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Looking back at the work I have created during my BA Sound Arts course, I realise that much of it was designed for a very specific audience: my tutors, my peers, and the contained environment of a university gallery space. My first-year piece, which connected thread to a speaker so that tempo vibrated through the thread for the hard-of-hearing community, was exhibited primarily to fellow students. My second-year therapeutic sound installation, combining singing bowls, rain tubes, and electronically analysed frequencies for mental health, was experienced by perhaps fifty people. My final-year feminist critique of uneconomic labour was seen by a similarly limited circle. But if I step outside the BA bubble, how might this work be received by a wider public? And can I ever become like Kusama or Zimoun? These are the questions that will define my next five years.

How My Work Could Reach a Wider Public

My first-year vibration-and-thread piece has clear potential beyond academia. The hard-of-hearing community is not a niche audience—it is a substantial population. According to the World Health Organization, over 1.5 billion people globally experience some degree of hearing loss. My piece offered a way to experience music through tactile vibration, translated through physical thread. This could be installed in public spaces: museums, community centres, hospitals, or even music festivals seeking accessible design. The wider public, many of whom have never considered how sound can be felt rather than heard, would encounter my work not as abstract art but as a functional, empathetic intervention. That shifts the reception from “interesting” to “meaningful.”

My second-year therapeutic sound work addresses an even larger audience. Mental health is no longer a private struggle discussed in whispers—it is a global crisis. The WHO reports that depression affects over 280 million people worldwide. My combination of traditional instruments (singing bowls, rain tubes) with electronically analysed relaxation frequencies sits at the intersection of art, wellness, and healthcare. A wider public—particularly in cities like Hong Kong, Beijing, and London, where stress and burnout are endemic—would receive this work not as experimental sound art but as a practical tool for self-care. I could imagine my installations in corporate wellness spaces, therapy clinics, or public parks designed for mental restoration.

My final-year feminist work on uneconomic labour—the unpaid, invisible work disproportionately performed by women—addresses a political reality that resonates far beyond the art world. A wider public, particularly working mothers, caregivers, and social justice advocates, would recognise themselves in my critique. This work could be exhibited in public squares, metro stations, or community centres, not just galleries. The reception would be less about aesthetic pleasure and more about recognition and solidarity.

Can I Become Like Kusama or Zimoun?

The honest answer is: not exactly, and that is not the right goal. Kusama had a unique combination of obsessive compulsion, institutional rejection followed by late-career embrace, and a willingness to commercialise through luxury fashion. Zimoun had a self-taught technical precision, a minimalist aesthetic, and a decade of underground performance before institutional recognition. I am neither Kusama nor Zimoun. I am a multidisciplinary artist who moves between sound, textile, drawing, 3D design, dance, and now coding. My path will be different.

But I can learn from them. From Kusama, I learn that commercial collaboration does not have to mean selling out. If Louis Vuitton called, I would answer—not for the money alone, but because strategic partnerships can amplify a critical message to millions. From Zimoun, I learn that formal education is not the only credential. My sound art degree is valuable, but my willingness to teach myself coding for my graduation showcase is equally important. Zimoun’s career proves that obsessive curiosity and self-directed production can build an international practice.

What Area Can I Develop Into?

Looking at my existing body of work, three development paths emerge clearly.

First, accessible design and inclusive technology. My hard-of-hearing piece was a prototype. I could develop this into a product or installation series focused on tactile sound experiences for disabled communities. This would blend my sound art skills with design thinking, user research, and potentially product development. Companies like Google’s Accessibility Team or museums seeking inclusive exhibitions would be natural partners.

Second, therapeutic sound and wellness technology. My mental health piece was small in scale but large in potential. With further training in sound therapy, psychology, or human-computer interaction, I could develop sound installations for hospitals, therapy centres, or digital wellness apps. The market for mental health technology is growing rapidly. My artistic background gives me an advantage over purely clinical approaches because I understand experience, not just efficacy.

Third, socially critical public art. My feminist uneconomic labour piece could scale up. With training in curatorial practice, public art administration, or social practice, I could produce large-scale interventions in public spaces—sound installations in metro stations, textile works in shopping centres, or multi-channel audio in housing estates. This path would lead toward museums, biennials, and public art commissions.

