Interview with Qihang Zhang

Qihang Zhang ("QZ") interviewed on Monday, 12 May.

Could you please tell us about your experience as a designer, artist, architect or creator?

QZ : I am a product and visual designer with over seven years of experience spanning music technology, data visualization, and digital storytelling. Currently, I serve as the Senior Product Designer at Chartmetric, where I lead the design of AI-powered analytics tools used by global music professionals—from major labels to indie artists. My past roles include work at Tesla, National Geographic, Harvard Business School, and the Born This Way Foundation, allowing me to apply design across industries and at varying scales of impact. My educational background includes a Master's degree from Harvard University in Learning Design and a Bachelor's degree from UCLA, where I also spent time at the University of Oxford studying digital humanities. Throughout my career, I've been recognized with more than 40 international design awards, including the iF Design Award, A’ Design Award, and NY Product Design Awards, and I’ve exhibited works at venues such as the Louvre (Art Shopping Paris) and ICFF New York (curated by Dezeen). My work merges clarity, emotion, and strategic functionality—grounded in the belief that good design should not only be beautiful, but deeply meaningful and accessible.

How did you become a designer?

QZ : I didn’t grow up sketching in a notebook or dreaming of pixel-perfect interfaces. My path to design began with pop music, and more precisely—with the desire to be heard. As a queer kid navigating silence, misunderstanding, and isolation, I found my voice in music first. I wasn’t a singer, but I resonated deeply with the emotional clarity in the melodies of artists like Mariah Carey and Beyoncé. Their worlds made me feel seen—and I wanted to build worlds like that too. I began designing CD covers, creating fan magazines, and layering meaning through every font, photo, and layout. I didn’t know it then, but I was designing safe spaces—through visuals. In college, I studied communication and history to better understand how people make meaning. Then I took that further—into digital storytelling, then UI/UX, and eventually product design. From building co-creative play environments out of recycled cardboard at Harvard, to reimagining how indie artists access insights at Chartmetric, the design journey has always been the same for me: turning creative energy into impact. Design, for me, is not a profession I chose one day. It’s a language I slowly discovered—a way to translate identity, community, and purpose into something people can actually interact with. I became a designer the moment I realized beauty alone wasn’t enough. It had to connect.

What are your priorities, technique and style when designing?

QZ : Every time I start a new design, I ask myself one question: Can someone feel seen here? Empathy is always the starting point. Whether I’m designing for data-heavy music analytics or building an interactive exhibit for kids, I prioritize emotional clarity—making complexity feel human. Design isn’t just about solving a problem; it’s about making people feel welcome, capable, and understood. The second priority is narrative logic. I often draw from my background in storytelling and cultural analysis. To me, every interface, visual, or product tells a story—whether we intend it or not. I work to structure user journeys like narrative arcs, where each screen or step has a purpose, a rhythm, and a payoff. That’s how we earn trust and attention. Lastly, I focus on co-creation and iteration. I never treat my first idea as sacred. I sketch quickly, prototype often, and test early—with real people, not just personas. Whether I’m using Figma, motion tools, or AI-generated inputs, I stay open to what emerges through feedback. The magic often happens when the design starts talking back. Across all my projects, I return to the same principle: design should feel like a dialogue, not a monologue.

Which emotions do you feel when designing?

QZ : Designing makes me feel both grounded and electrified. There’s a quiet joy in the early stages—when I’m sitting with a vague problem, a hunch, or even just a feeling I want to translate. That moment when chaos begins to form into clarity—it’s like tuning into a frequency only I can hear at first. The most exciting phase is somewhere in the middle: not the first idea, not the last polish, but when the design starts pushing back. When a prototype surprises me, or when a teammate reacts in a way I hadn’t expected—that’s when I know something real is taking shape. It becomes a collaboration between intention and emergence. There’s also deep fulfillment in watching others use what I’ve designed. When an indie artist finds new fans using a feature I helped build, or when a child repositions a handmade paper animal in a sanctuary we prototyped, I feel a quiet kind of pride—like I helped set the stage for someone else’s voice to come through. Design gives me a sense of presence. It’s how I process the world, and sometimes, how I repair it.

What particular aspects of your background shaped you as a designer?

