Commercial design, by contrast, is created in service of commercial value; its worth is tied directly to the value it brings to a product.
与时为友
Ash Wei: How do you approach the relationship between traditional design (like letterpress, typography, and book design) and newer forms (new media, UI/UX, AR/VR)?
Emily Jing: I’ve always felt that both are rooted in the same core—they test a designer’s control over space, especially negative space. That sense of control operates across all mediums. You could even say it’s something shared by both design and fine art. The difference is that with traditional formats like letterpress, printmaking, or book design, the spatial experience can be felt through the human body—this kind of physicality offers a reality that no experience on a phone can replicate.
There’s also a different kind of emotional connection involved. If we consider the mobile phone as a medium, then nothing is really “loyal” to it. You won’t use just a phone to do one single thing forever. Even within APPs—say, a banking APP versus a video streaming APP—the user’s intent and mental involvement are completely different. But with books or printed matter, the moment you touch the object, the piece is wholly devoted to that art form, to that medium.
AW: You've studied graphic design, photography, and printmaking. Has this interdisciplinary background influenced the way you approach design?
EJ: Although, as I mentioned, all artistic and design disciplines share a foundational logic, within the industry, fine art and commercial design often feel like two opposing lines. When a piece of art becomes commodified, the product is merely a by-product of the artwork. Commercial design, by contrast, is created in service of commercial value; its worth is tied directly to the value it brings to a product. For example, without a brand, there would be no need for brand identity design. If you print a graphic on a phone case, and it includes a company logo, it’s there to expand the brand’s influence. If it’s an illustration, then the phone case becomes an extension of the illustration—it’s made so that consumers can buy and own the artwork.
This conceptual opposition creates a kind of confusion: both are creative outputs, so why is it that when I make one kind of thing, everyone serves me, but when I make the other, I have to think about how to serve everyone else?
The Fading Coat
AW: You define commercial design as something that serves a client, while artistic creation is for oneself. From a terminology perspective, if we group experimental design and commercial design both under “design,” would you still see “design” as a distinct category separate from fine art?
EJ: I want to clarify that the mindset distinction I mentioned earlier only applies to commercial design. There are many people doing self-initiated projects—designs that aren't bound by client demands, but rather use visual language as a tool for creative expression. When you have complete control over the direction of your design—unaffected by the opinions of clients or consumers—your work has already departed from the realm of commercial graphic design.
Personally, I don’t even consider commercial design to be part of the arts. I prefer to call it a “service offering”: I’m simply providing a service using the skills I’ve acquired—but offering that service itself isn’t art. However, the tools and techniques within design, especially visual communication, definitely reflect a way of thinking that’s rooted in artistic creation. No medium is inherently commercial or artistic. What defines the output is the creator’s intention and approach. You can design a typeface, a composition—or design how a sculpture bends at a certain angle.
How to Touch the Sky
AW: In today’s society, what does reading represent to you? What does the printed book mean to you? Reading ebooks, scrolling through Instagram or other social media is technically still reading—but it seems like you have a more specific definition?
EJ: Reading restores choice to us. The internet today seems to offer endless choices, but in reality, due to algorithmic echo chambers, our choices have become incredibly limited. Reading breaks away from the algorithm, pierces that cocoon, and opens up another perspective.
Personally, I don’t really agree that reading a social media post counts as reading. The problem isn't fragmented reading itself; the issue lies in what fragmentation leads to—we lose our ability to think critically. Especially with posts from influencers or marketing accounts, where the content is often aggressively opinionated and leaves no space for reflection or doubt.
One of the core statements in my thesis was this: “‘If there are a thousand readers, then there are a thousand Hamlets’. I want to give that interpretive freedom back to people.” When you read a long piece of text, you have to evaluate its credibility yourself and decide what resonates or doesn’t. You think about why you like or dislike a character. Even the process of picking up a book because it seemed interesting, only to dislike it after twenty pages—that, too, is part of constructing one’s self. If I only ever see what I already like, I won’t know what I dislike, or why I like what I like. Homogenization is scary. People may agree on broad ideas, but differ in the details—and those subtle distinctions are important.
