Field Notes
It’s hard to believe sometimes. We’ve gone through many changes over the years, trying different ways of running a studio. We started in 2005, the day after I graduated, with no idea how to run a business. Design was an accidental career. Neither of us had worked at an agency before. We just figured it out as we went.
Before 2020, we had a simple system: work nine months, take three off. I used that time to travel, reset, and learn from other cultures. It worked well until the pandemic. Borders closed. Projects stalled. We had to start over, in a way.
Now we’re trying something new: twelve weeks on, four weeks off.
Most of our projects fit into that time frame. It helps us stay focused when we’re working, and take real breaks when we’re not.
So far, it’s working.
From January to March, we rebuilt how we show up online, beyond social media—updating our website and store, restarting A Library, and refreshing A Design Film Festival. We also launched Shu’s art practice under her own name. We wrapped two projects in Singapore and Thailand, with new collaborations lined up through July. Our next break is in August.
We’ve seen more people taking sabbaticals lately. Ours are just shorter. A year off feels too long. But in seasons of three months on and one month off, it feels manageable.
In April, I travelled through China and Japan. It happened to coincide with the World Expo in Osaka and the Setouchi Triennale. I visited an old friend in Chongqing and was curious about Yunnan’s growing role as a bridge between China and Southeast Asia.
The trip lasted 34 days. Too much to sum up in one post. So here are eight moments that made an impression.
It has been seven years since I was last in China. The first thing I noticed after getting off the train from the airport was how quiet the roads are. Almost every vehicle, including motorbikes, scooters, and even delivery vans, is electric. There are dedicated lanes just for motorists and cyclists. Bike rentals are everywhere, and you can unlock one with a quick scan using a mini-program on Alipay or WeChat. No need to download anything new or set up payment details. Everything is connected through a single super app: air tickets, train rides, buses, hotels, and even food delivery.
The locals are warm and welcoming, and the streets are filled with young people. Local brands shape the streetscape, while international ones are few and far between.
One of my favourite things to do when visiting a new city is walk through its parks, where you can observe everyday life. In Kunming, the largest is Green Lake Park, and it was here that I had my first encounter.
Kunming: Water Calligraphy
A middle-aged man stood by the lake, holding a brush and a pail, painting something on the pavement. He was dressed simply, with the look of someone who had no worries in the world. I walked closer to see what he was painting. They were words written with water.
“What are you doing?”
“Writing. Just for fun.”
“Won’t it evaporate?”
“It doesn’t matter. I just write to write.”
Later, I asked a friend who lives in China about it. He told me it’s a practice called dishu (地书), which literally means “ground book.” It’s a form of water calligraphy, often done by older men in parks as a kind of daily exercise. Using a brush dipped in water, they write Chinese characters on the pavement. The water eventually evaporates, making it a fleeting act. An expression of beauty and impermanence. It was a reminder that not everything needs to last. Not everything needs a goal. Sometimes, it's enough to do something just for the sake of doing.
Dali: Coffee on Bicycle
Coffee is everywhere these days. Walk through any city and you’ll find a cafe on almost every corner. What’s less common is a coffee shop on a bicycle which is exactly what I came across in Dali.
“About half a year. I moved from Guangdong. I used to work at a cafe, but I wanted to travel around the country, so I started a coffee stand on my bicycle.”
The nomadic lifestyle is becoming more common, almost a return to our hunter-gatherer roots. More people are choosing not to stay in one place. They want the freedom to work from wherever they are.
Since the pandemic, I’ve seen it everywhere: from Bangkok to Tokyo to Da Nang. People on the move. Working and wandering at the same time.
This coffee stand on a bicycle reminded me of a question I wrote 15 years ago: Can a design studio move from place to place, building teams and collaborating with brands and creators around the world?
Without realising it, we’d been doing just that for over a decade, working on projects across Japan, Vietnam, Thailand, and the Philippines. Dropping into new cities, building teams, and collaborating together. The goal wasn’t just to travel, but to work across cultures, learn from people and places, and see how deeply connected we all are. Making the world feel a little smaller, and a little more collaborative.
Chongqing: New World
An old friend of mine had recently moved to Chongqing. The last time we met was in 2015 when I was in Shanghai for work. We arranged to meet in the morning, and he took me around to see the city and the ancient town.
Chongqing is a mountainous city. You’re constantly climbing stairs, walking down slopes, and taking lifts from what feels like the ground floor up to the 22nd, where roads and skyscrapers tower over the landscape. He moved through it all effortlessly, having lived there for five years. I, on the other hand, struggled to keep up with the altitude and endless stairs.
He replied, “Oh, Chinese people are not worried about it. We have faith in the government to navigate this, and they’ve been preparing since Trump’s last presidency.”
And indeed, during my time in Chongqing, people looked prosperous and relaxed. Restaurants were packed. Markets were full of life. It didn’t feel like anyone was worried.
“Do you feel proud of how China has advanced and progressed?” I asked.
He said, “Not at all. We are still learning every day. There’s still much room for improvement. We must stay humble and keep improving.”
That sense of humility was inspiring. Since my first visit to China in 2007, the progress has been remarkable. Even so, the people remain careful not to become complacent as they continue to improve and navigate the new world order.
Chengdu: Matchmaking
People’s Park in Chengdu is alive. Music, dancing, chess games, teahouses packed with locals chatting over tea and sunflower seeds. In the middle of the park, a wall of pink and blue notices appear, with hundreds of people gathered around, reading them closely. I wondered if these were exam results or apartments for rent. I walked closer and, to my surprise, realised these were matchmaking notices. Tinder in physical form.
