an extension of the artwork, where the boundary between the piece and its vessel softly dissolves.
How do you know when a piece is finished—when it holds enough feeling?
Honestly, this remains an evolving relationship for me—especially with personal work where there’s no deadline. I often find myself lingering in the editing stage, adjusting details until I lose perspective. When that happens, I step away and revisit the piece with fresh eyes the next day. If the piece gives me that sense of quiet rightness, that’s when I know it’s complete.
Honestly, this remains an evolving relationship for me—especially with personal work where there’s no deadline. I often find myself lingering in the editing stage, adjusting details until I lose perspective. When that happens, I step away and revisit the piece with fresh eyes the next day. If the piece gives me that sense of quiet rightness, that’s when I know it’s complete.
Your images seem to hold something deeply emotional but quiet. Do you think of your work as a form of storytelling, memory-keeping, or something else?
I see my personal work as a quiet conversation between emotion and ephemera. It rarely begins with a structured narrative—instead, I gather fragments: a texture from my sketchbook, the weight of a line in a poem, the way light falls in a memory I never wrote down.
I see my personal work as a quiet conversation between emotion and ephemera. It rarely begins with a structured narrative—instead, I gather fragments: a texture from my sketchbook, the weight of a line in a poem, the way light falls in a memory I never wrote down.
Finally, what kind of feeling or experience do you hope someone takes away after sitting with your work?
I hope it invites them into a kind of tender recognition—not of my story, but of their own. My art isn’t about declaring; it’s about gently echoing the beauty already living in their bones. And if it stirs that memory? That’s more than enough.
I hope it invites them into a kind of tender recognition—not of my story, but of their own. My art isn’t about declaring; it’s about gently echoing the beauty already living in their bones. And if it stirs that memory? That’s more than enough.