Last autumn in Chiang Mai, my journey through nature, design, and culture took an unexpected and meaningful turn.

Although I am not someone defined by extraordinary business success, I still carry the memory of the kindness I received nearly twenty-five years ago, when James van Sweden once helped guide me. That memory stayed with me, and in many ways, led me to give back.

Unlike my visits to studios and craftsmen, or quiet moments spent observing the landscape, this time I stepped into a classroom—specifically, the 3rd-year Urban Design and Landscape Architecture Planning Studio led by Associate Professor Kasama Polakit, PhD, at the Faculty of Architecture. 

Although I had given special lectures at Seoul National University and the University of Seoul’s undergraduate programs many years ago, this experience felt remarkably refreshing. With greater maturity and a deeper reservoir of project experience, I approached the students with renewed purpose and clarity. It reminded me that teaching is not only about sharing knowledge, but also about revisiting one’s own journey through the eyes of the next generation. What began as a short visit quickly grew into something far more meaningful.

A Classroom Full of Light

The students were immersed in ambitious urban-design questions—how people live, move, and breathe within a city. Their energy reminded me of my own early years, when the world of design felt enormous, and everything seemed possible. I am deeply grateful to Professor Kasama, who invited me into her studio and trusted me with her students. 

She has an impressive academic journey—having previously taught courses at the University of Florida and other institutes in the United States before joining Chiang Mai University. Her global experience resonates strongly with me, and I truly appreciate the opportunity she gave me to share my thoughts with her class. Under her guidance, the studio is not just a place of assignments—it is a place of exploration, cultural reflection, and thoughtful questioning.

Teaching as Giving Back

This session reaffirmed my belief that design knowledge should circulate freely—not confined to offices or commercial boundaries. Contributing my time without fee, without contract, without expectation, felt like the most natural thing to do.

It reminded me why I entered this profession in the first place:

• to touch lives through design,
• to share what I have learned,
• and to leave something meaningful behind—however small.

Teaching the students in Chiang Mai became its own form of charity, a way to honor the kindness and inspiration I had received throughout my time in Thailand.

Crossing Cultures, Sharing Perspectives

As a Korean-American designer practicing in the United States but shaped by global experiences—from Singapore to Saipan, from Seoul to Atlanta—my design lens is naturally multicultural. Yet in that classroom, I was not the foreigner.

I was simply one voice among many: sharing, listening, learning. I listened to about design thinking, drawing methods, the importance of understanding local culture, and the long journey of becoming a sensitive landscape architect. The students responded with curiosity, honesty, and a kindness that followed me long after the session ended.

I left the classroom humbled, grateful, and inspired by the next generation of Thai designers who will one day shape their cities with clarity, imagination, and a profound respect for nature. Sometimes, the most meaningful work we do is the work we do for free—given quietly, received openly, and remembered deeply.

Two Case Studies for a Better Life —
Mr. Supawut “Tee” Boonmahathanakorn of Chiang Mai, Thailand
and Earth Us 어스어스 Café in Seoul, Korea

When we speak about landscape architecture, the profession is often simplified—defined only as a service, a decorative finish, or the last step in the engineering process. But for me, design has always meant far more than that. I still remember when I entered the University of Pennsylvania in 1991. One day, Ian McHarg stopped by my desk, looked closely at my small wooden housing model, and said, “The roofline is a little bit dull.”

Those words stayed with me. McHarg—who built a legacy on ecological thinking—reminded me that even in science-driven design, the visual, the poetic, the “design” of things still matter.

Chiang Mai: Meeting Tee and the Spirit of Rewilding

Last fall in Chiang Mai, I had the privilege of meeting Supawut “Tee” Boonmahathanakorn, a widely respected Thai landscape architect and architect. 

In the past, rural village landscapes had no strict boundaries between architecture, planting, and the river. Everything coexisted—built form and nature blending into one continuous environment with its own wild resilience and balance, including the insects and animals that were part of that ecosystem.

During our conversation and his explanation of his book, I found myself deeply moved. The graphics in his book were stunning, yes—but what struck me most was his pure, quiet attitude toward nature. Perhaps his architectural studies in India shaped him, but what I felt went beyond academic influence. Tee approaches nature almost as a teacher, a partner. His positioning was not “project-first” or “money-first,” but Nature-first. He also noted that Henry Thoreau shapes part of his philosophy.