Conclusion

My work can absolutely reach a wider public—not because it is “better” than other student work, but because it addresses real human needs: accessibility, mental health, and social justice. I will not become Kusama or Zimoun. I will become the first version of myself. And that version is heading toward accessible design, therapeutic sound, or socially critical public art. The BA Sound Arts course gave me the tools. Now I need to choose which audience to serve first.

When we analyze the realities of living as an artist, we tend to focus on individual creators. But understanding how entertainment companies are built from nothing offers equally valuable lessons. Time Fengjun Entertainment, the company behind TFBOYS and the “cultivation system” in Chinese pop music, is a remarkable case study. It started with zero industry experience, zero existing artists, and zero guarantee of success. Yet today, it has generated over $430 million in commercial valuation and produced artists whose concert alone brought $57.7 million in tourism revenue to a single city . How did they do it—without a reference?

Starting from Absolute Zero

In 2009, Time Fengjun was founded by Chen Chunhui and Li Fei, a former finance graduate from Central University of Finance and Economics who had no background in entertainment management . At the time, the Chinese idol market simply did not exist for domestically produced groups. The company had no capital, no established artists, and no industry connections. Their only asset was an idea: to adapt the Japanese “idol training system” to the Chinese market .

But adaptation was not replication. Japan’s Johnny & Associates built its empire through exclusive television appearances and controlled media access. China in 2009 had a different media landscape—one increasingly shaped by user-generated content on platforms like Youku and微博. Time Fengjun could not simply copy the Japanese model. They had to invent their own.

The “Cultivation” Signature: Growing Up Together

What became Time Fengjun’s signature innovation was the “cultivation” model. Instead of debuting polished, finished idols, they introduced very young trainees—some as young as eleven or twelve—and documented their progress online through daily vlogs, training videos, and informal livestreams . The company’s strategy was counterintuitive: show imperfection. Show awkwardness. Show growth.

This created a unique emotional contract with the audience. Fans did not simply admire the artists from a distance; they felt they had participated in their journey. One academic study on TFBOYS’s success identified this as the key differentiator: “The company allowed fans to watch their idols grow from ordinary children into professional performers, creating an unprecedented level of emotional investment” . When fans voted TFBOYS to their first major award in 2014, defeating established Korean groups, it was not just a victory for the artists—it was validation of the fans’ own commitment .

How to Develop Without a Reference

The question at the heart of any entrepreneurial creative endeavor is: How do you build something new when no one has done it before? Time Fengjun’s answer was to treat the audience as co-creators from day one. They did not wait for television executives to approve their artists. Instead, they put raw, unpolished content directly online and let the data speak. If a trainee’s cover video got 500,000 views, that trainee received more investment. If another failed to connect, they were quietly rotated out .

This was not traditional market research—it was live, iterative product development. The company’s founder Li Fei later explained their philosophy: “We don’t depend on platforms. We independently produce content and build emotional bonds with fans through continuous original material” . In other words, when there is no external validation system, you build your own.

Funding the Unknown

The financial model evolved alongside the artistic one. In the early years, Time Fengjun operated on minimal capital, funding operations through small-scale training fees and eventually through fan club memberships. By 2016, they had developed a sophisticated fan economy: premium memberships, exclusive content, ticketed fan events, and limited-edition merchandise . A single voting event for stage pairings in 2021 generated over 12.5 million RMB in virtual gifts .

This model proved that when fans feel genuine ownership over an artist’s journey, their willingness to support financially is extraordinary. The 2023 TFBOYS tenth-anniversary concert sold only 33,055 tickets but had over 6 million online reservations, with premium seats reportedly resold for 500,000 RMB each .

What This Means for Starting Something New

Time Fengjun’s trajectory offers concrete lessons for anyone building a brand or venture without reference:

First, build transparency into your process. The company’s early decision to document training publicly was not just content strategy—it was trust-building. Audiences invest in what they understand.

Second, let data guide your direction, not your identity. Time Fengjun used view counts and engagement metrics to decide which trainees to promote, but they never abandoned their core “cultivation” identity. The method evolved; the promise did not.

Third, develop multiple revenue streams early. Membership fees, merchandise, live events, and digital content created financial resilience. When one stream faced challenges—such as the 2024 iOS membership pricing controversy —others remained intact.

