Tech × Art — 杨 · New York / Beijing / Palo Alto
红线牵 — the red thread ties what's meant to meet. Pull, and see what it tied to me.
Product designer & creative technologist. I turn fuzzy problems into shipped products — and build the weird technical parts myself. Product, games, hardware, paint. One thread; it tangles, it doesn't break.
线 · 01
Where I make the invisible usable.
Arrow through each project — the full story sits right beside the screen, no clicking to unfold. Click the screen to open its demo full-screen.
An AI career companion that actually knows you.
Problem. Career tools for students are search boxes with filters — they know nothing about you, rank jobs you can't get, and leave the hardest parts (what fits me? am I ready? what next?) entirely on you. The insight: the unit of career guidance isn't a job posting — it's a person. So I built the profile first and the job board second.
What I did. Built a chat-first companion where a background Observer builds a multi-dimensional profile (Big Five, MBTI, RIASEC, values) from conversation, quizzes, and games — and that profile drives everything. Career fit that's explainable, not oracular: interests 45% / personality 30% / values 25%, re-weighted 30% by demonstrated skills, with per-card confidence labels. An opportunities feed from 129+ live company boards ranked by fit AND requirements-readiness — a freshman sees internships first, not '5–8 yrs experience' at inflated scores. Every posting's requirements become a checklist scored against your actual evidence, with a 70% readiness bar and one-tap handoff to close gaps. Honest applications by design: North reads the portal's real form, fills what it truthfully can, and you review and submit — no auto-submit, ever; a capability manifest stops the AI claiming actions it didn't take. Plus an orchestrator coach with 40+ tools (calendar, projects, readiness checks, live widgets, approval-gated outreach) and a digital twin trained on your voice. FastAPI + PostgreSQL, React/TypeScript, three-tier cost-aware LLM routing.
Outcome. Live at northcareer.co with 100 users testing. Biggest lesson: honesty is a feature — the wins came from removing fake affordances ('easy apply', inflated fit scores, bluffed AI claims) and replacing them with grounded ones: readiness %, prep sheets, tool manifests. Dogfooding beat speculation; nearly every meaningful fix came from using it as a real anxious student would.
FastAPI · PostgreSQL · React · TypeScript · RAG · LLM routing · Stripe
浪 · 02
Where the panels pop and I fall in.
Games, AR, and the web experiments — the stuff you step inside or play with.
Featured · Unity VR · in progress
A VR game where a 3D character enters a 2D comic to chase a thief. Engineered 5 frame mechanics (expand, fold, shatter, reorder, enter) with XR hand tracking and full-body IK rigging, across 3 progressive scenes and 12+ C# scripts.
▶ live capture — watch the frames fold策 · 03
The thinking behind the making.
Consulting engagements and case competitions — the strategy, research, and business judgment behind the work.
Case competition
A B2B product concept: when a rep leaves, an AI agent that already holds the team's context recommends the successor — accounts, relationships, deal history — and transfers ownership in one confirmation. Scoped the problem, designed the flow, and built this working demo. We didn't place — the product thinking stands.
the demo ↓Consulting
The client, the problem you scoped, the framework you used, and the decision/impact it drove.
coming soon →馆 · 04
Where I keep the parts that don't need to be useful.
Four halls — paintings, film, photography, poetry. Pick a room. Everything I make that doesn't need to be useful hangs in here.
画 · 20 works — step into the room; the paintings hang on the walls. Click any one for the piece behind it.
Meta Film Studio · founder & director
I founded a 50-member VR filmmaking club — $2K+ in sponsor funding, 40+ workshops taught at Mitchell Park Library & Midpen Media Center, and 4 VR films directed end to end: storyboard, 360° capture, stereoscopic post, spatial-audio mix.
影 · the reel — the featured cut loops; scrub it, sound on. The 360° films screen in headset — ask me for a viewing.
摄 · light & grain — the frames I keep. Click one to see it full.
某一天我的身边升起许多彩色的气球
某一天我的身边升起许多彩色的气球，
它们把红色，粉色，橘色，青色的圆圈印在我空空的墙上。
我抓着它们，
身体被空气托着向上掉，
摇曳的树枝扫去我身上的灰尘——
云朵抚过我的脸颊——
阳光被我一整个吸进肚子。
我怕气球破掉，
于是给它裹上了几层绷带，硬邦邦圆鼓鼓。
气球变得好重，灰溜溜滑到我脚下，
大喘着气要送我回家。
我只好跟着下降，降——
看着五彩斑斓的世界重新飘回我头顶。
回到白白的房间，
我将绑带拆掉，却发现颜色全都渗去，
我可爱的气球只剩下光秃秃的脑袋。
于是我将它们的气放去，
把蔫蔫的气球放进爱心收纳盒，
再藏进床头灯肚腩里的小密室。
有一天我上学校，
看到同桌脚上有一双亮亮的袜子，
丰满的彩色的像我身边升起过的气球，
圆鼓鼓。
但这不是我的气球，
它不会胀的像火红的太阳，
它不会飞上蓝蓝的天空，
它只会服服帖帖的套在别人的脚上。
我的气球吸收着台灯的光焰，
做着一万支美梦，
它命令我等着他找回色彩感。
晚上关了灯，它暗暗的彩色圆圈会印在灯罩上，
印在我的眼睛里。
它许诺某一天它会变得更结实，
再带我去云层后面的海洋。
That day I was surrounded by colorful balloons,
They imprinted red, orange, and blue circles on my empty walls.