What made it even more surprising is that China is incredibly high-tech. More so than many other places I’ve visited, even Singapore, which only widely adopted QR payments during the pandemic, while China has been using them for over a decade.
So why hasn’t dating been "solved" by tech here?
Then I realised the notices weren’t written by the singles themselves, but by their parents. For them, this wasn’t just about looks or shared hobbies. It was serious business. They wanted verified information: education, job, and income. A traditional approach that feels less casual and more credible than swiping on an app.
While software can optimise the process, in many cultures, real connections still happen the old-fashioned way.
Ah, Japan. A country loved by many for its food, craftsmanship, and culture. I’ve travelled there more than two dozen times. I used to fly to Tokyo every two months for meetings at Uniqlo headquarters. But this time, I landed in Osaka for the World Expo.
The first thing I noticed after stepping off the plane was how exhausted and cautious the airport staff looked. I had heard reports of Japan struggling with overtourism, and it became obvious the moment I reached the train station. It was more crowded than ever. People rushed past with oversized suitcases, ignoring signs on the floor, trying to catch their trains, each timed with the precision Japan is known for.
That first impression reminded me of a recent conversation with Koichiro Tanaka of Projector. I had asked how Tokyo was coping with the surge in tourism, and he replied, “Japanese people have gotten used to it. We understand it’s difficult for travelers to know every social rule.”
I made my way cautiously to the express train, staying focused on the reason I was here despite the crowds: to visit the World Expo, which happens once every five years, and the Setouchi Triennale, held every three. This wasn’t a leisure trip. It was for learning.
Osaka: Flags
The last time the World Expo was held in Osaka was in 1970. It was a moment for Japan to show how far it had come since the Second World War. A symbol of recovery and possibility.
I’ve always been intrigued by the idea of the World Expo: a place where countries gather to share their vision of the future, a space for imagination, innovation, and exchange. This year was the first time I attended one in person.
But the feeling was also bittersweet. In recent years, nationalism, protectionism, and anti-foreigner sentiment have been on the rise. More countries have shifted to the right, and the world has started to feel more divided.
Seeing those flags side by side felt hopeful. People of all backgrounds, races, and beliefs walking through the same space. A reminder that collaboration still matters. That interdependence is not a weakness but a strength. And that culture and design can help us imagine a world that feels less isolated and less divided.
Stamp Rally
From Kunming to Osaka and the Setouchi Triennale, one recurring element I came across on this trip was the deceptively simple rubber stamp. At almost every stop, there were stamps for visitors to ink into notebooks or event passports.
Stamps aren’t new. They’ve been around since the mid-1800s, yet they continue to capture the imagination of brands, shops, and creators in both China and Japan. At the World Expo, visitors receive a booklet to collect stamps from almost 200 pavilions. The Setouchi Triennale offers a passport that visitors can stamp as they move from one artwork to the next.
What struck me was how effective the idea still is. It gives visitors a tangible way to remember a place, and brands an easy, low-cost way to engage. It is also naturally shareable. People post their stamp collections on social media, becoming a form of promotion for the place.
It made me wonder why stamp rallies aren’t more common in cities like Singapore or Bangkok. Do we rely more on our phones for note-taking than carrying a physical notebook?
Even so, there are ways to reimagine the experience. Airbnb’s newly redesigned platform includes digital stamps for places you’ve stayed. The D&AD Award-winning “My Japan Railway” by JR Group and Dentsu is another example of how a digital stamp rally can work beautifully.
It’s such a simple and inexpensive idea, and one that invites collaboration between designers, artists, and places. I hope to see more of them in the future.
Seto Inland Sea: Teshima Art Museum
Visitors were either lying down or tiptoeing, careful not to step on the water droplets and puddles. As I stood observing the faces of people lost in complete stillness, a voice echoed through the space. It was a young boy with his parents. The moment he realised the sounds he made echoed, he burst into giggles, which only echoed louder. He kept going, thrilled by the sound of his own voice.
The mother, not wanting to disturb others, scooped him up and headed for the exit. That only made him laugh even more. The whole room smiled and giggled along with him. A ripple of joy in a space made for silence.
Tokyo: Bar Werk
It was my fifth time visiting this bar. I wrote about my first experience here. Two years had passed since my last visit. As I stepped in, the bartender looked up. Then his expression shifted, from acknowledgment to surprise, as if thinking, “Do I know this person?” After a few seconds, he let out a small gasp and said, “Ahhh.... Shashiburi (long time no see).”
I settled into my seat. The room was still unoccupied. It was a Tuesday evening. The menu, handwritten in chalk, listed seasonal drinks and snacks. He handed me a towel. I ordered a wild tonic, a mix of local gin, Suze, and absinthe.
After serving the drink, he asked,
“How long will you be in Tokyo this time?”
“And where are you staying?”
“Hatagaya, again,” I replied.
We both laughed.
He picked up a notepad and started scribbling, pausing now and then to think. A few minutes later, he walked over and handed me a note. A list of places to visit near where I was staying. This time, he described each one.
It’s moments like this that make travel meaningful. The people you meet. The places that feel like home. The conversations that pick up right where they left off. Maybe it’s age, but the more I travel, the less it’s about checking off places and more about reconnecting with people and place.
Felix Ng
Co-founder, Anonymous
@felix.anonymous