Finally, accept that starting from zero means you will make mistakes. Time Fengjun has faced lawsuits, employee departures (including the 2016 loss of their original策划 director Huang Rui, who left to start a competing company), and persistent criticism over opaque voting systems . None of these ended the company. What sustained them was a fan base that felt personally invested—not in the company’s perfection, but in the artists they had watched grow up.

What can I learn from this?

After analyzing how Time Fengjun grew from nothing into a company valued at over $430 million, the natural question becomes: what can I actually take away from their model? If I want to start my own creative company from zero, or if I want to help an existing company reach that level of success, what specific strategies can I reference? Time Fengjun did not have a blueprint, but now, because of their journey, others do. Here are the key lessons.

Lesson One: Build Emotional Ownership, Not Just Transactions

The most powerful lesson from Time Fengjun is that sustainable success comes from emotional relationships, not transactional exchanges. Fans of TFBOYS did not simply buy tickets or merchandise—they felt they had participated in the artists’ growth. One fan described her experience watching Wang Junkai’s early training videos: “I watched him practice until he cried. How could I not support him after that?”

For my own potential company, this means designing the audience experience from the very beginning to include transparency, accessibility, and a sense of co-creation. Whether I am building a media company, a design studio, or a sound art collective, I should not wait until my product is “perfect” to share it. Instead, I should document the process—the failures, the rehearsals, the behind-the-scenes reality. This builds trust and investment long before the final product launches.

Lesson Two: Use Data as a Compass, Not a Destination

Time Fengjun did not guess which trainees to promote. They uploaded cover videos and training clips, then watched the view counts. Trainees who connected with audiences received more investment. Those who did not were quietly rotated out. This is not coldhearted—it is respectful of both the artist and the audience. It ensures that resources go where genuine demand already exists.

If I am helping an existing company, I would implement this immediately. Many creative companies operate on intuition or hierarchy: the senior team decides what the audience wants. Time Fengjun reversed this. The audience decided, and the company responded. This requires building feedback loops—not just surveys, but actual behavioral data from how audiences spend their time and money. Then, the company must have the courage to follow that data, even when it contradicts internal assumptions.

Lesson Three: Create Your Own Infrastructure Instead of Begging for Access

Traditional entertainment companies spent decades trying to secure television appearances and magazine covers. Time Fengjun bypassed this entirely. They built their own content channels on Youku and Weibo, produced their own variety shows, and communicated directly with fans through digital fan clubs. When they finally appeared on television, they arrived with an audience already built, not asking for one.

This is critical for any zero-to-one venture. Do not wait for gatekeepers. Build your own distribution. For a creative company today, this might mean a YouTube channel, a Substack newsletter, a Discord community, or a TikTok series. The platform does not matter as much as the principle: own your relationship with your audience directly. Do not rent it through intermediaries.

Lesson Four: Diversify Revenue Before You Need To

Time Fengjun did not rely on a single income stream. By 2016, they had developed: premium fan club memberships, exclusive digital content, ticketed fan events, limited-edition merchandise, concert ticket sales, and virtual gifting systems. When one stream faced challenges—such as the 2024 iOS pricing controversy that disrupted membership sales—the others continued.

For my own hypothetical company, this means designing multiple revenue streams from the beginning. A sound art studio might combine: commissioned installations, educational workshops, limited-edition physical releases, Patreon-style membership content, and commercial collaborations. Each stream supports the others. None is essential alone.

Lesson Five: Protect Your Core Identity While Remaining Flexible

Time Fengjun’s core identity—the “cultivation” model of growing up with the audience—has remained consistent for over a decade. But their methods have evolved dramatically. They moved from YouTube to Youku to their own app. They added virtual idols. They expanded into youth variety shows. The promise stayed the same; the delivery changed constantly.

If I am helping an existing company, I would first ask: what is our non-negotiable core? What promise do we make to our audience that we will never break? Everything else—platforms, pricing, partnerships—is flexible. This clarity allows experimentation without identity crisis.