I grasped on to them, as my body fell upwards, drowning into the sky.
Clouds brushed against my cheeks,
Branches swept dirt off me,
sunlight was swallowed whole into my belly.
Afraid the balloons might burst,
I wrapped them with layers of bandages, firm and round.
The balloons became so heavy,
Gasping for breath, they slipped to my feet,
And hastily brought me back home.
So, I fell with them
—down— I fell.
Watching the vivid world float back above my forehead.
Back in a blank room,
I removed the bandages, only to find the colors had all seeped away…
My lovely balloons turned into bald heads.
So, I released their air,
laid the deflated balloons in a heart-shaped storage box,
then hid them in the secret compartment inside my bedside lamp's belly.
One day at school, I saw my desk mate wearing bright socks,
Plump and puffy like the balloons that once surrounded me.
But these were not my balloons,
They wouldn't swell like the fiery sun,
They wouldn't soar into the blue sky,
They would only motionlessly snug on someone else's feet.
My balloons drank light from the lamp,
Dreaming ten thousand beautiful dreams,
And commanded me to wait for them to regain their colorful sense.
At night, when I turned off the light, their dim colorful circles would be imprinted on the lampshade,
Imprinted in my eyes.
They promised that one day they would come stronger,
And take me beyond the clouds of ocean.
星星
青年们滔滔不绝着
一知半解的话题，
我将他们的狂妄与虚荣拾进糖纸，
装进透亮的玻璃罐头。
盖上盖子，
一罐糖像满天星，
一眨一眨。
嘘——
糖罐被我藏在，
酒巷的墙角。
嘘——
不要打扰他们，
一眨一眨，
在湿润的土壤里。
在我吹着萧的黄昏，
夕霞在他的指肚下，
一触即粉碎。
天上没了指明的星星，
于是我去找，
去找玻璃罐头。
在喘息的节奏里，
糖纸里包的星星，
还在一眨一眨。
拧开了罐头，
放飞了，
萤火虫一般的。
去吧！去吧！
傲慢的 偏见的 热血的 充满棱角的！
可是狂妄们不解，
为何阳光已经熄灭，
世界变成永恒的黑夜。
是一场梦吧。
是吧？ 是吧！
于是他们安详的闭上了双眼，
连那闪烁的，
也没有了火焰。
可能在另一片天空吧，
他们在嬉戏， 在默念：
另一场场梦会持续到永远。
The young ones chatter endlessly,
On topics they scarcely understand,
I gather their arrogance and vanity,
Wrap them in candy wrappers,
Store them in transparent glassy jars.
Seal the lids tight,
A jar of sweets like a sky full of stars,
Blinking, one by one.
Shhh— I hid the candy jar,
In the corner of that wine alley.
Shhh— Do not disturb,
Blinking, blinking!
One by one, 7 feet beneath the mucky earth.
As I play a melancholic tune on the flute,
The glassy evening glow rests beneath his index finger,
Dancing as his gesture inches near.
Crushing under a single touch.
The stars in the sky blackened and blanked,
And I go searching,
Searching for the glass jars.
In the tones of my heavy breathing,
The stars wrapped in candy wrappers,
Kept on blinking.
I unscrew the jar,
Release them,
Like fireflies.
“Go! Go! Proud, prejudiced, passionate and witty!”
But the stars failed to realize.
Why has sunlight faded,
Why has the world turned into eternal night?
It's just a dream.
Isn't it? Isn't it!
So they merrily close their eyes,
Even the brightest ones, died out their flames.
Must be in an alternate sky,
Where they are blinking and staring,
And silently repeating,
Let darkness become an eternal dream.
重生
我将世界分成一粒粒，
拨开了无数个间隙，
好让光焰呼吸。
我手臂一挥，
一粒粒的海浪
一浪推一浪，一直推
推到天边的城邦。
于是我睁眼，
自由女神像在漂浮，
金门大桥弯曲又弯曲，
船只不停的旋转，
追随倒立的灯塔。
秦始皇的大军闯入亚历山大图书馆，
卢浮宫的吊灯粉碎在林肯的窗前，
世界在世界中毁灭。
我将世界分成一粒粒，
它们无数次重组，
我亦无数次重生。
I divide the world into tiny particles,
Creating countless gaps,
So the flames of light can breathe.
