Jiayi Luo

How has your move from New York to Dublin influenced your creative process?

Relocating from New York to Dublin was a seismic shift—both creatively and personally. I had never set foot in Ireland before moving, and suddenly I found myself in a foreign country with only work colleagues as my initial connection. I’ve always considered myself adventurous, but the transition was far more emotionally complex than I anticipated.

In New York, loneliness felt like being lost in a crowd—overstimulated, anonymous, constantly in motion. Dublin introduced a quieter solitude, one that urged me to slow down and listen inward. It was like stepping into an actual forest after years in a concrete jungle. That stillness became fertile ground for introspection, and drawing evolved as my way of navigating this new emotional terrain.

Creatively, the contrast between the two cities has been transformative. New York’s frenetic energy gave my work urgency and edge, while Dublin’s tranquillity has brought depth and reflection. I’ve become more attuned to subtle details and feelings, and my art now explores how culture and memory shape identity. There is a dialogue in my work between the familiar and the foreign, the chaotic and the serene.

This move didn’t just alter my process, it reshaped my perspective. It challenged me to reinterpret my experiences through a new cultural lens, and in doing so, it expanded the emotional vocabulary of my practice.

What role does your background in math and finance play in your art, if any?

My background in math and finance influences my approach to art in several meaningful ways. It has given me a deep appreciation for structure, discipline, and detail, all of these qualities are essential when working on my large-scale drawings, each of which takes over 100 hours to complete. Over the past decade, I’ve completed 23 pieces in this series, each measuring 46cm by 61cm. Every work begins with a theme that prompts research and observation. For example, for Series No. 1, Passing by a Bodega, I spent weekends walking through Manhattan, studying the layout, pricing, and character of local bodegas. It became a social engagement project that deepened my connection to the community.

Mathematical principles like symmetry, proportion, and balance often guide my compositions. I break down complex ideas into visual elements, assigning meaning to objects and weaving them together into a cohesive narrative. Each component and colour must work in harmony, which makes the process both labour-intensive and deeply meditative.

That said, working full-time in data can be a double-edged sword when it comes to art creation. It sharpens my analytical side, but sometimes I find myself overplanning, debating every detail, becoming too cautious. As I grow older, I’ve noticed this tension more acutely: the push and pull between control and spontaneity. Drawing, for me, should be liberating, it is a space where rules dissolve and intuition leads. It’s a mindfulness practice, a way to enter flow and blur boundaries.

Interestingly, this duality shows up in my mediums. While my illustrations are meticulously curated, my oil paintings are the opposite – rough, bold, and expressive. They are my way of letting go, of reclaiming the freedom that first drew me to art.

Jiayi Luo | An Afternoon In Manhattan

How did the “Once Upon A Time” series evolve from a farewell to New York into documenting your European life?

The “Once Upon A Time” series initially emerged as a deeply personal farewell to New York, it is an artistic attempt to preserve the fleeting moments and emotions of a significant chapter in my life. At that time, I was navigating a difficult period marked by a complicated marriage and an impending move away from the city I loved. What started as a form of catharsis and a way to say goodbye gradually transformed into a continuous exploration of memory and emotional discovery.

But once I moved to Europe, the series took on a new life. What began as a documentary of departure gradually evolved into a reflective journal. It started capturing not just memories of New York, but the unfolding experience of building a life in unfamiliar places, forming new relationships, creating new rhythms, and the quiet process of finding belonging in a foreign land.

The latest piece, No. 23: A Decade on the Wall, is a culmination of that evolution. It features individual drawings arranged like fragments of memory, each representing a significant event from the past ten years. The series is no longer tethered to geography or culture, it has become a visual diary of emotional journey. It documents the complexity of cross-cultural adaptation, from nostalgia and longing to discovery and acceptance.

Each drawing is a reconciliation between past and present, a testament to resilience and growth. Through this series, I’ve come to understand that art isn’t just about capturing what was, it’s about making sense of what is, and imagining what could be.

Could you share more about the recurring motif of the orange cat—what does it mean to you personally?

The orange cat in my work is named Omelette, and he is far more than a visual motif. He is a symbol of love, comfort, and quiet companionship for those navigating solitude. His presence throughout my series offers a gentle reminder that connection and warmth are never truly out of reach, even in emotionally turbulent times.

My affection for orange cats goes back to childhood, watching Garfield with fascination. I was drawn to his independence, his sass, and his unapologetic confidence. The colour orange itself carries emotional weight for me, it radiates warmth, optimism, and resilience. Omelette embodies those qualities, serving as an emotional anchor in my work. He represents self-compassion, a reminder to be kind to oneself when life feels uncertain.