Conclusion: The Reference Is Now Available

Time Fengjun started with zero reference. But because they succeeded, the rest of us now have one. Their lessons are not secrets. They are observable, replicable strategies: build emotional ownership, follow data, create your own infrastructure, diversify revenue, and protect your core identity. Whether I am launching my own company or helping an existing one grow, these are the reference points I will carry forward.

When we think of the “successful artist,” we often imagine someone who graduated from a prestigious art academy, built a network of gallerists during their studies, and followed a predictable trajectory toward institutional recognition. Zimoun, the Swiss sound artist known for his hypnotic kinetic installations made from cardboard boxes, DC motors, and industrial materials, disrupts this narrative entirely. He is entirely self-taught—no formal education in art or music . Yet today, he has exhibited at the Museum Haus Konstruktiv in Zürich, the Reina Sofia in Madrid, the Nam June Paik Museum in Seoul, and was awarded the Swiss Music Prize in 2024 . His career offers a powerful case study in what the reality of living as an artist can look like outside institutional pathways.

The Self-Taught Reality

Zimoun grew up in Moosaffoltern near Bern, Switzerland, in a household where both parents were musicians. His mother would wake him for school by playing the piano . This early immersion in sound—combined with hours spent tinkering in his father’s workshop—became his education. He has stated that from a young age, he was “fascinated and somehow obsessed” by sound, music, and visual projects simultaneously . As a child, he would sit in his grandmother’s boiler room just to listen to the creaking and clicking of metal expanding and contracting with heat—sounds he found “entrancing” .

This is the first reality of living as an artist that Zimoun’s story illuminates: formal credentials are not always necessary, but obsessive curiosity is. He did not wait for permission or a degree to begin. Instead, he built his own curriculum through experimentation, recording everyday materials, and studying the work of composers like John Cage, whose philosophies on noise, silence, and chance operations profoundly shaped him .

Building a Practice Without a Blueprint

The second reality is that self-taught artists must construct their own opportunities. In his early twenties, Zimoun became active in Bern’s experimental music scene, performing at venues like Tonus Labor, a hub for post-minimalist and sound art . In 2003, he co-founded Leerraum.net, a netlabel dedicated to contemporary minimalism, distributing experimental audio work online before digital distribution was commonplace . In 2004, he received a three-month artist-in-residence fellowship in China, during which he gave fifteen live performances across multiple cities .

None of this came from a university career office. It came from relentless self-directed activity: performing, recording, releasing, applying. Zimoun’s trajectory shows that the reality of living as an artist is often about creating your own infrastructure—your own labels, your own networks, your own performance opportunities—rather than waiting for existing institutions to welcome you.

Commercial Success Through Unlikely Partnerships

Perhaps the most instructive aspect of Zimoun’s career for understanding artistic reality is his relationship with commercial entities. In 2020, he collaborated with the luxury watchmaker Jaeger-LeCoultre, creating a massive installation titled *1944 prepared dc-motors, 72×72 cm medium-density fibreboard, 8 cm diameter metal discs* . In an interview with Vogue China, Zimoun explained that what attracted him to the collaboration was “freedom”—the fact that the brand allowed him to explore and create without interference. He noted, “Not every company’s collaboration with artists is like this” .

This reveals a critical reality: artists who wish to sustain themselves financially must often navigate commercial partnerships without sacrificing their artistic integrity. Zimoun has managed this balance by remaining conceptually rigorous—his work is still minimalist, still critical of mechanical repetition, still concerned with the tension between order and chaos—even when displayed in a luxury retail context. His titles remain purely descriptive, listing only materials, refusing narrative or marketing-friendly interpretation .

The Economics of Scale

Zimoun’s installations are not cheap to produce. Works like *658 prepared dc-motors, cotton balls, cardboard boxes 70×70×70cm* (2017) involve hundreds of identical mechanical units, each assembled by hand in his studio . This requires a team, studio space, materials, and significant time. His economic reality, therefore, depends on institutional commissions, museum exhibitions, and private collectors. According to ArtFacts, Zimoun has had 31 solo exhibitions and 79 group exhibitions globally, with shows across Switzerland, the United States, France, South Korea, Brazil, and Turkey . This level of institutional support does not happen by accident. It is the result of decades of consistent production, strategic relationship-building with galleries like bitforms (New York), and a reputation for delivering large-scale, immersive experiences that draw audiences.