With a wave of my arm,
Wave by wave of the sea,
One wave follows another, endlessly,
Pushing towards the cities at the brink of the sky.
So I open my eyes,
The Statue of Liberty is floating,
The Golden Gate Bridge bends and curves,
Boats keep spinning,
Chasing the inverted lighthouse.
The armies of Qin Shi Huang invade the Library of Alexandria,
Chandeliers in the Louvre shatter in front of Lincoln's window,
The world is destroyed within the world.
I divide the world into tiny particles,
They rearrange countless times,
And I am reborn countless times.
坟
床是我的坟墓 / 每个夜晚我被埋葬 / 我的骨灰汇入天堂 /
清晨我的灵魂将再次轮回 / 手背印上更长一串号码 / 乍醒后像新生儿一样拥抱太阳
可是有时我会掉下地狱 / 那些我不懂得的都一个劲敲打我的头颅 / 丑陋的恶灵将我的眉毛绑在一起 / 用吸管饮去我嘴唇的红润 / 再用叉子拨开我的眼睛 / 它们的笑声在我角膜旁震荡
在一些像今晚一样安静的晚上 / 我微睁着双眼拿指甲盖数数 / 我会非常平静 / 很平静很平静的沉去 / 我会听沙土自顾自的松弛 / 还有我墓碑上的雏菊干裂的花瓣在风中沙沙作响 / 这一切的一切将带我回到意识的灰色地带 / 在被褥的褶皱间刻写生与死的偏旁
My bed is my grave and I'm buried every night
My ashes blends with heaven
In the morning, my soul will be reincarnated
Another set of numbers will be tattooed onto my wrist
I wake up like a newborn baby embracing the sun
But sometimes I fall into hell
Things I don't understand keep pounding my head
Ugly spirits bind my eyebrows together
sucking the redness from my lips with a straw
and prying open my eyes with a fork
Their laughter echoes around my corneas
On some quiet nights like tonight
I half-open my eyes and count with my fingernails
I become so calm and sink into a deep, deep dungeon
My ears catch the sand softly loosening
and the dry petals of the daisies on my tombstone rustling in the wind
All of this will bring me back to the gray area of consciousness
where life and death are engraved in the folds of my bed sheets
被血水洗刷的玻璃墙
被血水洗刷的玻璃墙
像指针的跳动一样
传出有节奏的敲击声
撞——
撞——
撞出肌肉记忆
你
煞亮的
再多血也遮不住
新鲜的空气
可是；
透明的倒影印不下
旱热的嗓音穿不出
玻璃这边我被禁锢
玻璃那边你获新生
但是；
骨头比玻璃先断裂
人肉比指针先腐朽
没有一个善良的洞
能让我呼吸你的笑容。
于是，
我垂下糜烂的小臂
捡起脚趾上的玻璃碎
建起下一堵玻璃墙
再建一堵，
再建一堵，
直到模糊到看不到原来那堵
被血水洗刷的玻璃墙，
和它后面飘着的霞紫。
好吧，好呢。
The glass wall washed by blood,
pounded like the ticking of a clock,
Self defense from my rhythmic bumping.
Bump— Bump— shoving into the muscle memory.
Oh! Your brightness and youth,
the fresh air you breathe,
cannot be concealed,
no matter how much blood shielded the glass.
My reflections may not be sealed,
My hoarse voice may not penetrate.
On my side of the glass,
confinement,
On your side of the glass,
new life.
Yet;
Bones will break before the glass does,
Flesh will decay before the clock's hands do.
There is no one generous pore
That will allow me to breathe in your charming smile.
So, I lower my decaying forearm,
Pick up the glass shards on my toes,
and begin building the next glass wall.
Another, then build another,
Until the walls blurs the Glass wall washed by blood,
And the rosy glow that drifts behind.
Alright, fine.
