Yujin Cao

Being recognised by the London Design Awards is a great honour and affirmation of the values behind the Brooklyn Dairy Project. This project is deeply rooted in reimagining how cities can adapt, regenerate, and become more inclusive by integrating sustainable agriculture, public space, and adaptive reuse within a historically industrial site.

The recognition reinforces the importance of designing not just for form, but for systems — systems that respond to climate urgency, food accessibility, and spatial equity. It’s meaningful to see a project that focuses on ecology, infrastructure, and community resilience resonate with an international audience. It encourages me to keep pushing for design that is bold in vision, grounded in context, and regenerative in intent.

This achievement has been both energising and affirming — not just for me personally, but for the wider community of collaborators, mentors, and peers who’ve supported the Brooklyn Dairy Project. It has sparked new conversations around regenerative design and adaptive reuse, which are themes I’m deeply committed to exploring further in my work.

Professionally, the award has brought increased visibility and opened doors to new opportunities, including invitations to speak and exhibit. It has also strengthened my confidence to take on more ambitious, interdisciplinary projects that bridge architecture, landscape, and social impact. Most importantly, it reinforces the idea that design — when rooted in care and systems thinking — can truly inspire change.

Experimentation is at the heart of my creative process. I see design as an open-ended inquiry — a way to test ideas, materials, and systems through iteration and speculation. It’s about asking “what if?” and being willing to challenge assumptions, even in constrained or pragmatic contexts.

In the Brooklyn Dairy Project, experimentation took the form of rethinking industrial infrastructures as ecological frameworks. I explored how existing railways could be repurposed not just for movement, but for the circulation of food, goods, and people.

The modular triangular unit — a key element in the project — was developed through a series of spatial and functional studies. Its geometry allowed flexibility, phasing, and growth, responding to climate shifts, program changes, and community needs.

This experimental approach helped us transform a rigid industrial site into a living, adaptive system. I believe meaningful design emerges when we allow space for the unexpected — for discovery, for failure, and for reinvention.

One of the most unusual — yet powerful — sources of inspiration came from watching how plants reclaim abandoned rail tracks. In South Brooklyn, I spent time walking through forgotten industrial corridors where weeds, vines, and wildflowers had begun to grow over steel and concrete. That quiet persistence of nature became a lens for reimagining how post-industrial sites might regenerate — not through erasure, but through layering, adaptation, and coexistence.

In the Brooklyn Dairy Project, this observation shaped how I approached the integration of agriculture with infrastructure. Instead of wiping the slate clean, I focused on amplifying what was already there — preserving the railways, adapting warehouses, and allowing green systems to infiltrate the hardscapes. It reminded me that resilience often comes not from control, but from symbiosis. And sometimes, the most unexpected poetry lies in the cracks.

I wish more people understood that the design process is not about finding immediate answers — it’s about asking better questions. Good design often emerges from complexity, ambiguity, and contradiction. It takes time, dialogue, and iteration. What you see in a finished project is only the surface of a much deeper journey — one that involves listening, testing, failing, and evolving.

Design is also not a solitary act. It’s shaped by collaborators, communities, constraints, and context. Especially in projects like Brooklyn Dairy, the process is as much about systems thinking and social impact as it is about form-making. I believe when people understand that, they begin to see design not as decoration, but as a powerful tool for imagining and building a more sustainable, inclusive world.

Navigating the balance between meeting client expectations and staying true to my ideas is an ongoing dialogue, not a compromise, but a collaboration. I see my role as a translator between vision and reality, helping clients articulate their values while also introducing new ways of thinking they may not have considered.

It starts with building trust by listening closely, understanding their goals, and showing that thoughtful, ambitious design can also be practical and responsive. I always ground my ideas in research, precedent, and systems thinking, so when I propose something unexpected, it’s not abstract — it’s purposeful.

With the Brooklyn Dairy Project, for example, the ambition was to radically reimagine an industrial site — but every design move was rooted in ecological logic, infrastructure efficiency, and community benefit. When design ideas are framed within real-world impacts, clients are often excited to embrace innovation.

Ultimately, I believe the best outcomes happen when creative integrity and client vision align to serve a shared purpose.