What This Means for Living as an Artist

Zimoun’s story reframes the reality of living as an artist in several ways. First, formal education is not the only path. Second, self-taught artists must work harder to build visibility, but it is possible. Third, commercial collaborations—when chosen carefully—can fund ambitious work without necessarily compromising it. Fourth, success often comes late and incrementally. Zimoun was in his thirties before his career gained international momentum.

But perhaps the most important lesson is this: Zimoun has never stopped making work on his own terms. He lives and works in Bern, not a global art capital. He continues to use “simple, everyday materials” . He titles his works with cold, technical descriptions. He refuses to add “meaning” that is not already present in the materials themselves. In an interview, he said: “I’m not using chance to discover unexpected results, but to elevate the works to a higher level of vitality” . That is not the statement of an artist chasing trends. It is the statement of someone who has found a sustainable way to live as an artist—not despite the constraints, but within them.

When we think of Yayoi Kusama today, we see the wigs, the polka dots, the Infinity Rooms, and the endless queues of visitors waiting to take their selfie inside a universe of mirrors. She is, by many measures, one of the most commercially successful living artists in the world. In 2024, Kusama became the first woman to top the Hurun Global Art List, with total auction sales of 11.1 billion yuan (approximately $1.54 billion USD) . But behind that glittering surface lies a much harder truth about what it actually means to live as an artist—a truth that has profoundly shaped my own understanding of this path.

Kusama has lived voluntarily in a psychiatric hospital in Tokyo since 1973. She travels to her studio each day to work, then returns to the institution at night. This is not a tragic footnote; for her, it is the structure that enables survival. As she once stated, “I fight pain, anxiety, and fear every day, and the only method I have found that relieved my illness is to keep creating art.” Art, for Kusama, is not a career choice. It is a lifeline.

How Did She Become Successful?

Kusama’s path to success was neither quick nor linear. Born in 1929 in Matsumoto, Japan, she moved to New York in 1957, determined to break into the male-dominated avant-garde art scene . Her breakthrough came in 1959 with her Infinity Net paintings at the Brata Gallery. Critic Donald Judd—who would later become a close friend—wrote a glowing review, stating: “Yayoi Kusama is an original painter. The five white, very large paintings in this show are strong, advanced in concept and realized… it is thoroughly independent” . This critical validation placed her alongside major American abstractionists.

However, Kusama was never content with painting alone. She expanded into sculpture, installation, and performance. In 1965, she created her first Infinity Mirror Room, lining a space with mirrors and phallus-like soft sculptures to create the illusion of endless repetition . In 1966, she gatecrashed the Venice Biennale with Narcissus Garden, laying hundreds of mirrored balls on the grass and selling them for two dollars each with the slogan: “Your narcissism for sale” . This act—simultaneously a critique of commercialism and a brilliant marketing stunt—foreshadowed her later embrace of mass visibility.

Despite these achievements, Kusama returned to Japan in 1973, deeply depressed and largely forgotten by the New York art world. For nearly two decades, she worked in relative obscurity, producing paintings, writing novels, and continuing her practice from a studio near her psychiatric hospital .

How Did She Open the Market?

The turning point came in the late 1980s and 1990s. A retrospective at the Centre International d’Art Contemporain in Paris in 1989 began reintroducing her work to European audiences. In 1993, she achieved a historic milestone: she became the first woman to represent Japan solo at the Venice Biennale . This legitimized her as a major figure within the international art establishment.

What truly opened the market, however, was Kusama’s embrace of commercial collaboration. In 2012, under the creative direction of Marc Jacobs, Louis Vuitton launched the first major fashion collaboration with Kusama. Called “Dots Infinity,” the collection covered LV’s iconic bags, shoes, and accessories with her signature polka dots . The partnership returned in 2023 with “Creating Infinity,” a collection of over 450 items supported by an unprecedented marketing campaign: life-sized Kusama animatronics in store windows, polka-dotted building façades, and immersive pop-ups worldwide . A limited-edition pumpkin-shaped bag from this collection sold for $151,200 at Christie’s—a world record for any Louis Vuitton handbag .