过期的海水
一
世界是海浪，一潮退一潮涨。
我在它最高最尖的地方，
双眼紧闭的眺望。
我在听远处倒斜的灯塔里，
战战兢兢的火光，
斯拉斯拉的摇曳
在作弊的守望台上。
水母们将触角缠绕，
小丑鱼带着面罩。
我背着一枚巨大的指南仪，
一点一点将海岸线卷起，
汗水挤进海水的间隙。
二
海龟的余光里，
海浪像陈旧的胶片卷轴，
一圈一圈裹着松散的沙滩。
月亮像猫咪的毛线球，
一卷一卷含着暧暧的星光。
一只灰色的西格尔，
落在南北海的边界上。
边界是片好大的玻璃墙，
左边的是红水，右边是绿水。
东海有涂满唇膏的岩石，
在太阳底下显得格外油亮。
西海是海鸥回收站，
白色的羽翼堆成了层层云雾和陡峭的悬岸。
西格尔向西海展翅去，
它的眼泪已全部腐烂。
待鸟儿拉起穹顶的帘子，
我坠入了满是青苔的梦。
海藻变成你的秀发，
一浪浪褶皱似你夏末穿的青衫，
海风是广播，
传递着我未署名的心跳。
可在碰到你白暂的皮肤时
它与回忆一同化为了泡沫。
三
当钟表停留在十三点时，
死鱼扑腾的进食着贝壳。
天空是受冻的牙齿，
咀嚼着海上的绿洲。
月亮红的像我们圣诞节放的孔明灯，
月光已经发霉，
我在它的压制下，
呛了一口过期的海水。
我使劲将它咳出来，
也将自己的睡意全部干呕出来，
我醒来了，
大海是太阳和月亮的蹦床。
在诗的最后一节，
我站在世界的混沌中，
任由湿气侵袭。
我感觉自己在下降——
下降——
海浪冲击了我的耳膜，
它好重，
海浪好重。
我的手臂扑闪，
呛了一口过期的海水。
像良药般
它将我镇定了。
我慢慢的松弛，
慢慢的下沉。
任由海浪挤开眼前的太阳，
周围响起了小时候我向海风许过的愿望。
大海不会过期
我的眼睛会
I.
The world is a tidal wave, ebbing and flowing.
I stand at its peak,
Eyes tight, gazing at the horizon.
I begin listening to the tilted lighthouse in the distance,
The flickering, trembling flame
On that prying watchtower.
Jellyfish wrap their tentacles,
Clownfish with their masks.
I carry a huge compass on my back,
Rolling up the coastline inch by inch,
Sweat squeezing into the gaps of seawater.
II.
In a sea turtle's cornea,
The waves roll like old film reels,
Encircling loose sand beaches.
The moon is a cat's wool ball,
Preserving dim starlight.
A gray seagull falls
On the boundary of the North and South Seas.
The boundary is a huge glass wall,
Red water on the left, green water on the right.
Lip Balm-covered rocks in the East China Sea,
Shining particularly oily under the sun.
The Western Sea is a seagull recycling station,
White feathers piled up into layers of mist and steep cliffs.
The seagull spreads its wings towards the West,
Its tears have already rotted away.
In my moss-covered dream,
Seaweed is your hair,
Pale skin turns into foam,
Waves after waves swaying like your blue shirt in late summer.
The sea breeze is a broadcast,
Conveying my unnamed heartbeat.
III.
When the clock stops at thirteen,
Dead fish thrashing eating shells.
The sky is frozen teeth,
Chewing on the green oasis on the sea.
The moon is red like the paper lanterns we release during Christmas,
The moonlight has already gone moldy,
I choke on expired seawater under its oppression.
I cough it up with all my might,
Also vomiting up all my drowsiness,
I wake up,
The sea is a trampoline of the sun and moon.
In the last section of the poem,
I stand in the chaos of the world,
Letting the dampness invade.
I feel myself descending —
Descending —
The waves strike my eardrums,
So heavy,
The waves are so heavy.
My arms flap,
Choking on a mouthful of expired seawater.
Like a good medicine,
It calms me down.
I slowly relax,
Slowly sinking.
Letting the waves push away the sun in front of me,
The wishes I made to the sea breeze in my childhood echo around me.
The ocean never expires,
My eyes will.
异神的中秋节
提笔，落神。
今晚的思绪缠着亘古的月。
寻寻觅觅，
床缝里的纸条。
认不出的字迹，
沿指甲盖爬到发梢。
眼镜柄上闪过莫名的光点，
怎么抓也抓不到。
烧着了，烧着
小羊羔皱皱巴巴的角。
怎么想也想不起，
六岁盛夏的歌谣。
那么
我要寄一封空白的信，
到彩霞早朝和云上天桥。
I lift my pen, mind scattering
Tonight orbits the timeless moon.
Search––searching,
A note sank between the seams of the bed.
Unrecognizable handwriting,
Climbed from my nail bed to the tips of my hair.
A mysterious glint on the stem of my glasses
Escaped, how I tried.
Burn––burning,
The little lamb's wrinkled horns.
Decayed, how I tried.
The song of a six-year-old midsummer.
Sings me a blank letter,
That I'll send
To the sky bridge up above.