Henry David Thoreau & Walden Pond

Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862) was an American writer, philosopher, and naturalist. He is best known for his book Walden, a reflection on simple living in harmony with nature. Walden Pond is a small, beautiful lake in Concord, Massachusetts, where Thoreau lived for about two years (1845–1847) in a small cabin he built himself.

His time there became an experiment in:

• Simple living
• Self-reliance
• Mindfulness and observation of nature
• Understanding life’s essentials without material excess

The book Walden documents his reflections on nature, society, solitude, and living deliberately—meaning living with intention and clarity.

A more striking statement from Tee's humble attitude was that we, landscape architects and architects, are a really privileged profession that guides the future of nature.

His work reflects this spirit beautifully:

Trust.org feature: https://news.trust.org/item/20210107063140-gkut6/

Interview in Living ASEAN: https://livingasean.com/tag/supawut-boonmahathanakorn/

Book: Rewilding Garden (Thailand). Listening to him, I felt refreshed—as if encountering a new angle of thought that was both gentle and powerful. His designs speak quietly, but they stay with you.

Seoul: Earth Us Café and a Lifestyle of Zero Waste

The second story comes from a very different place—Seoul, Korea—but with the same heartbeat.

There is a book written by the owner of Earth Us Café 어스어스, a small coffee shop with a big philosophy: a life without waste. Earth Us refuses all single-use items.

Customers bring their own containers for take-out.

Handkerchiefs replace tissues—washed by hand each day.

They hire extra staff to honor this principle.

They could earn more money, but instead they choose to respect the Earth. The owner is young, energetic, and full of conviction. And, like Tee, she shows that design is not only about what we create but also about how we live.

Two Stories, One Attitude

Tee in Chiang Mai.

Earth Us in Seoul. Different nations, different cultures, different fields—yet both share the same core attitude:

Loving the earth. Their work proves this.

Tee’s gardens, shaped by humility.

Earth Us Café, thriving through sincerity. These are not just projects; they are examples of how design, lifestyle, and culture can merge into a single continuous act of care.

A Reflection from Walter Ryu Studio

At Walter Ryu Studio, we try to extend design beyond drawings—into community, culture, and daily life. After many years living abroad and learning from different societies, I have come to believe that our profession must influence how people live, not just how spaces look. Do we have one clear answer?

No, not yet. But we do have examples.

Tee shows us one path.

Earth Us shows another.

If You Travel…

If you ever find yourself in Chiang Mai, I strongly recommend visiting Tee or reaching out to his studio.

And when you are in Seoul, stop by Earth Us Café. Their kindness, sincerity, and attitude toward the world will make you understand everything I have written here.

They are both working hard, in their own ways, to build a better life for themselves, their communities, and the earth.

Thinking About Natural Materials in Architecture.

Last fall, I traveled to Chiang Mai, Thailand—a city rich with culture, layers of history, and a unique way of building with nature. While visiting, I began reflecting deeply on the use of natural materials in architectural elements. But this blog is not simply about bamboo, earth, lime, or timber. It is about action—the action of a person who chooses to build differently, and the courage it takes to pursue a path that the industry often overlooks.

That person is Markus Roselieb, founder of Chiangmai Life Architects and Chiangmai Life Construction, widely known for their bamboo and earth architecture. In October 2025, I had the privilege of visiting his office in Chiang Mai and spending time asking questions, observing the work, and learning from his perspective. 

What impressed me was not just his awards or achievements—though he certainly has many. What inspired me most was the process, the willingness to act, and his determination to build an entirely different architectural language in a foreign land. 

As someone who has practiced landscape architecture in many countries, I understand deeply how challenging it is to adapt to a new culture, climate, and construction environment. Success in such situations is never accidental. It is built on long-term effort, understanding, partnership, and risk. 

Markus originally came from Austria, studied medicine, and later turned toward architecture in Thailand. For many people, “using bamboo” might sound like a simple or obvious local choice. But those who have worked internationally know there is nothing simple about it.

• How much material do you use?
• For what purpose?
• Where do you source it?
• How do you standardize it?
• What about structural stability, code requirements, or market acceptance?

These are not small questions. They require vision, persistence, money, and experimentation. And more importantly, they need action.   

I personally remember attempting to use bamboo lighting for the Kensington Hotel & Resort in Saipan. In the end, we had to abandon the idea due to time constraints, irregularities in bamboo sizing, and uncertainty about the final aesthetic. 

Bamboo is lighter than steel yet remarkably strong, and Markus applies this material with great mastery—refined through decades of testing, experimentation, and hands-on practice.