This collaboration was controversial. Critics questioned whether mass production diluted her artistic integrity, and some worried she was being exploited . But Kusama and her studio worked directly with Louis Vuitton for eighteen months on the project, and she remained actively involved . The result was undeniable: her name reached a global audience far beyond the traditional art world, and her market value skyrocketed.

How Did She Become Economically Successful?

The economics of Kusama’s success are staggering. In 2023, she was the best-selling contemporary artist in the world, with auction sales totalling $80.9 million—significantly outperforming David Hockney at $50.3 million . Her Pumpkin sculptures have become her signature motif: a two-meter-tall yellow and black Pumpkin (2015) sold for 49.7 million HKD (approximately $6.4 million USD) at Sotheby’s Hong Kong .

What drives these prices? Several factors: scarcity (her most sought-after pieces are unique or limited editions), institutional validation (she has been the subject of major retrospectives at the Hirshhorn, the Cleveland Museum of Art, and the M+ in Hong Kong) , and a highly engaged collector base across Asia, Europe, and America. The Hurun Report notes that 883 of her works were sold at auction in 2024 alone .

But economic success extends beyond auctions. Her Infinity Mirror Rooms—each experienced by up to 60 seconds per visitor—have become blockbuster museum attractions, driving ticket sales and institutional revenue. The M+ museum in Hong Kong attracted over 280,000 visitors to her exhibition . This model—immersive, shareable, photographable—is perfectly suited to the social media age.

What This Means for Living as an Artist

Kusama’s story reframes the reality of living as an artist. She worked in obscurity for decades, lived with mental illness without romanticization, and returned to Japan at forty-four with her career in apparent ruins. Yet she never stopped working. The same obsessive compulsion that produces her transcendent Infinity Nets is also a symptom of her condition. The polka dots that delight millions are, in her own words, “a way to escape from the fear that comes from the void of thoughts.”

Her commercial success did not come from selling out—it came from decades of consistent production, strategic institutional relationships, and a willingness to engage with mass culture on her own terms. She once said, “If not for art, I would have killed myself long ago.” Art saved her. And then the world caught up.

What I take from Kusama is this: the reality of living as an artist is rarely the romanticized image of inspiration striking in a sunlit studio. More often, it is about finding a way to transmute pain into form, to build structures—whether psychiatric hospitals, daily routines, or commercial partnerships—that allow you to keep making work when nothing else makes sense. Kusama’s fame arrived late, in her eighties and nineties. But the work came first, always. That is not a cautionary tale. It is, perhaps, the most honest model we have.

My final aspiration—perhaps the most personal—is to never stop learning new skills for the sake of creative chemistry. My graduation showcase exemplified this: as a beginner, I started learning to code specifically for that work. That decision was not random. It was a direct continuation of a habit formed across my entire BA: in first year, I learned how vibration travels through thread; in second year, I learned how therapeutic frequencies are measured; in third year, I learned how to critique social structures through sound. Each time, I added a new medium. Coding is simply the latest—and it will not be the last.

This aspiration—to continuously blend in unfamiliar skills—has been shaped most clearly by the course’s emphasis on risk. Pure Data was intimidating. Multichannel sound was technically demanding. But my tutors consistently framed difficulty as opportunity. That philosophy is now mine. Whether I continue into postgraduate design education or eventually work in a media company in mainland China or Hong Kong, I will insist on learning something new in every major project. For example, in my next work, I want to combine my beginner coding skills with textiles and sound—perhaps a woven surface that triggers audio based on touch, or a garment that generates therapeutic frequencies through body heat. These ideas are not fully formed yet, but that is precisely the point.

My peers also shaped this commitment. Watching classmates arrive from different disciplinary backgrounds—dance, engineering, fine art—showed me that no single skill set is sufficient. The most interesting work emerges at the edges. That is why, after my master’s degree, I am specifically interested in companies that support research and development. In mainland China, Tezign (Shanghai) or Bitone (Beijing) work at the intersection of technology and creativity. In Hong Kong, Mill3 or The Fabrick Lab are examples of studios where continuous learning is structural, not accidental.

To summarise my future aspirations plainly: I will pursue postgraduate design study. I will blend my sound art skills into that new context. Then I will work in a media or design company in mainland China or Hong Kong—companies that value hybrid practice, social critique, and technical bravery. And across every step, I will keep learning. The course taught me that my openness and empathy are assets. But so is my incisiveness. My future work will be critical, caring, and never static.