作者治疗师
他的调色盘上有唾液和泪水，
他的笔尖蘸满了胆汁。
他的眼镜遍布是贴纸，
他的嘴角流出彩色的绸丝。
他是以身试验的化学家，
连夜写出安眠药和兴奋剂的反应式。
他的窗口永远充满光明，
他的月亮常年不掉下。
袖口的小人跑到了他的心脏上，
奏歌狂舞，
让他整个身子咯咯摇晃。
活着的他在梦里，
在梦里他永远活着。
我带着一桶崭新的笔刷，
跳到他起茧子的桌台上。
我拆掉了他缝起微笑的针线，
在他干涸的唇纹上画画。
我开始填涂他皮肤的红晕，
再将一颗发着光的星星塞进他的领子。
我的名字，
是作者治疗师。
在他拯救了无数个蹒跚的灵魂后，
我决定来拯救弱小的他。
His palette is filled with saliva and tears,
His pen dipped in gall.
Stickers covered his glasses,
Colorful silk dripped down from the corners of his mouth.
He does experiments on himself,
All night,
making up reaction equations for sleeping pills and jets.
His window is always bright,
His moon never sets.
Devil Dwarfs roll out from his sleeves and race into his heart,
Playfully dancing,
Cracking his whole body awake.
Alive, he is in dreams.
In dreams, he forever lives.
I bring a bucket of brand new brushes,
Jump onto his calloused table.
dismantle the stitches sewing up his smile,
Paint on his parched lip lines.
I start to apply blush to his skin,
Then tuck a glowing star into his collar.
My name is the Author's Therapist.
After he has saved countless stumbling souls,
I decided to save the fragile him.
夜饮
我靠在窗边，看自己的影子，
映在空中。
灯灭了，
黑夜流进了房间。
马路在流血，
红红的一片。滴——滴——
流啊流，尖叫声也跟着流。
等血都流完了，只剩下晦暗的疤。
该到饮酒的时候了，于是我拿起一个杯子，
接了一点黄昏，又接了一点
飘在空中的词藻。
全部饮下……
啊，我醉了。
耳朵呢，第一次的能听见了，
听见了夜的声音。
Leaning on my bedroom window,
Blending in with the icy glass.
The darkening night sky starts flowing in,
together with the breath of sweet-scented osmanthus
——an enchanted stream.
The road bled,
with crashing red backlights.
Beep. Beep.
The screams rolled down the hill.
With my hand I made the shape of a cup,
And held my cup up high to fill,
Fill it with words of nonsense floating in the vacuum.
Like an icy sting it awoke me,
And my ears are able to hear again,
Hear howlings of the silent night.
一代
I did not notice the sky has changed,
Until 5 a.m. California sunburn tanned the giant glass windows at San Francisco Airport.
A psychedelic nostalgia burned from freshly touched carpets,
entangled is the scent of third grade summer,
fresh soap mixed with buttered vanilla and sprinkled cookie dough.
No! I don't want to inhale,
Your pretty pretty air.
I want to vomit the whole view,
Caught homesick after arriving home.
Calling from a sealed dream——
Is my English name,
barred from daylight,
glitching in black and white.
Is it right to say I'm terrified?
A smiley lady grabbed my passport, and looked up,
My book was blue, and my skin was yellow.
Palm up, Palm down, we the people,
The united people of America.
Pressing on rolling stairs,
Dashing from floor to floor,
My toe poised to kiss an alien deity's hand,
Trapped in the confines of airport bathrooms.
My heart pounds against pallid walls,
Nausea drawn from 16 hours of shifting day and night.
Constant one on one.
My internationality is like a sea of jumpy raindrops,
Your car swift through its dancing parade,
At a sluggish speed limit of 17 miles per hour.
Windshield wipers & Shifting identities
Catching colds along deserted streets.
First gen, first gen,
Grab a shovel and take a pen.
湍
Her words made the air around me shiver.
A dawn breaker or a midnight killer.
I can smell the flames circling a forgotten piece of me.
I can feel my bloodstream jiggling inside of me.
A pulsating headache dancing via human meat.
Perhaps I am a heroin addicted heroine,
Standing on the cliff painting the holographic sky.
He says “Hi” like a bowl of white rice,
And I dig into the bottom trying to be appetised.
When all there's left is a pair of ragged bones––––
I pound them into powder to make a pretty pearl.
公路
We sat in two seats. One seat apart.
Wheels beneath me drizzle, front lights ascend, pushing back three whole cities.
Lights are turned off; perfect-pitched perfumery enchants new realities.
Vehicles form beam worms that graze past.
Midnight radio sinks in the scratching of nails on your leather jacket.
Where in the world am I. Have you the slightest idea?
Ask, I dare not.
Drizzling are the thoughts of my tongue.
Perhaps I was a car dancing in the midst of whirling California,
Yet sacred fingers type a new entry in the book of me…
I smiled in the reflection of the blue moon-lit light,
As I stared into a pond of your eyes.