One of the biggest challenges in the Brooklyn Dairy Project was reconciling the complexity of multiple systems — industrial, agricultural, ecological, and social — within a single, cohesive design. The site’s vast scale and rigid infrastructure posed both physical and conceptual constraints.

How could we create a regenerative environment that was not only productive but also inclusive, adaptable, and rooted in place?

To overcome this, I relied heavily on systems thinking and iterative modelling. I broke the site into modular units that could respond flexibly to different needs — logistics, farming, public space — while still functioning as part of an integrated whole. Researching precedents in agroecology, adaptive reuse, and climate-responsive design also helped ground the vision in real-world feasibility.

Another challenge was visualising how to shift a historically segregated space into one of shared coexistence — for people, animals, and ecosystems. That required imagining new relationships between architecture and land, which I approached by blending speculative design with pragmatic strategies. Ultimately, the challenges shaped the project’s identity — one of layered resilience and hopeful transformation.

When I hit a creative block, I step away from the screen and return to the world, especially to small, quiet moments. I walk through neighbourhoods, sketch in my notebook, visit galleries, or just observe how light moves through a space. I also turn to other disciplines — literature, film, Taekwondo, even cooking — as a way to reframe my thinking. Creativity, for me, isn’t always about pushing harder; sometimes it’s about softening, slowing down, and listening.

Often, the breakthrough comes when I stop trying to solve the problem directly. Instead, I look for patterns, metaphors, or materials that spark a different way of seeing. I’ve learned that design doesn’t always arrive in a linear path — it often shows up when you create space for it.

My designs are deeply informed by values of care, adaptability, and cross-cultural thinking. Growing up in China and later working and studying across Asia, Europe, and North America, I’ve come to see architecture as a bridge — not just between spaces, but between histories, ecologies, and communities. That global perspective has shaped my commitment to designing spaces that are contextually grounded yet open to transformation.

I also carry a strong belief in the power of regeneration — whether ecological, social, or emotional. Many of my projects, including Brooklyn Dairy, begin with the question: How can we breathe new life into what already exists? Whether it's repurposing infrastructure or redefining relationships between people and land, I aim to create systems that heal, adapt, and endure.

Ultimately, I infuse my work with empathy and imagination, seeking not only to solve problems but to tell stories, spark connections, and envision more inclusive and resilient futures.

My advice to aspiring designers is to stay curious, stay grounded, and trust your voice. Design is not just about creating beautiful things — it’s about observing the world with empathy, asking better questions, and offering thoughtful responses through space, form, and systems.

Don’t be afraid to explore across disciplines. Some of the most powerful ideas come from unexpected intersections — between architecture and agriculture, art and activism, technology and storytelling. And remember, success isn’t always linear. It’s okay to take detours, to question the brief, or to start over.

Most importantly, design with care — for people, for the planet, and for the futures you want to see. Your work can be a force for connection and change, no matter the scale. Be bold, but stay honest. And enjoy the process — that’s where the magic is.

If I could collaborate with any designer, it would be Álvaro Siza. His work moves me in its quiet power — precise yet poetic, modern yet deeply rooted in place. Siza has a remarkable ability to respond to context not by mimicking it, but by distilling its essence, allowing architecture to emerge from light, landscape, and lived experience.

What I admire most is his restraint. In an age of spectacle, Siza shows us that subtlety can be radical. His drawings feel almost like whispers — intuitive, delicate — yet they carry immense clarity and intent. I would love to learn from the way he listens to a site, how he balances geometry with emotion, and how he finds timelessness in the everyday.

His approach aligns with my own belief that architecture is not about imposing, but about revealing — and that design, at its best, is an act of care.

One question I wish people would ask is: “What kind of future are you trying to imagine through your work?”

So often we focus on the technical, aesthetic, or conceptual aspects of a project — which are important — but we don’t always talk about the future that work is pointing toward.

For me, design is a form of speculation. Through architecture, I try to imagine futures that are more inclusive, ecological, and emotionally connected — where regeneration replaces extraction, and where public space becomes a platform for coexistence across human and non-human life.

Whether I’m working on a building, an installation, or a speculative landscape, I want to create systems that don’t just look good but feel right, grounded in care, flexibility, and long-term resilience. I believe design can be a quiet form of activism, and I’m always asking: What world does this project help us build?