My future aspirations are also deeply shaped by two specific thematic threads from my BA: therapeutic sound and social critique. In my second year, I focused on how sound can heal—using traditional instruments like singing bowls and rain tubes alongside electronic frequencies analysed for their neurological effects on relaxation. In my final year, I turned to feminism and socially overlooked uneconomic labour. These are not separate interests. They are the same question: how can art intervene in human suffering, whether internal (mental health) or structural (invisible labour)?

This question will guide my postgraduate studies. I want to pursue a design-focused master’s programme—potentially in interaction design, speculative design, or social design—where I can take my sound art foundation and redirect it toward tangible products, systems, or experiences. For example, I am already imagining how therapeutic sound protocols could be embedded into wearable design or how uneconomic labour could be made audible through multichannel installations in public spaces. The course gave me the technical tools—Pure Data, Ableton, multichannel setups—but more importantly, it gave me permission to treat sound as a serious medium for social intervention.

My peers influenced this direction enormously. Collaborating with a dancer in my second year taught me that therapeutic sound is not just about frequencies; it is about bodily reception. Watching that dancer respond to singing bowl vibrations changed how I understood empathy in art. Similarly, discussing feminism and labour with classmates from Hong Kong and London sharpened my ability to critique quietly—not through shouting, but through precise, incisive installation.

Looking ahead, after my master’s degree, I see myself working in a media or design company in mainland China or Hong Kong that takes social responsibility seriously. Beyond the companies mentioned earlier, I am also drawn to Can Liu Design (Shanghai), United Design Lab (Beijing), or Hong Kong’s One Bite Design, which often works with community narratives. Ideally, I would join a team that designs public-facing digital or physical experiences—museums, wellbeing apps, interactive exhibitions—where my background in therapeutic and critical sound can be directly applied. I am not interested in purely commercial work. I want my future employer to share my belief that design can heal and critique simultaneously. That belief was forged in my sound art course, and I will carry it into every application, every interview, and every project ahead.

My future aspiration is clear: to continue my studies at the postgraduate level, likely focusing on design, while deliberately blending in the technical and conceptual skills I have developed during my sound art degree. This decision did not emerge in isolation. It has been profoundly shaped by the structure of my BA course, the experimental environments it exposed me to, and the critical feedback from peers who constantly pushed me to question what art can do.

Over the past three years, I have moved from contemporary visual art and product design into the unfamiliar territory of sound art. That transition was intentionally uncomfortable—and that discomfort became my best teacher. Courses introducing Pure Data (a programming environment for sound installation) taught me to think algorithmically. Learning Ableton, multichannel sound, and the technical nuances of recording microphones gave me a new vocabulary. But more importantly, these skills reshaped how I understand design: not as static form, but as dynamic, sensory experience.

My peers were instrumental here. Collaborating with dancers, for instance, forced me to treat sound as something physical—something that could be seen through movement and felt through vibration. One early project, where I connected thread to a speaker so that tempo vibrated through the thread, was directly inspired by watching a peer work with haptic feedback. That piece, created for the hard-of-hearing community, taught me that design is most powerful when it serves accessibility. My peers’ willingness to experiment across disciplines made me realise that my own future must remain cross-disciplinary.

Work experience, though still emerging, has also shaped me. Brief placements and freelance projects in Beijing and Hong Kong showed me that the creative industry in mainland China and Hong Kong values designers who can move between sound, visual, and interactive media. This has directly influenced my aspiration: after postgraduate study, I intend to work in a media or design company based in mainland China or Hong Kong—perhaps in experiential design, interactive installation, or user experience that incorporates sound. Companies such as Moment Factory (if expanding to Asia), XGG (Xinyuan Global Group), Tencent’s creative media labs, or Hong Kong-based studios like Dimension Plus or Kaiju Studio come to mind. But more than specific names, I seek a space where my hybrid background—sound, textiles, 3D, drawing, and now coding—is seen not as scattered, but as strategic. My aspiration is to become a designer who does not specialise narrowly, but who specialises in integration. The course taught me that possibility. Now I intend to pursue it.