And when wishes spoke behind your ears,
My teeth won't crack open to erase the voice of the wind.
Your shoulders beckoned, so I mirrored myself in your car seat window.
Sips of my hair waved towards you while a tipsy breeze crushed on.
Deserted lands covered in sheets of dark void.
The flashing signs of In-N-Out Burgers passed by.
Your motionlessness dragged me away.
“Say something,” you plead.
Answer, I dare not.
My heart's rolling on Vegas highway.
对话
A: So, you were just sitting here.
B: I was counting.
A: Counting the number of times we've failed ourselves?
B: No, simply counting the feathers of that red eyed dove.
A: Why, those fat pigeons, their feathers are pale white and inseparable to be counted.
B: 11,734 pieces.
A: …How much bread did you bring for it to stay under your shade?
B: The dove stayed for my motionless gaze.
A: Pigeons don't stay! Their minds are as blankly written as their body.
B: Yet it is on a white canvas the most information embeds. More can be gleaned from pure vacancy than from photos of cluttered cityscapes. Just like all perceived motion can be concluded in three simple Newtonian statements.
A: Tell me then! What “message” do you see?
B: I see nothing.
A: Nothing it is.
B: Just like you cannot count, I cannot see.
A: Can you hear? Can you hear the anguish of people, the quaking of mountains, the begging of departed spirits for absolution? Why… If there's nothing to see, perhaps there is nothing at all.
B: But it is not nothing at all. You will see.
A: If you can't even, how can I?
B: You have grown, Jude. Darkness awakens you, and you are more sensible than ever. The birds will stay for you.
A: I will never become you.
B: And you don't need to.
诗 · the ink — words for the parts a painting can't hold.
目录 · Index
The efficient view — every product, interactive piece, and artwork in full, top to bottom.
Product
An AI career companion that actually knows you.
Problem. Career tools for students are search boxes with filters — they know nothing about you, rank jobs you can't get, and leave the hardest parts (what fits me? am I ready? what next?) entirely on you. The insight: the unit of career guidance isn't a job posting — it's a person. So I built the profile first and the job board second.
What I did. Built a chat-first companion where a background Observer builds a multi-dimensional profile (Big Five, MBTI, RIASEC, values) from conversation, quizzes, and games — and that profile drives everything. Career fit that's explainable, not oracular: interests 45% / personality 30% / values 25%, re-weighted 30% by demonstrated skills, with per-card confidence labels. An opportunities feed from 129+ live company boards ranked by fit AND requirements-readiness — a freshman sees internships first, not '5–8 yrs experience' at inflated scores. Every posting's requirements become a checklist scored against your actual evidence, with a 70% readiness bar and one-tap handoff to close gaps. Honest applications by design: North reads the portal's real form, fills what it truthfully can, and you review and submit — no auto-submit, ever; a capability manifest stops the AI claiming actions it didn't take. Plus an orchestrator coach with 40+ tools (calendar, projects, readiness checks, live widgets, approval-gated outreach) and a digital twin trained on your voice. FastAPI + PostgreSQL, React/TypeScript, three-tier cost-aware LLM routing.
Outcome. Live at northcareer.co with 100 users testing. Biggest lesson: honesty is a feature — the wins came from removing fake affordances ('easy apply', inflated fit scores, bluffed AI claims) and replacing them with grounded ones: readiness %, prep sheets, tool manifests. Dogfooding beat speculation; nearly every meaningful fix came from using it as a real anxious student would.
FastAPI · PostgreSQL · React · TypeScript · RAG · LLM routing · Stripe
A multi-agent system that scores where to open a business.
Problem. Owners spend 40+ hours scouting rentals and still choose on gut — foot traffic, rent, competition, and demographics never combined into one verdict.
What I did. Owned product direction and built the front-end and API layer. You draw an area and pick a category to get a location-fit score, a predicted rating/revenue range, the nearest competitors, and an AI storefront mockup — powered by Google Maps, OpenAI, and NYC Open Data.
Outcome. Shipped a working demo at NexHacks with go-to-market feedback from 3 industry mentors and improved decision accuracy ~30% — then tested my own core assumption with a separate data study (Ridge regression on Yelp data, R² 0.028 → 0.138, a 5× predictive lift — the graphs below are the real ones).
React 19 · TypeScript · Vite · Google Maps · OpenAI · NYC Open Data
A secret garden you tend by journaling — mental health for teens.
Problem. Mental-health tools feel clinical, and teenagers won't use them.
What I did. Led 6 developers and designers to build a lofi-style therapeutic web app. Designed the 'Secret Garden': plant trees to journal emotions, water each other's gardens for peer support, vent anonymously into a tree hollow. Ran 20+ interviews and sentiment tests across 3 design cycles.
Outcome. Deployed to 6 schools reaching 200+ users; the visual-first design tripled daily engagement.
