Yuqin Cai
GRAPHIC DESIGNER
Yuqin Cai is a communication designer whose work spans visual identity, editorial systems, exhibition graphics, and spatial narratives. Rooted in a background of design research and visual storytelling, she moves fluidly between print and screen, still and moving image, two-dimensional design and built environments. Her practice often begins with content — archival materials, interviews, essays, fragments — and grows through typographic experimentation, layered compositions, and the choreography of information across media. Whether crafting immersive installations or shaping digital interfaces, she approaches design as a generative language — one that structures experience, evokes emotion, and carries cultural memory.
MAY 6, 2025
Your projects often grow from archives, interviews, and essays. When you first encounter a messy pile of content, what’s the first thing you look for to start shaping it?
I’m always looking for what strikes me emotionally - a word, an image, a contradiction - something that sticks out and makes me feel something, even if I can’t explain why yet. It’s like standing in a crowd and suddenly locking eyes with someone who seems familiar. From there, I begin tracing threads: what does this piece of content want to become? I follow feelings before form - the structure comes later.
I’m always looking for what strikes me emotionally - a word, an image, a contradiction - something that sticks out and makes me feel something, even if I can’t explain why yet. It’s like standing in a crowd and suddenly locking eyes with someone who seems familiar. From there, I begin tracing threads: what does this piece of content want to become? I follow feelings before form - the structure comes later.
Typography seems almost like a character in your work — flexible, emotional, alive. What’s one typographic experiment that opened up a new way of thinking for you?
Definitely my Wikibook project. I chose the topic of Santa Claus and Saint Nicholas and started curating their stories from Wikipedia. It sounds lighthearted, but what intrigued me was how culture, history, and commerce mutate a character’s reputation over time. The book became a playground for two narrative voices — structured through dual grids, contrasting typefaces, and rhythmic layout shifts. Typography became the translator between myth and fact, past and present. It wasn’t just styling content — it was the storytelling.
When you’re designing for physical space versus a screen, what sensory or narrative shifts do you pay most attention to?
On screen, the experience is flattened but quick - it’s all about how to grab attention through motion, contrast, and interaction. In physical space, it’s more choreographic. You have the body involved - movement, weight, proximity, even temperature and light. There’s room for silence, or slowness. I often find the narrative becomes more subtle in physical environments - time and space become collaborators.
Your education emphasised both research and storytelling. Was there a moment during your studies when you realised design could be more than just “making things look good”?
For me, it wasn’t a lightning moment - more like a slow unfolding. I went through phases: I
started off obsessed with Swiss design, lived in grids and Helvetica, and then slowly veered
into brutalism, then acid design. At some point I realized I was drawn to things that weren’t
even considered “design” - supermarket sale flyers, dodgy download websites. That was
freeing. I stopped thinking about what design should look like and started thinking about what
it could mean.
Were there any specific projects, mentors, or texts during your academic years that still echo in your current practice?
Yes - a quote from Jenny Holzer always echoes in my mind: “Find a place you trust, and then,
try trusting it for a while.” That line held me during moments of confusion or doubt, reminding
me that uncertainty is part of the process, and trust can be a method.
How would you describe your design role at :iidrr? Are you more of a systems builder behind the scenes, a visual storyteller, or something else entirely?
I see myself as a visual storyteller. I’m always asking: what story is this project trying to tell, and how can I make the telling feel lived, layered, a little unexpected? Even when I’m working on something like layout systems or graphic standards, there’s always an emotional pulse underneath - I want the work to feel something, not just function.
In your work, design is called a “generative language.” Has there been a time when the way you designed something actually changed how you or others understood the content?
Yes - I once built a playful webpage about Traditional Chinese Medicine facial diagnosis. It’s
such a tactile, ancient practice - noticing the warmth of skin, the moisture of lips. I tried to
translate that into the digital: using default HTML elements like checkboxes and data fields to
hold this organic knowledge. It felt like a clash at first - but that friction helped me and others
see the content differently. It became not just a webpage, but a conversation about what can
and can’t be digitized.
try trusting it for a while.” That line held me during moments of confusion or doubt, reminding
me that uncertainty is part of the process, and trust can be a method.