QZ : Before I formally became a designer, I was a communicator, researcher, and educator. These non-design experiences didn’t just shape me—they are the foundation of how I design. My background in communication and history trained me to spot patterns, question assumptions, and understand how people construct meaning. That made me more attuned to context—whether I’m designing a learning experience, a data dashboard, or a mobile app. I don’t just ask, “Is it usable?” I ask, “Is it culturally legible? Is it emotionally respectful?” Working in early childhood education and learning design at Harvard taught me the power of co-creation. Kids don’t care if your UI is polished—they care if it makes sense to them, if it lets them explore. That mindset carried over into my product work, where I now prototype not just for aesthetics but for agency, asking: Does this give the user a voice? Storytelling remains one of the most transferable tools I have. Whether I’m mapping a user journey or presenting to stakeholders, my ability to frame, connect, and sequence ideas has helped me drive clarity and buy-in in fast-moving teams. If there’s one influence that ties it all together, it’s music. It taught me how rhythm, emotion, and structure work together—and I’ve carried that sensibility into every design I create. My design journey hasn’t been a straight line, but every step—academic, personal, professional—has made the work more human.

What is your growth path? What are your future plans? What is your dream design project?

QZ : I’ve always seen design not just as a career path, but as a way to reclaim and rewrite my narrative. From designing fan-made Mariah Carey CDs as a closeted teenager in China to leading product design for AI-powered music tools at Chartmetric, my growth has been driven by one constant belief: design should amplify unheard voices. I used to think I had to “overcome” my identity to be taken seriously as a designer. Now, I see that my lived experience as a queer Asian designer is not a detour but a design lens—one that is inherently empathetic, critical, and community-driven. My education at Harvard in learning design further helped me shape my voice into tools that are not only functional, but healing and empowering. Looking forward, I want to keep designing systems that allow creators—especially those historically marginalized—to be seen, discovered, and celebrated. One dream project is to create an open, visual storytelling toolkit for emerging artists of color and queer musicians to narrate their journeys through data, music, and memory. Not a portfolio builder, but a digital sanctuary—part archive, part map, part stage. I hope to be remembered not just for the products I designed, but for the safe spaces I helped create—for how I used design as a bridge between creativity and identity, data and dignity.

What are your advices to designers who are at the beginning of their career?

QZ : Don’t rush to fit into a mold—design is not about blending in, it’s about showing up fully. When I started, I thought I had to imitate “successful designers” to be taken seriously. I over-polished my portfolio, mimicked others’ language, and hesitated to show the parts of me that didn’t seem traditionally “design-y.” But the more I tried to conform, the more disconnected I felt from the work. It wasn’t until I started designing from my story—not around it—that opportunities became aligned, and impact became real. To young designers: embrace the questions that make you feel uncomfortable. Your background, your identity, your pain points—these are not distractions from good design. They are the soil for meaningful work. Here’s some advice that stayed with me: “Design isn’t what you make. It’s what you make possible.” That came from a mentor who reminded me that our job is not to perfect pixels, but to open access, shift narratives, and invite participation. Practically speaking: prototype early, listen more than you pitch, and don’t fear the “nonlinear.” Take internships that feel strange. Read outside of design. Learn how people feel before you decide how they click. And most importantly: find your people. Design is not a solo journey—it’s a team sport. Just maybe, it’s your version of the basketball court.

You are truly successful as a designer, what do you suggest to fellow designers, artists and architects?

QZ : At a certain point in our design careers, the most important question is no longer “Can I make this?” but “Why am I making this?” That shift—from execution to intention—is where meaningful, lasting design begins. In my own practice, I’ve found that the most powerful designs often emerge from tension, not ease. Whether it's reconciling user needs with business goals, or balancing aesthetics with accessibility, I try to lean into those moments where things feel unresolved. That's usually where insight hides. If everything feels smooth from the beginning, chances are I'm not challenging myself—or the system—enough. Feedback, for me, is not a checkpoint—it’s a way of designing. I seek it early and often, not just from other designers, but from people outside of design altogether. Some of my most eye-opening breakthroughs came from conversations with marketers, educators, or independent musicians trying to understand the tools I helped build. Those voices keep the work grounded and alive. I also believe that simplicity should never come at the cost of inclusivity. What feels intuitive to one group might feel confusing—or even exclusionary—to another. So I try to question my defaults, to ask whose comfort I’m prioritizing and whose I might be ignoring. Design is never neutral. Every choice reflects a value, a bias, a worldview. It’s easy in this industry to chase polish, to value visibility over impact, or to stretch yourself so thin across styles that you lose your own voice. I’ve fallen into those traps too. But what’s helped me is coming back to the idea that success is not defined by what I ship, but by what I shape—within a team, a community, or a cultural moment. In the end, I want the spaces I design—and the spaces I work in—to feel generous, challenging, and real. That’s the kind of design practice I’m committed to building.

