An Illustrator Building Her World Like a Catalog

You came from Thailand and you moved to Tokyo. How did you begin your journey?

I was born and raised in Bangkok, Thailand, and I lived there until I was about 23.

I studied graphic design at university, but honestly, I felt it wasn’t fully for me. When I worked with clients, I often found myself going off course or struggling to move forward smoothly together. I realized that I function better when I have stronger creative control. So rather than being a designer, I feel that being an artist fulfills my life’s purpose better. That said, I still think very much like a designer. It might just be an occupational habit.

I grew up in a Chinese family. My ancestors came from China to Thailand about 100 years ago. But we are fully assimilated into Thai society. We don’t speak Chinese anymore, and we consider ourselves Thai.

My parents both received scholarships to study in Japan in the 1980s, and they met in Nagoya. I’m the second daughter. My father had also come to Japan during high school, so our family has quite deep ties to Japan. Because of that, many of the values I grew up with, especially about how you should behave, were in some ways aligned with living in Japan. With that background, I sometimes feel it’s easier for me to blend into Japanese society.

My father taught physics at a university, and my mother works in a pharmaceutical company. They are both very STEM-oriented. But they raised their children with a lot of freedom. My sister and I were more drawn to art and languages, and I chose art. I’ve been doing art since I was around four years old. I entered a graphic design program, and even though I felt it wasn’t a perfect fit, I had a lot of fun.

During university, I published many independent books, and some of them won major awards in Thailand. I believe those awards led to my scholarship to Japan. I first came as a research student for a master’s degree and completed my master’s at Musashino Art University, where I created many books and illustration series under a self-directed theme.

Now I’m in a doctoral program. To be honest,rather than aiming for publishing a traditional dissertation, I'm more interested in the research of design and culture itself. I treat this period more like a residency for my own practice. I want to continue working in Japan and, if possible, expand onto the world stage.

But it’s not as easy as it sounds. When I compare myself to my peers or even younger friends, I sometimes feel that I’m still in the middle of my path as an artist. At the same time, I’ve been on this creative path for more than eight years now - over ten if I include my college days.

Wow. That’s a mouthful.You kept it very concise, but that’s so many different backgrounds. So now you said you studied graphic design. How do you describe yourself now? You’re more of an artist, but do you still do design sometimes? Because you said you think like a designer.

Right now, I describe myself as an artist. But in a way, what I’m doing could still be called design. The difference is that the things I make don’t function as products. They exist as flat paintings.

I imagine products in my head and visualize them, but instead of producing a working object, I materialize them as drawings or paintings. I actually want them to exist in the world. I would love to use them myself. But I don’t really have the means to produce them physically. I don’t go to workshops or look for artisans to make them real.

At some point, I realized that getting them out of my head and onto paper was enough. That has become my method of expression over the past few years. Of course, if I ever get the chance, I would love to produce at least one of them for real. But for now, I’m enjoying this way of working.

On the designer side, after graduating from university in Thailand, I worked at a design studio as an assistant. It was a studio that created playful things, like display installations for Hermès. As an assistant, I helped materialize things that were not necessarily practical but beautiful. I had a lot of fun doing that.

But when it came to practical projects like “please do branding for this restaurant” or “please lay out this menu,” I felt it wasn’t really for me. It could be fun at times, but in Thailand many projects didn’t have large budgets or much creative freedom. So I didn’t enjoy them that much.

I’m sure there is exciting graphic design work in the world. I just wasn’t exposed to it at that time. And I felt that there are so many designers who are better than me at layout and typography. So I thought, I’ll let them do that. I’ll focus on what I do best.

Illustration, strange or funny concepts, aesthetic objects - those feel more natural to me. So I stopped doing logos and layout work almost entirely. If someone needs a clean website or a corporate logo, I usually refer them to my friends.

Still, I think like a designer. Even though I call myself an artist, my works are structured like a collection or a catalog.

I’m currently developing a new collection, which is an extension of my “Boxes” series. I keep producing these boxes and imagining how they could be arranged on shelves or displayed in a gallery-like setting.

So in a way, I am designing things. But there is no function, no users, no specific environment for them. So is it design, or is it art? Honestly, I’m not sure either.

Wow. I just feel so close. I have a residency now and I’m doing the same thought process. So, what kept you going this whole time? How did you manage? Because I imagine doing Boxes is less commercial maybe.

I received my scholarship at the end of 2021 and have now been in Japan for four and a half years. My airfare, living expenses, and tuition are all covered. For me, it feels like a very long-term residency. In a way, someone is currently supporting my dream of being an artist. But that support will eventually end. Before it does, I need to make my practice more sustainable.