How would you describe your design role at :iidrr? Are you more of a systems builder behind the scenes, a visual storyteller, or something else entirely?
I see myself as a visual storyteller. I’m always asking: what story is this project trying to tell, and how can I make the telling feel lived, layered, a little unexpected? Even when I’m working on something like layout systems or graphic standards, there’s always an emotional pulse underneath - I want the work to feel something, not just function.
In your work, design is called a “generative language.” Has there been a time when the way you designed something actually changed how you or others understood the content?
Yes - I once built a playful webpage about Traditional Chinese Medicine facial diagnosis. It’s
such a tactile, ancient practice - noticing the warmth of skin, the moisture of lips. I tried to
translate that into the digital: using default HTML elements like checkboxes and data fields to
hold this organic knowledge. It felt like a clash at first - but that friction helped me and others
see the content differently. It became not just a webpage, but a conversation about what can
and can’t be digitized.
Your compositions often feel like they have a rhythm — almost musical. When arranging information, do you think more like a composer, a choreographer, or a writer?
A choreographer. I think in movement - how elements lean on each other, how they rest, how they collide. I often bring that sense of timing and weight into my printmaking work. It’s not about placing things nicely - it’s about letting them move through space.
A choreographer. I think in movement - how elements lean on each other, how they rest, how they collide. I often bring that sense of timing and weight into my printmaking work. It’s not about placing things nicely - it’s about letting them move through space.
You often weave cultural memory into your work. Is there a particular story, image, or object you find yourself unconsciously returning to?
Yes - the idea of the “double.” I’m drawn to themes like counterpart, replicate, duplicate, paradox, contradiction. I think it reflects something personal — growing up between cultures, you develop a kind of mirrored consciousness. There’s always a flip side, a negative space, and I find that idea keeps reappearing in my work, even when I don’t expect it.
Yes - the idea of the “double.” I’m drawn to themes like counterpart, replicate, duplicate, paradox, contradiction. I think it reflects something personal — growing up between cultures, you develop a kind of mirrored consciousness. There’s always a flip side, a negative space, and I find that idea keeps reappearing in my work, even when I don’t expect it.
In a fast-scrolling world, you create spaces that feel slower and more layered. Is that slowness a conscious resistance - or simply what feels natural to you?
It’s not really a strategy. I don’t decide to slow things down - it just happens when I try to visualize what I’m feeling. I think slowness creates room for uncertainty, curiosity, and nuance. That’s where my work feels most alive.
It’s not really a strategy. I don’t decide to slow things down - it just happens when I try to visualize what I’m feeling. I think slowness creates room for uncertainty, curiosity, and nuance. That’s where my work feels most alive.
When balancing structured systems with creative exploration, which tends to come first for you - the grid, or the improvisation?
Always improvisation. A blurry image in my head, a word that feels heavy, a shape I can’t explain. The grid comes later - not to restrict, but to hold the improvisation in place once it starts dancing.
Always improvisation. A blurry image in my head, a word that feels heavy, a shape I can’t explain. The grid comes later - not to restrict, but to hold the improvisation in place once it starts dancing.
What’s a small ritual or habit that helps you transition into deep work — a favourite
soundtrack, a visual warm-up, or even just rearranging your desk?
I always start by pinning down every raw thought - little notes, weird sketches, even half-
baked metaphors. It’s like clearing my throat before speaking. And I love playing music that sounds like people having a conversation in another room - distant, a little messy, just enough
to keep me company without pulling focus.
soundtrack, a visual warm-up, or even just rearranging your desk?
I always start by pinning down every raw thought - little notes, weird sketches, even half-
baked metaphors. It’s like clearing my throat before speaking. And I love playing music that sounds like people having a conversation in another room - distant, a little messy, just enough
to keep me company without pulling focus.