Over time, Omelette became a personal narrative device, a quiet companion who travels with me across geographies and emotional landscapes. He becomes a symbol of continuity, of the love we carry within us no matter where we go. In many ways, he is also a role model: independent, confident, and unshaken by chaos.

Then, about three years ago, something unexpected happened. My local vet called to ask if I would consider adopting an orange cat found in the neighbourhood. I said yes without hesitation. Omelette is now real! He sits beside me as I draw, no longer just imagined, but a living presence in my studio and my life. I love him to bits!

(Omelette providing his art critics)

Jiayi Luo | Chinese New Year Gatherings

How do you balance your full-time data-related work with your artistic practice?

Balancing a full-time career in data with my artistic practice is a delicate but rewarding process that requires intention, discipline, and a deep respect for time. I allocate specific blocks of time, often during evenings, late nights, and weekends, to dedicate solely to creating art. That consistency helps me maintain a steady rhythm and ensures that art remains a vital part of my life, not just a side note.

Interestingly, I see my work in data and my art as complementary. Both demand analytical thinking, patience, and focus. The structure and logic of data work often inform the way I plan and execute my drawings, while my creative practice offers an emotional release, a space to recharge, reflect, and reconnect with myself.

As I’ve grown older, uninterrupted time has become a luxury. In my twenties, I could lose entire days in drawing, forgetting to sleep or eat. Now, with adult responsibilities stacking up, every minute feels precious. That scarcity makes the process even more meaningful. Drawing has become my escape, a way to quiet the noise and step outside of the daily life demands.

I’m an introvert by nature. Solitude isn’t just a preference, it’s how I refuel. Corporate environments require constant collaboration, and while I value teamwork, I often find myself emotionally drained by it. Art gives me the solitude I crave. It’s where I feel most myself, alive, and at peace.

Each drawing takes about a month to finish. What is your creative routine during this time?

My illustration process unfolds in four distinct stages: brainstorming, drafting, outline tracing, and colouring. Each piece takes over 100 hours to complete, and with a full-time job in data, I rely on evenings and weekends to make steady progress, which takes usually about a month if I stay disciplined.

Brainstorming is where the magic begins. I reflect on my current emotional landscape to decide which story feels most relevant to tell. This stage also involves choosing an artistic approach. For instance, No. 20: Oktoberfest in Munich was inspired by Martin Handford’s Where’s Waldo, while No. 18: Stories of Barcelona draws from Antoni Gaudí’s iconic mosaic style. Once the concept is set, I dive into researching mode, gathering memories, visual references, and cultural context. It’s a liberating phase, full of imagination and possibility.

Drafting is where the composition takes shape. I carefully consider how each element contributes to the narrative, ensuring that every detail aligns with the emotions I’m trying to express. I often explore different ways to draw an object, for example, to decide whether it should be more detailed or more cartoon-like. After the sketch is complete, I trace the outlines with ink, a fast but irreversible step that locks the story into place.

Colouring is the most time-intensive stage. I’m meticulous about colour harmony, testing each shade on draft paper before applying it. This slow layering process allows the emotional depth of the piece to unfold organically.

It’s a meditative routine that not only brings the illustration to life but also gives me space to reflect and reconnect with the story I’m telling.

Do you see your art as more of a personal diary or as something meant to connect with a broader audience?

My illustration began as a private diary, it is an intimate space where I could process delicate emotions and document personal experiences. I never intended to share it publicly. These pieces were created during moments of vulnerability, and for a long time, they felt too personal to expose.

I practiced graphic design besides illustration, therefore I always maintain a social media presence for my design work. But when I started posting my illustrations on social media, something unexpected happened. People reached out to say how deeply the illustrations resonated with them—how they felt seen, comforted, even joyful. That response shifted my perspective. It made me realize that while the stories are mine, the emotions they carry are universal. Moreover, people tend to appreciate art that’s made by hand and comes from the heart.

Today, my work still serves as a visual diary, capturing memories, transitions, and emotional landscapes. But I also see it as a bridge that invites others to reflect on their own journeys. Themes like belonging, resilience, and emotional vulnerability run through each piece, and I hope they create space for empathy and connection.

Sharing my art has helped me feel less alone. It has given me a sense of community, and reminded me that even the most personal stories can speak to something collective. So while the origin is deeply personal, the intention now is to connect, to offer comfort, to spark dialogue, and to celebrate the shared human experience.