What is your day to day look like?

QZ : My workdays usually begin quietly—with a cup of tea, soft music, and a glance at the latest product or design trends. I don’t always chase what’s new, but I like to stay aware of what conversations the design world is having. Then I move into reviewing Slack threads and Figma comments—our team at Chartmetric spans time zones, so there’s often a stream of overnight thoughts waiting to be considered. Late mornings are usually reserved for deep focus. Whether it’s prototyping a new feature, synthesizing user feedback, or refining microinteractions, I try to carve out uninterrupted blocks for the work that requires clarity and emotional presence. I often listen to instrumental versions of my favorite albums—music keeps me grounded and motivated without overwhelming my focus. Afternoons tend to be more collaborative: cross-functional check-ins, critique sessions, async reviews, and lots of impromptu problem-solving. What I love most, even on slower days, are the small sparks—when a teammate suggests something unexpected, or a user insight flips our assumptions. Those moments make routine feel worthwhile. And then there are the little rituals. Lighting a candle before I present work I care about. Taking a walk around the block after shipping a prototype. Saving screenshots of tiny wins. These gestures remind me that even the most pixel-based work can carry a human rhythm. Not every day is exciting. But I’ve learned to find joy in the patterns—in the way design teaches me to see, ask, and try again, over and over.

How do you keep up with latest design trends? To what extent do design trends matter?

QZ : I observe trends, but I don’t chase them. I see design trends the way I see music charts—interesting snapshots of the cultural moment, but not the full story. They can be helpful signals, especially in fast-evolving areas like UI motion, AI tooling, or accessibility standards. I track them through platforms like Are.na, design blogs, and by staying close to what adjacent industries are doing—film, fashion, indie games. But I don’t let trends define my process. Instead, I try to stay tuned to the underlying questions that drive certain trends: Why are brutalist interfaces resurfacing? What does the rise of nostalgic skeuomorphism say about users’ emotional needs today? I’m more interested in why something feels relevant than in replicating the style itself. My inspiration often comes from outside the design world. A song lyric that holds tension. A museum exhibit that layers time and narrative. A user’s offhand comment that reveals a deeper need. These things stay with me longer than any Dribbble shot. Trends can be useful—but only when they serve the story I’m trying to tell or the community I’m trying to serve. At the end of the day, I want my work to feel not just “of the moment,” but of meaning.

How do you know if a product or project is well designed? How do you define good design?

QZ : For me, good design creates a sense of recognition—not just “I understand this,” but “this understands me.” It’s not just about clean visuals or intuitive flows. A well-designed product feels emotionally precise. It anticipates the user’s mindset, respects their context, and offers clarity without shouting for attention. When I see a design that balances frictionless function with cultural sensitivity—something that feels inevitable yet thoughtful—that’s when I say, aha, that’s it. I also believe good design leaves room for users to show up. It’s not overly prescriptive. It allows for interpretation, interaction, even subversion. The best work I’ve seen often has a quiet generosity to it—it invites, rather than impresses. One common mistake I see is equating consistency with quality. Uniformity can create visual order, but if it overrides accessibility or ignores nuance, it becomes decorative at best, exclusionary at worst. Another trap is over-optimizing for business KPIs while ignoring the long-term user relationship. If people don’t trust or feel seen by your design, conversion doesn’t mean much. So how do I judge good design? I ask: Does it make someone feel capable? Seen? Curious? Respected? If yes—even in a small way—then the design is working. Not just technically, but humanly.

How do you decide if your design is ready?