Markus, however, pushed beyond those limitations. He did what many of us wanted to try but could not fully commit to. From a practitioner’s perspective, I find that remarkable. 

His study-model approach is very similar to the process I use in my own studio and design work, which was both pleasing and inspiring to see. Another interesting aspect is his educational background, which is different from the traditional architectural path. Perhaps this difference propelled his journey, giving him a unique perspective and way of thinking within the architectural world of Chiang Mai, a place deeply rooted in Lanna culture and renowned for its talented artisans in arts and crafts. 

It was also fascinating to visit Chiang Mai University’s architecture lab, where students and faculty research local materials and explore their potential for furniture and design applications.

Even though my conversation with Markus was relatively short, observing his office and the nearby construction staging area gave me many of the answers I had been seeking. 

Seeing his work firsthand reinforced a truth I carry with me: innovation does not come from ideas alone—it comes from the willingness to take action in the face of uncertainty. 

There is a line from Lev Tolstoy that stayed with me during this visit:

“Everyone thinks of changing the world, but no one thinks of changing himself.”

Markus’s journey shows the opposite. He changed his path, his environment, and his approach to building—and in doing so, he is helping to reshape what sustainable architecture can mean in Thailand and beyond. 

He shared that, above all, the purpose of his architecture is to make people smile.

Architect Office at the Water’s Edge — Chiangmai Life Architects

https://www.archdaily.com/1031779/architect-office-at-the-waters-edge-chiangmai-life-architects

When designing pollinator gardens, the standard approach is often formulaic: select a palette of bee-loving flowers or butterfly-friendly plants from the nursery, install them, and call the space complete. 

It’s a tidy process, but perhaps too tidy. In practice, bees, butterflies, and other pollinators don’t just seek out the plants we curate for them. They are drawn to broader conditions — open sun, patches of warmth, and even plants we might dismiss as weeds.

 Many of these valuable species never appear on nursery lists, yet they quietly sustain pollinator populations in ways our planned gardens sometimes overlook. 

This raises an important question: should a pollinator garden be viewed less as a finished design and more as a living environment that evolves in response to its context? 

By allowing for spontaneous growth, varied light conditions, and even naturalized plants, we might achieve spaces that are more authentic, resilient, and welcoming to pollinators. Perhaps the real beauty of a pollinator garden lies not only in the plants we choose, but in the flexibility to let nature choose as well.

The Designer’s Impromptu: From Waves to Lines

In music, an impromptu is a spontaneous composition—something unplanned, flowing directly from emotion and instinct. It’s raw, intuitive, and deeply personal. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FxhbAGwEYGQ

And yet, many of these pieces have become timeless works, beloved and replayed across generations.

 They capture something real: an unfiltered spark of the human spirit. This made me wonder—what is the equivalent of an impromptu in visual arts or in landscape architecture?

In painting, I see this most vividly in Katsushika Hokusai’s The Great Wave off Kanagawa. Though technically a woodblock print, the piece feels spontaneous. The wave crashes with emotional force, the asymmetrical balance, the smallness of the boats, and the distant Mount Fuji—it all feels like a captured instant, full of tension and motion. In a way, the piece feels like a painter’s impromptu: brief in execution but eternal in spirit. 

And it became one of the most beloved and iconic images in the world.

In landscape architecture, our work is often rooted in structure—budgets, regulations, grading, planting zones, and client requests. It’s rare to be given time just to design freely. Unless we initiate our own projects or enter competitions, the chance to create something purely expressive is slim. But when we do—when we sketch without instruction or constraint—we find the closest equivalent to an impromptu: the concept sketch.

A concept sketch isn’t always meant to be seen. It may look rough, unfinished, or emotional. 

But it captures a pulse—an idea that hasn’t been diluted by too much logic or software. It’s where many great projects begin. These are the moments where the pen or pencil moves faster than conscious thought, and in those moments, something honest comes through. 

As artificial intelligence begins to enter the field of landscape architecture and land art, it raises an interesting question:

Can AI create an impromptu? Maybe this is where AI, for all its capabilities, still has a weak spot. It can analyze precedent, automate drawing, optimize irrigation zones—but can it feel? Can it capture the shaky line of an uncertain morning sketch? Can it produce something "unfinished but complete," something that breathes on its own? The essence of the impromptu is not in perfection, but in presence—in being there, at that exact moment when the hand met the page or the note met the silence. It’s not just about the result, but the lived process behind it.