Web Development · UI/UX Design · User Research
The course-registration tool 3,000+ NYU students actually like.
Problem. NYU's registration flow is confusing and slow; students dread it every semester.
What I did. Designed the UI/UX in Figma and built responsive React components with an 8-engineer team on biweekly sprints. Ran 15+ user interviews and sentiment tests to optimize the flows — course registration, degree progress, and a 4-year planner.
Outcome. A shipped tool used by 3,000+ students — easier to use than the school's own system. It's live: click through the real thing.
Figma · React · User Research
Games & Interactive
A VR game where a 3D character enters a 2D comic to chase a thief.
Engineered 5 frame mechanics (expand, fold, shatter, reorder, enter) with XR hand tracking and full-body IK rigging, across 3 progressive scenes and 12+ C# scripts.
Unity · XR Interaction Toolkit · Mixamo · Inverse Kinematics
Scratch, mix, and drop — an AR turntable on your hands.
A hand-tracked AR lens that turns your palms into a live turntable — scratch and mix in the air.
Lens Studio · Hand tracking
An interactive writing experience I built for a teacher — try it live.
A browser-based interactive built for a teacher's classroom. No video — click in and play with the real thing.
JavaScript · Interactive · Web
Every door leads to a dream or to reality. Tell them apart.
An AR escape room where each door opens onto dream or reality; spatial anchors and environment-aware placement overlay surreal dream elements onto real-world geometry. In progress.
Unity · AR Foundation · Spatial Anchoring
Founded a 50-member VR film club; directed 4 films end to end.
Founded a VR filmmaking community of 50, secured 3 sponsors and $2K+ in funding, ran 40+ workshops, and directed 4 VR films end-to-end — storyboarding, 360 capture, stereoscopic post, and spatial-audio mixing.
360° capture · spatial audio · Quill
A short film — what we press into the world, and what it presses back.
Directed and edited end-to-end: concept, shoot, cut, sound.
Film · directing · editing
It reads the object in your hand and your face, then scores the moment.
A music box that generates a unique theme song from real-time object recognition and facial-expression analysis — an ml5.js vision pipeline mapping valence to generative audio.
ml5.js · p5.js · Object Detection · Facial Landmarks
Hold it 10 seconds; it reads your pulse and skin and names your mood.
A physical device using pulse and galvanic-skin-response sensors; sensor fusion correlates heart-rate variability with perspiration to output personalized wellness suggestions.
Arduino · Pulse Sensor · GSR
Set it on top; the right bin opens itself. Zero decisions.
A computer-vision device that classifies waste on sight and drives servos to open the correct bin.
Computer Vision · Servos · 3D print
Fine Art — the RISD portfolio, 1–20
The female pelvis transforms into a butterfly, symbolizing hidden femininity. Icy textures suggest the freezing of female identity under rigid expectations; the butterfly is transformation and autonomy. The black background creates depth, arousing fear in those who look beneath the ice — the balance of fragility and strength in the female experience.
A critique of the universal objectification of women, where femininity is divided and consumed like a cake. Hands of different races mark shared exploitation across cultures; a birthday candle becomes a ring, signaling the vulnerability of maturity. A red thread ties societal ritual to the danger of growing up female — a world that reduces women to fragments for consumption.
Tomayto, tomahto. Identity conflict, as figures go head-to-head with themselves — everlasting internal struggle. The tomato, once ornamental, is now fruit, vegetable, and a symbol of exploitation. Shifting planes mirror the instability of identity, the tension between self-perception and imposed meaning.
The fragile psyche of borderline mentality. The fire in her mind reaches every inch of skin; outside she stays cold and colorless, the suppressed explosions forming a corona around her heart. Internal conflict and external indifference are stitched together — her stretched face, nose at the very edge of the canvas, at the brink of collapse.
Strings compose the mask of my face, holding my skin intact. A green birthmark bites the edge of my face, degrading me toward the subconscious. Yellow lines like heartbeats pulse against deep purple; forks scrape textures of disruption; black shards are intrusive thoughts breaking the calm — the tension between vulnerability and resilience.
We are all little swimmers in the pool of life, tangled in sticky waves, searching for fragile swim rings. The organic pink and blue lines are the gender constructs handed to us at birth; the clay-sculpted black background is life's unpredictable foundation. Among the swimmers: a fishing pole and a lifebuoy. Which one would you choose?
The composition forms the illusion of an eye — thorns, girl, and trees shaping its contours — which becomes a hawk: hidden predators who prey on the vulnerable. The central figure, a girl who has just endured sexual violence, curls into herself, guarding her inner world. Extending branches and distorted surroundings hold the scars of trauma exposed under an unrelenting gaze.