QZ : I rarely think of a design as finished. Instead, I ask: is it ready to meet the world as it is right now? In fast-paced product environments like Chartmetric, “ready” often means it’s been tested, aligned with constraints, and able to serve users meaningfully—even if imperfectly. But personally, I also listen for something quieter: when the design no longer feels like it's only mine. When other team members, or even users, begin referring to it as theirs—that’s when I know it has taken root beyond me. There’s always room for refinement. I keep open files, mental tabs, and screenshots of things I wish I had done differently. But at some point, continuing to tinker becomes a form of delay—not progress. So I’ve learned to pause with intention, not guilt. Success, to me, is less about perfection and more about resonance. If someone tells me, “This made me feel understood,” or “This helped me express something I couldn’t articulate before,” I consider that version of the design complete—for now. Design lives in version histories, in people’s habits, and in how long it stays relevant. So yes, I move on—but I rarely walk away.

What is your biggest design work?

QZ : My most meaningful and ambitious project to date is Memory Land, a digital memorial platform I co-created to reimagine how technology can support the grieving process. It’s not a traditional product—it’s a digital sanctuary where memory, identity, and healing converge. The idea for Memory Land began during a time when many of us were grieving in isolation—grieving people, places, even versions of ourselves. I wondered: in an increasingly digital world, where can we hold grief meaningfully, without flattening it into data or dismissing it with design tropes? How can design serve not just function, but emotional recovery? As the principal UX architect, I led the design of a system that responds not only to user interaction, but to emotional need. Memory Land integrates features like an emotion-responsive interface, 3D scanning of physical mementos, immersive virtual memorial spaces, and collaborative memory sharing tools. We drew from the dual process model of grief in psychology to balance loss-oriented reflection with restoration-oriented engagement. In short: we designed not just for remembrance, but for resilience. One of the most moving responses came from an international student who used Memory Land to preserve his late father’s handwritten calligraphy. For him, it wasn’t just a platform—it became a portable sanctuary of memory, accessible across geographies and time zones. That’s when I knew we had created something that truly mattered. Memory Land was honored with the iF DESIGN AWARD 2025 in the Digital & UX category, selected from nearly 11,000 entries worldwide. It also won Gold at the London Design Awards and was a finalist for the UX Design Awards 2025. But more important than recognition is the quiet impact it has on users who feel seen, heard, and held—often when they need it most. What makes this project my biggest isn’t its scale—it’s the emotional depth, the cultural sensitivity, and the way it repositions design as a tool for care. It affirmed what I’ve always believed: when technology meets humanity with intention, design becomes healing.

Who is your favourite designer?

QZ : If I had to name the creative forces that have most influenced how I think about design, I’d look to Beyoncé’s team—especially the designers, art directors, and choreographers behind the visual worlds of Lemonade, Renaissance, and Cowboy Carter. People like Es Devlin, who designed immersive stage environments for Beyoncé’s tours, have redefined what it means to craft experiences that are not just seen, but felt across bodies and borders. Their work isn’t confined to screens or products—it lives in movement, memory, and message. Every detail, from typeface to lighting to costume, contributes to a larger narrative of cultural reclamation, Black Southern identity, and queer celebration. That’s the kind of design that moves me: not just decoration, but declaration. Growing up, I didn’t know design could look or sound like me. It was through artists like Beyoncé and the people around her—her stylists, motion directors, visual storytellers—that I realized design could be emotional, political, and unapologetically personal. They made me believe that design can be as powerful as a ballad or a protest. If I had the chance, I’d want to sit in on a Parkwood creative session—not to pitch, but to listen. To understand how they translate ancestral memory into modern iconography, and how they build worlds, not just assets. That’s the kind of designer I aspire to be—one who builds with meaning, community, and resonance at the center.

Would you tell us a bit about your lifestyle and culture?

QZ : I live between cultures—and that in-between space has shaped everything about how I design. Born and raised in Chengdu, I grew up surrounded by handwritten poetry, family recipes, and the quiet rhythm of courtyard homes. But I also grew up queer in a culture that didn’t always have the language or space for that. Music became my way of navigating that gap. Beyoncé, Mariah Carey, and others gave me not only soundtracks, but frameworks—ways to imagine futures where my identity wasn’t something to hide, but to celebrate. Now based in the U.S., I move between San Mateo and Los Angeles, between product meetings and museum visits, between building for the music industry at Chartmetric and building for memory, healing, and voice through personal work like Memory Land. Music is still deeply woven into my process—I often start ideation with a song. Not because it’s literal, but because it sets an emotional temperature I want the work to carry. My culture doesn’t just influence my design—it grounds it. I think in multiple scripts, carry multiple histories, and design with a consciousness of people who’ve had to code-switch or find belonging in unexpected places. That’s why I’m drawn to co-creation, to nonlinear narratives, to tools that give power back to the user. Design has changed my life in subtle but profound ways. It’s taught me to pause before reacting, to frame problems with compassion, and to believe that small, well-considered changes—a word choice, a button label, a visual rhythm—can shift how someone feels in a space, or about themselves. To me, design is cultural care. It’s how we remember, remake, and reach across.