 Maybe that's what we need to preserve in our profession. As tools advance, perhaps the most human part of design—the spark of the impromptu—becomes even more valuable. And maybe, like Hokusai’s wave, those instinctive gestures will live far beyond the moment they were made.

Every place has a heartbeat, but not every heartbeat is designed by landscape architects or funded by large investments. Sometimes, it’s the social elements — the participation of people, the fluidity of usage, the open invitation for interaction — that create the most powerful and unique “successful public place” for a city’s rhythm. Today, let’s explore two very different cases:

• The Fourth Plinth at Trafalgar Square in London,
• A riverfront alley in Vientiane, Laos.

Both demonstrate how community engagement, rather than traditional design alone, builds an evolving identity for public spaces.

1. The Fourth Plinth, Trafalgar Square, London, England:

A Stage for Public Dialogue

The Fourth Plinth at Trafalgar Square is a fascinating case of intentional incompletion. Originally intended to host an equestrian statue, the plinth remained empty due to lack of funds — and it stayed that way for decades. But rather than filling it permanently, the British government and art institutions turned this "void" into a stage for ever-changing contemporary art commissions. Each new sculpture placed on the plinth reflects different social values, political commentary, humor, or even provocation — chosen through a public and governmental process. What makes the Fourth Plinth powerful is not just the objects themselves, but the act of change.

• Expectancy: Londoners and visitors know it will change — the void is part of the identity.
• Dialogue: Each piece sparks conversations among the public, connecting art with civic life.
• Flexibility: The space stays alive because it adapts with time, reflecting society’s evolving thoughts.

The plinth became not just a “location” but a living pulse of London’s culture. (image from Stephan Damon)

In this case, it was the very nature of changeability that became the driving force behind placemaking

2. Riverfront Alley, Vientiane, Laos:

The Power of Everyday Life

By contrast, the riverfront in Vientiane tells a humbler, but equally inspiring story.

Along the Mekong River, there is no extravagant design intervention. No grand architecture, no million-dollar plaza construction. Instead, a simple, long alley along the riverbank organically evolved into a vibrant community space.

• Local vendors set up small stalls selling food, clothes, and handmade goods.
• Families, tourists, and neighbors stroll the alley as the sunset colors the river.
• Without any master-planned features, the participation of people created a human-scaled, lively landmark.

The beauty lies in its imperfection:

• Spontaneity: Each visit offers slightly different sights and smells, depending on who sets up that day.
• Accessibility: No barriers between "designer" and "user" — everyone shapes the atmosphere together.
• Identity: Though visually modest, the alley carries the authentic rhythm of Vientiane’s daily life.

Here, the community's presence and repetition built a recognizable and beloved place. (image from Asia King Travel)

The alley is the very successful urban place because the people themselves are the design elements.

Both London’s Fourth Plinth and Vientiane’s river alley remind us:

Social elements — participation, change, everyday engagement — are powerful forces in shaping public space. Whether through formal cultural programs or spontaneous daily activities, what makes a place memorable and alive often comes from its ability to invite people to contribute, to change, and to belong. In an era where designers and governments often seek perfection through control, these two examples offer a different vision:

At times, the strongest design is the one that embraces incompletion — allowing people, time, and life itself to complete the story of the space.

Every landscape has a story.
When I wrote my very first blog post, that was the core belief I shared: every place we design carries a story shaped by history, nature, and human spirit. Over time, I realized the same truth applies to people. Every person’s path is a story—a series of twists, challenges, and dreams—that shapes not just who they are, but also the work they create. In fact, I believe the journey someone takes deeply influences their design thinking, their artistic background, or at least the spirit and will they bring into their creative life.Life rarely moves in a straight line, especially for those who dare to dream beyond borders. When I look back on history, literature, and even modern sports, I see a surprising pattern: greatness is often forged not in comfort, but through constant movement, hardship, and resilience.

Take Miguel de Cervantes, the Spanish author best known for Don Quixote, widely regarded as the first modern novel. Cervantes lived a life marked by incredible hardship—imprisoned multiple times, wounded in battle, even enslaved in Algiers. Financial struggles and political troubles dogged him across Spain and beyond. Yet despite these ordeals, or perhaps because of them, he created a timeless masterpiece. Don Quixote is a story that captures both the absurdity and nobility of chasing impossible dreams—a mirror, in some ways, of Cervantes' own life.

That story often comes from a deeply personal and creative place within the landscape designer. In truth, designing a small garden can be one of the most difficult and demanding tasks. 

The photo below shows the existing condition of the residence in Virginia.