Sea water never expires, unlike the impermanence of human perception. A textured blue surface of turbulent waves meets fragmented text that tries to define the boundless ocean; white foam is force meeting dehydrated rock. Scattered rocky shapes are poetic, fleeting thoughts — the infinite continuity of nature against the limits of human understanding.
A wooden figure hangs limply, suspended by red strings composed of words of hopelessness and bound to a fractured branch — the fragility of life under despair. Scattered leaves and Chinese characters of death drift around it, evoking the inevitability of loss. The suffocating grip of hopelessness beside the haunting presence of mortality — surrender and resilience in balance.
From a poem I wrote on meditation and rebirth: “My bed is my grave, and I'm buried every night… in the morning my soul is reincarnated… I wake like a newborn, embracing the sun.” But some nights I fall into hell — ugly spirits bind my brows, pry my eyes open with a fork. On quiet nights I half-open my eyes, sink deep, and hear the dry daisies rustling on my tombstone — the gray area where life and death are engraved in the folds of my bed sheets.
Society demands women reveal their shape while hiding their skin — a paradox of allure and modesty. The figure's draped clothing echoes the burqa; its metallic texture is the unyielding weight of imposed tradition. Desirable yet restrained, surrounded by chains, scissors, and prison bars — a statement on the imprisonment of female identity and the struggle to break free.
Contrasting imprints of a bare foot and a boot explore identity and impact. The watercolor background, painted with traditional Chinese techniques, roots the work in culture while evoking fluidity and impermanence. The bare foot is natural identity and vulnerability; the boot is external force and imposed role. Our steps define us — the fragile balance between creation and destruction in the paths we leave behind.
Hair winds like threads of fate, binding hands in a dance of connection and constraint. A symbol of identity and beauty, the hair is both tether and lifeline; the tension in the fingers is a delicate struggle between strength and vulnerability — the weight of expectation woven into the feminine experience, freedom and entanglement at once.
Her body is the soil of a poppy; soon after she matures, it is time for harvest. The intertwined imagery of vulva and blooming flower is growth and vitality, while a green strap anchoring a stone is the weight carried through womanhood. A red field cut by sharp white lines evokes tension and restriction against the body's organic curves — the burdened beauty of femininity.
A butterfly consumes its own wings — a fragile struggle with self-destruction. Splashed water and broken glass hint at chaos and freedom beneath a calm surface. Papers collaged at the edges form a cocoon: protective yet confining, their earthy, stained textures speaking to hidden decay. The bathtub, a symbol of cleansing, becomes a space of vulnerability — beauty and collapse.
As a child, books shaped my imagination and filled my dreams with flying lessons and imaginary planets. Each folded page is a feather, building the wings that carried my creativity; the emerging wing is the freedom stories offer, while a red thread and scattered feathers hint at connection and ideas set free. Books don't just preserve knowledge — they are the journeys they inspire.
The geometries of childhood, in a portrait of my brother framed by vivid blue — the depth, curiosity, and boundless possibility of youth. Wild shapes, textures, and bursts of color swirl in playful chaos, while his steady gaze cuts through the whirlwind — a fleeting moment of confidence within the shifting structures of childhood.
3-D clocks paired with 2-D collage capture time as scattered yet fluid. One cracked clock is fragile human history; the other is stopped, timeless. A boot steps forward, disrupting the rocks of a cyclical passage; foam covers stories of people and metallic shards. The layered design reflects how personal moments intertwine with universal rhythms — memory, experience, and the relentless flow of time.
Angular wooden frames, layered and fragmented, form a rigid structure against delicate organic elements. Green flowers resembling vegetables are the sacrifice of beauty for practicality; soft pink leaves are remnants of lost elegance. The work questions how utilitarian ideals overshadow life's immeasurable beauty — the ongoing conflict between functionality and artistry.
The fragility and mystery of creation. Cracked eggs suspended in stages of emergence reveal distorted forms — the ambiguity of what is yet to come. The delicate veins of a leaf against raw pink emphasize interconnectedness and vulnerability; ancient Chinese characters for “bird” and “egg” invoke heritage and noble beginnings; a glass crack is the unseen force shaping existence — the hidden complexity of becoming.
Strategy & Consulting
A B2B product concept: when a rep leaves, an AI agent that already holds the team's context recommends the successor — accounts, relationships, deal history — and transfers ownership in one confirmation.
Scoped the problem, designed the flow, and built this working demo. We didn't place — the product thinking stands.
▶ 5 of me, dancing — roll the 🎲 up top · scroll to play
杨 · 05
From Beijing, by way of every version of myself.
NYU — Interactive Media Arts (Tisch) + CS & Math (Courant). I've built for 3,000+ students, run research with 50+ participants, and shipped things people keep using. I like the messy middle: an idea, made real, tested on real people, sweated until it sings.