Would you tell us more about your work culture and business philosophy?

QZ : I design collaboratively, not transactionally. Whether I’m leading a product sprint at Chartmetric or co-creating an art installation like Memory Land, I see design as a shared process—not a deliverable passed from one desk to another. People often tell me I’m easy to work with, not because I avoid hard conversations, but because I approach them with care. I try to create environments where people feel safe enough to challenge each other, and supported enough to take risks. I believe critique should be specific, generous, and never attached to ego. When choosing collaborators, I look less for portfolios and more for perspective. I want to work with people who are curious, emotionally intelligent, and unafraid to ask “why.” I value cultural awareness just as much as technical skill. The best teams I’ve been on weren’t the ones with the flashiest résumés—they were the ones that listened well, iterated fast, and laughed often. In my current role as Senior Product Designer, I translate messy human needs into tools that serve artists, labels, and everyday music lovers. That means aligning with engineers, analysts, and executives while still advocating for the end user—especially those who are often overlooked by default systems. One of the biggest challenges is bridging ambition and feasibility without losing soul. It’s easy to build fast. It’s harder to build meaningfully. To me, a good designer isn’t just someone who makes beautiful things. It’s someone who can ask beautiful questions—and build in ways that include more people in the answer.

What are your philanthropic contributions to society as a designer, artist and architect?

QZ : I see design not just as a career, but as a responsibility—especially for those of us who have found space in industries that weren’t always built for people like us. Giving back isn’t an afterthought in my practice—it’s embedded in how I show up, build, and share. Over the years, I’ve mentored emerging designers through programs like Founder Institute and Alchemist Accelerator, reviewed portfolios from first-generation creatives, and served as a judge for designathons and awards like Hack for Humanity and the Globee Awards, where I’ve advocated for work that centers impact over polish. I often prioritize reviewing projects from underrepresented creators—because I know how much courage it takes to even enter those rooms. I’ve also led pro bono design workshops for students exploring storytelling through digital media, especially LGBTQ+ youth and international students navigating identity. At Harvard, I helped build learning installations for early childhood education using recycled materials—reminding both myself and the kids that imagination doesn’t require privilege to flourish. I firmly believe that artists and designers should engage with humanitarian projects—not as saviors, but as listeners, co-builders, and witnesses. Some of the most meaningful design moments I’ve experienced weren’t award-winning—they were quiet, relational, and community-grown. What I love about good design is that it scales dignity. It doesn’t just look good—it makes people feel seen, capable, and part of something bigger. That’s the kind of design I want to keep giving back.

What positive experiences you had when you attend the A’ Design Award?

QZ : Participating in the A’ Design Award has been a transformative milestone in my design journey. In 2025, I was honored to receive Silver Awards for two deeply meaningful projects: Blueline, a public safety app designed to rebuild trust between law enforcement and underserved communities, and the Chartmetric Mobile App, which brings powerful music analytics to artists, managers, and industry professionals on the go. Both projects are grounded in empathy and equity—two values that consistently guide my design practice. The A’ Design Award amplified these works globally, sparking new collaborations and deepening conversations around social impact, accessibility, and digital trust. The platform also gave visibility to Memory Land and Talent Search, both recipients of Iron Awards, which explored grief technology and inclusive talent discovery with equal care and ambition. More than a recognition, A’ Design offered a space for reflection and clarity. Writing about my process pushed me to articulate not just what I designed, but why. It reaffirmed my belief that good design is not just functional or beautiful—it’s responsible, responsive, and deeply human. I’m grateful to be part of a community that celebrates not only outcomes, but intent—and that continues to raise the bar for what design can and should mean in today’s world.

Qihang Zhang Profile