Then, it was my vision that guided the design of the space for the client. I’ve always felt that designing a landscape is never easy. Like a painter or a musician, the process takes time, reflection, and continuous learning.

It's not something I can master once and for all. Maybe the learning never ends. 

To me, design is the process—not just the final product. It’s a journey of observation, imagination, and intention that unfolds over time.

The Circle Returns: Big Ideas in Circular Master Plans

In recent years, there has been a noticeable trend in the design world: the revival of the circular form in large-scale master plans. From iconic architectural proposals to urban-scale park designs, the circle—long a symbol of unity, continuity, and inclusion—is making a bold return in how we envision the built environment. This isn't just a stylistic move. The circle is being used to challenge conventional grids, create new types of communal spaces, and frame spatial experiences in unexpected ways. I’ve been keeping an eye on this design movement. Here are a few key moments that caught my attention:

2010  OMA’s West Kowloon Cultural District, Hong Kong

OMA’s conceptual master plan for Hong Kong’s West Kowloon District explored a circular gesture not only as a visual landmark but as a spatial device to organize art, performance, and market “villages” within a vibrant public park. Though it was never realized, the concept left a lasting impression on how large urban districts could be tied together through a unifying circular move.

2015  James Corner Field Operations – Central Green, Philadelphia Navy Yard

James Corner’s design for Central Green embraced a circular running track and central lawn, creating an active yet meditative space in the middle of a redeveloped industrial district. The circle served both as a functional framework and a social magnet, demonstrating how simplicity in geometry can powerfully shape behavior and interaction.

2017  Apple Park by Norman Foster

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Apple_Park

2019  Reflecting on Aoya company: A Circle of Creativity and Purpose

Six years ago, I had the chance to be part of something truly special—a project with Aoya that still lingers in my memory, not only for its design challenges but for the unique opportunity it gave me to shape a space where architecture and landscape harmonized beautifully. The heart of the project was a master plan for an office complex, defined by a distinctive circular building. The architecture naturally carved out another circle—an inner space that became the focal point of the landscape design. This void wasn't just empty space; it was full of potential. Inspired by the purity of the form and the rhythm of movement around it, I designed this inner circle as a flexible stage and multipurpose area. It became more than just a courtyard—it was a canvas for artistic expression, a venue for public gatherings, and a breathing space in the corporate environment. Events, exhibitions, or even quiet reflection could all take place here. It was an intersection of work and culture, structure and openness. Projects like this remind me why I chose this path. Landscape architecture is not just about planting or paving—it's about creating meaningful experiences through space. At Aoya, the architecture gave me a form, but it was the dialogue between that form and the landscape that brought the space to life.

2020  Walter Ryu Collaboration in Seoul with 100 Architects and CARVE 

In 2020, I had the opportunity to work on a circular master plan concept in Seoul alongside 100 Architects and CARVE, a project that explored playful, dynamic public spaces within a large circular zone. It was a valuable design exercise, blending urban scale with human-centered design, and aligning with this global language that circles seem to naturally speak.

2025 Osaka Expo  – Circular Vision for the Future

The master plan for the upcoming Osaka Expo 2025 takes the circular form to the next level—a futuristic island framed by a massive ring, echoing themes of sustainability, global connection, and technology. It’s a perfect example of how the circle is being used at the symbolic and infrastructural level.

As a landscape architect, I see this trend not as a fleeting obsession with geometry but as a deeper reflection of how we want our cities and communities to feel—inclusive, connected, and continuous. The circle invites people in. It doesn’t define a start or end—it embraces everything in between.

Simplicity. Clarity.

These two principles guide my design philosophy and the way I approach both landscapes and life. I believe that the most meaningful spaces—and ideas—are often the simplest and the clearest. 

Welcome to my blog! I’m Walter Ryu, a landscape architect with over 30 years of experience designing outdoor spaces across the globe, from modern private gardens to large-scale public parks.

This blog is a place where I share insights, ideas, and reflections from my journey in landscape architecture. 

You’ll find stories behind the projects, design tips for creating timeless and meaningful spaces, and thoughts on how culture, climate, and creativity shape the environments we live in. 

Whether you're an architect, a fellow designer, or someone who simply appreciates thoughtful landscapes, I hope these posts inspire new ways of seeing and experiencing the world around you. 

Thank you for visiting. Let's explore the art and craft of landscape design—through simplicity and clarity—together. This is a generic blog article you can use for adding blog content / subjects on your website.