For artists without gallery representation, this path is really difficult, especially for someone new like me. Even putting on one exhibition requires an enormous amount of energy. And you never know whether that effort will come back to you as income, time, or even attention.

Last year, I did three exhibitions. Honestly, they weren’t so satisfying emotionally. Without the scholarship, it would have been a very high-risk situation.

But fortunately, I do have that support right now. So I’m trying to push forward while I can. I don’t know if it’s too risky. If I don’t take a full-time job now and, two years from now, when my scholarship ends, I haven’t graduated, there’s no guarantee I can stay in Japan. I don’t have a work visa. And to obtain an artist visa, you need to prove a stable income that exceeds that of a typical salaried worker in Japan. Unless you’re a well-known artist with consistent revenue from sales, exhibitions, or client work, that’s very difficult. In some ways, it feels like a gamble.

Being an artist is not easy. Residencies and scholarships support you in the short term, but within that time, you have to figure out your own path.

That’s why I also take on design jobs. But I try to choose projects where I can be half artist, half designer, half art director - where I can contribute my own ideas and concepts. For example, creating embroidery motifs for clothing brands, visuals for Instagram, or sticker designs. Those are more illustration-based projects.

I also enjoy doing editorial illustrations for magazines and animations. They’re fun, but they often don’t pay very much. And alongside that, I continue producing my own independent zines and books.

Do you have jobs from Thailand?

I have a lot of clients from Thailand because most of them saw my work on Instagram, and I guess it’s an algorithm thing, because I was originally from Thailand. A lot of my acquaintances or friends are Thai followers, and Thai followers bring more followers. So most clients are still from Thailand.

But recently I have been getting more US or Japanese clients too.

Can you explain a bit the cultural differences? How is the design scene in Bangkok compared to Japan and Tokyo?

One major difference I’ve noticed is that in Japan, when small or medium-sized businesses look for a designer or illustrator, they very often go through an agency. I feel like it’s about 90 percent of the time.

Of course, maybe I feel that way because I’m still inexperienced here. But for artists without agency connections, it can be quite difficult to access work. Japanese agencies naturally know many Japanese artists, and they tend to select from the pool of people they already know. Most of the time, they choose from within that circle.

In Thailand, on the other hand, when a small brand is looking for illustration, they usually search on Instagram and contact the artist directly. Agencies exist in Thailand, but illustration agencies are not very common. Most illustrators operate independently.

It’s also normal for artists to reach out to brands directly. You send your portfolio and propose ideas for campaigns, packaging, or animation. In fact, that’s how I’ve continued getting work.

From your experiences, do you feel there is one experience that took you a step forward in your creative work?

A big turning point for me was the Bangkok Art Book Fair in 2020. At that time, I published three independent books simultaneously.

It was the first time I directly interacted with people who were looking at my work. That experience meant a lot. Design work can be fun, but I realized I feel much more fulfilled when I’m building my own world as the author. That’s when I clearly understood that I want to create a world of my own.

After that, I didn’t participate in art book fairs for a while. So when I met Roee last year, it was my first time joining one abroad, and my first time in five years. That experience was really meaningful. It reminded me, once again, that I truly love doing this.

Seeing so many people presenting their own work, especially large-scale prints in a gallery space, made me reflect deeply. With AI art rapidly expanding, I started asking myself where my own strength lies.

I’m not particularly strong with computers, so I can’t compete in flat or vector-style illustration. Even if the market is demanding that, I realized I don’t need to follow it. Instead, I should focus on what AI cannot do.

I love working by hand. I want to create something large, something that can physically exist in space. For a long time, I was making very small illustrations. But at the Tokyo Art Book Fair last year, seeing large prints installed in a gallery space made me realize that I need to expand in that direction.

So now, I’m focusing on painting and producing larger-scale prints.

Do you have a bad experience that you pulled through, something you learned from?

Last year was a big lesson for me. My New Year’s resolution was to “be out there as much as possible.” Awards, exhibitions, fairs…I wanted to participate in everything. That’s how Roee and I met. I listed everything I wanted to apply for and sent out all the applications at the beginning of the year: Tokyo Art Book Fair, Spiral Independent Creator Fair, everything I could think of.

But as the year went on, I burned out more and more. By June, I felt like I couldn’t do it anymore. But I had already sent my portfolio, accepted invitations, and committed. So I had to push through until the end of the year.

In October, I held a small solo exhibition in Shimokitazawa. During the preparation, I was almost crying while working. I knew the Tokyo Art Book Fair was coming next, and I didn’t have enough new material. I just had to keep running.

I had a lot of inspiration for new ideas. But when you try to produce a large amount of new work in a short time, your body resists. In the end, I was mostly reheating old leftovers. I was putting out work I wasn’t proud of.