That’s what terrifies me about social media: it gradually erodes our capacity for independent judgment and strengthens our habit of blindly accepting what others say. Before short videos, we never could’ve imagined society would become like this. But does that mean what came before was bad? Should books be discarded? I don’t think I enjoy constant stimulation that much. I appreciate quietness more. Of course, some books make me feel a surge of emotion; I cry, laugh, feel anger or joy alongside them. But ultimately, reading gives us peace.
As for WeChat reading and other forms of ebooks—during my thesis I conducted a survey, and the conclusion was that people who already have a reading habit tend to prefer physical books. Personally, my categorization is pretty extreme: printed books are too sacred a medium. So to me, it’s really two categories—printed books, and everything else. WeChat reading, ebooks, audiobooks—these are great functional substitutes. They help when I can’t get a printed book or when I’m doing something else. But still, I—and many others—can’t give up physical books. The pleasure they give is unmatched. When I read a paper book, there are no other notifications. My connection with the text becomes more intimate. And the sense of accomplishment is different—no matter how thick a book is, I can always feel the pages I’ve read. That tactile and visual satisfaction just isn’t possible with other formats.
Illustration by AW
AW: Continuing from that—how do you see “the book” as a medium? How do factors like size and material affect people’s reading habits?
EJ: A book’s size, format, and binding might affect the reading experience, but not the transmission of content. My thesis eventually lands on a specific format and medium in hopes of drawing attention to the content itself. It's really hard these days to get people to spend money on a beautifully printed hardcover book using delicate paper. I wanted to ensure the content comes first, cut down other costs, and then present it in a more approachable form. I want to make books a part of everyday life again.
We’re used to holding phone-sized objects now, and gestures like “scroll up = get more info” are something we’ve only learned in the past decade. So I wondered—what’s a format that could make great content more digestible for modern readers? You could say my design caters to current trends—but only in the sense of using familiar habits to cultivate new ones, not to deliver constant stimulation through written content.
I’m not trying to chase trends or provide endless dopamine hits. My design splits each chapter into its own booklet. When chapters vary in length, I do some dividing and rearranging—so yes, it's a form of fragmentation. But I’m not trying to compete with short-form video or social media—that’s a battle no one can win. What I want to do is offer an alternative.
“Second Nature” was another key word throughout my thesis. Today, we carry our phone, wallet, and keys everywhere. But what if, in the future, it’s phone, wallet, booklet, and keys? What would that look like? Imagine hanging out with friends, and instead of everyone scrolling on their phones, each person pulls out a little book. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?
Finch Books
AW: When you worked on this thesis project, were the people interested in it already habitual readers?
EJ: Yes. Cultivating a reading habit from scratch is as hard as convincing someone who’s never exercised to start going to the gym. That’s why my design also considers popular aesthetic styles—partly to attract more people. Even if someone isn’t a reader, maybe they’d buy the book because of the design or the affordable price. If they keep seeing the little book at home, maybe one day they’ll feel like flipping a page. When something shows up repeatedly in our field of vision, our curiosity about it grows. Put a book on the dinner table, in the bathroom, by the bed—just having it there increases the chances that you’ll pick it up and read a page.
Finch Books
AW: Any final words you’d like to share?
EJ: Read! It doesn’t matter how much—you don’t have to read a lot. Any amount of reading is good. Just start by opening a book today.
Behind the Windows
INTERVIEWER: YUXUAN WEI
CURATOR: YUXUAN WEI, KE ZHANG
EDITOR: CHENYU LIN
GRAPHIC DESIGNER: YUXUAN WEI
Emily Jing
Emily Jing is a multidisciplinary designer and printmaker who listens, absorbs, and reflects. She sees herself as a thoughtful communicator who uses visual language to tell stories and translate ideas. She earned her undergraduate degree from the School of the Art Institute of Chicago and recently completed her graduate studies in the MFA Design as Entrepreneur program at the School of Visual Arts. Born and raised in China, Emily is currently based in New York.