At that mini exhibition in October, I wasn’t satisfied with my work at all. But I had to be there, to greet the people who came. I was thankful for the opportunity and the curator who hosted me, but I wished I had done a better job preparing new material.

That doesn’t mean I’ll stop exhibiting. Having a solo exhibition is still my dream. But I learned that forcing myself at a physically impossible pace is not healthy.

At the time, I believed that if I pushed myself and produced a lot of work, my style would eventually emerge. One of my ongoing struggles as an artist is feeling that I don’t have a definitive style. Many successful artists have a clear voice - something you immediately associate with them. Even after ten years, I felt I hadn’t found that.

So I thought, if I just go out there, commit to everything, and produce enough work, my style will naturally develop. But that wasn’t the case. Burning yourself out is not the answer.

This year, I changed my strategy. I focus on one thing at a time. I’m learning to say no to projects that don’t align with me. I go to the studio, clear my mind, and just keep moving my hands. I believe that with time and patience, a stable voice or style might naturally emerge. That’s what I’m trusting now.

Finding your own style, what does it mean for you, and why do you want to do it?

When I tell my friends or professors that I don’t know what my style is, they often say, “Lily, you already have your own style.” They tell me it’s not about technique or medium, but about the way I think and tell stories. But that kind of style doesn’t translate well in a portfolio.

From the outside, it just looks like I do watercolor, acrylic, colored pencil, sculpture, design, animation, everything. There’s no clear axis that immediately tells people, “She’s really good at this one thing.” Commercially, that’s a big issue. I need to make a living from this and make it sustainable. That’s why I feel the need to define a style.

I used to think it was fine not to have one. Being an artist is about searching for answers, making yourself happy, and trying things you’ve never done before. But after ten years of constantly changing mediums and styles, I’ve become increasingly frustrated.

Starting a new medium feels like playing a video game. You spend 40 hours reaching level five, then switch to sculpture and go back to level zero. I keep repeating that cycle. It feels like endlessly grinding beginner levels, and that’s exhausting.

Because I never fully master one medium, my storytelling stays at a foundational level. Without one “sword” I can truly claim as mine, it’s hard to build a larger, more cohesive world. I have this strong urge to create a catalog of things, and I believe that impulse connects to a bigger world in my head. But since I keep changing mediums, that world never fully emerges.

So now I’m trying very hard to commit to one style. But I’m impatient. I want to see good results quickly. If I try oil painting and it doesn’t work the first time, I immediately move on to something else. It’s like trying to write a deep story while constantly switching languages. You can’t develop depth that way.

At this stage in my career, I feel I need to choose a style I can truly stand behind. But I wouldn’t say the same to younger students. When they ask me, “How did you find your style? I love your style,” I’m surprised, because I feel like I don’t have one. I tell them not to rush. Some artists we admire changed their style significantly in their 50s.

And when I say that, I remind myself that maybe I’m simply looking for a style to stabilize my current world building. In five or ten years, it might change again.

Roee, you love Philippe Weisbecker, and I love him too. I was curious how he arrived at his current style, so I bought his collection book and read his interviews. His works in his 20s and 30s look completely different from what he does now.

Knowing that someone can transform their style so much and reach their defining work in their 40s or 50s was deeply comforting and inspiring to me. I think there is a lot to learn from that.

If you weren’t an artist, can you imagine what kind of life you had?

I think, in one way or another, I would still end up being an artist. Maybe I would be writing, translating, or doing something related to language.

When I was a teenager, I actually wrote and published a slightly nonsensical romance novel. Looking back, it’s quite funny. As a teenager, you don’t really know anything about love, yet I was writing romance stories. Maybe I would be somewhere writing scripts for a TV drama.

I also really love games. Not so much video games in general, but games like The Sims, where you decorate houses and interiors. So maybe I would have entered the game industry and become a furniture designer. In the end, that’s still a kind of artist, isn’t it.

You’ve been in Tokyo four and a half years. How is working in Tokyo influencing your way of thinking?

I feel very fortunate to be in Japan right now. I’m affiliated with an art university, which means I have access to workshops, great art supply stores, and the freedom to experiment with new materials easily. I’m surrounded by people who want to see my work, who support me, and who give me advice. I’m truly grateful for that environment. I really love my university and the people there.

Within the art scene, I try to attend fairs and portfolio reviews as much as I can. It’s a very good environment. But that doesn’t mean it’s easy to break in. There are already so many amazing Japanese artists. Still, since I’m here, I feel I should at least try.

The city itself is clean and beautiful. That’s comforting as an artist. We’re drawn to beautiful things.

When I go back to Thailand, people tell me that my work has gained more layers than before. They say there’s a certain delicacy now. They can’t quite define it, but they describe it as delicate and beautiful. They also say my logic has become stronger. That sense of structure was already there when I was in Thailand, but I think it developed further after coming to Japan and speaking with Japanese designers and professors. Their way of thinking influenced how I build ideas.

I also feel there is a unique freedom in the way Japanese creatives think. Maybe even ordinary people. I would describe it as a freedom to make things playful or humorous.

For example, local mascots and characters. A dancing pear representing Funabashi in Chiba. The fact that public money and official systems support something that playful is incredible to me. I don’t think that would be as easy to realize in Thailand.

Because that freedom to be playful exists, Japan can be very creative. Of course, sometimes that freedom produces things that are politically incorrect. But even that happens because there is room for freedom.

Japanese society has strict frameworks. There are rules about garbage sorting, dress codes, the way you speak, and manuals that everyone is expected to follow.

But once you step into the creative world, artists are given a kind of free pass. Japan is often described as restrictive, yet at least within the creative field, I feel that artists are granted a surprising amount of freedom.

That’s an interesting perspective. On a personal level, what does Tokyo mean to you?

Personally, I think of Tokyo as a kind of “beginner’s home.”

Before coming here, I had always lived with my family. Tokyo was the first place where I lived alone. As a city to land in by yourself, I feel it’s one of the most fortunate places in the world. It’s safe as a woman, it’s clean, and in general, things are trustworthy.

Even when you’re apartment hunting, the real place is often better than the photos online. I don’t think that’s common in many other countries. Maybe I feel this way because I’m a student, but living here sometimes feels like living life on easy mode.

You don’t have to worry about things not matching your expectations. You don’t have to be suspicious. That sense of reliability is very comforting.

At the same time, Tokyo feels very quiet to me. The public image of Tokyo is loud and busy, but that’s not how I experience it. Wherever I walk, I feel like I’m inside a bubble. I live alone, and almost no one knows me here. In that sense, I often feel like I’m alone in the world.

It might sound negative, but for me it isn’t. There’s something peaceful about being alone inside a world you can trust.

So Tokyo feels like a quiet beginner’s home. If I had to compare it to something, it’s like a private hospital room. Clean, minimal, almost sterile. Very white. Like a blank canvas where you can paint your own pictures.

It’s not the calm of nature in the countryside. It’s more like being alone in a sterile, beautiful room. That’s what Tokyo feels like to me.

That’s a very unique way of describing it.Moving on, do you have a vision for your future? What do you see yourself doing from here on?

Right now, I want to keep developing my “catalog” of things. I’ve been drawing boxes and plates for a long time, building up this catalog-like body of work, and I’m really enjoying it.

One day, I’d love to open a shop that only carries paintings of the objects I design or draw. It might never happen, but that’s okay.

My dream at the moment is actually very simple: to draw many of the things I want to see, and to be able to make a living from them. Maybe by selling them as paintings, maybe through exhibitions, or maybe by having them become part of someone’s display or branding.

Career-wise, my goal is to fully realize my world. I want to understand what exists inside it, how it functions, what kind of people inhabit it, and what kinds of objects belong there.

At the same time, I want to keep participating in book fairs and events like last year, but without burning myself out again. My dream is to build my world steadily, without exhaustion, and to sustain my life through it.

This is the last question. If you could say one thing to your past self, the past Lily, or someone pursuing their dream, what would it be?

I would say, “Even if you haven’t achieved your goals yet, you’re allowed to be happy right now.”

Maybe because I was trained as a designer, I tend to imagine the final outcome first. I design it in my head as something clean and perfect. But when I actually start working on it, the first try doesn’t work. The second try doesn’t work either. I get frustrated, and sometimes I end up abandoning the project altogether. That’s not healthy mentally, and it’s not healthy as an artist.

Struggle is part of the process, but enjoying failure is something you can choose. Even if the result isn’t good, you can choose to enjoy the experiment itself. You can train yourself to accept being bad at something, even to enjoy being bad at it. Otherwise, you burn out in the long run.

This applies not only to art, but to life in general. Even if you don’t have clients right now, you’re allowed to be happy. Even sending a pitch can count as a success. You don’t have to wait for good results to feel joy.

You don’t have to become happy only when things turn out well. You can be happy right now. That’s what I would tell my past self.

That’s very relatable. At the end of our interview, we always ask people, do you have a message to the world?

I’ll be exhibiting this May at Spiral Omotesando. I participated in the fair last year and received second place, which led to my inclusion in this winners’ group exhibition.

For this show, I’m planning a spatial display, more like an installation. Rather than focusing on selling individual works, I want to present a constructed world through the arrangement of objects in space.

I hope to continue creating many more works, and more than anything, I would be happy if people come and see them.