As a 2026-2027 One for the Future honoree, Youzhi Bi is a jewellery artist and curator whose practice sits at the intersection of material experimentation, process-led making, and emotional inquiry. She holds an MA in Jewellery Design and Gold & Silversmithing from the Royal Academy of Fine Arts Antwerp (magna cum laude), and a BA in Jewellery Design and Silversmithing from Sheffield Hallam University (First-Class Honours). Her work explores how jewellery evolves through drawing, transformation, and wear, considering not only how objects are made, but how they continue to change over time and through use. Alongside her practice, she is the founder of B-Design Hub, an independent exhibition space in Shenzhen dedicated to contemporary jewellery and object-based practices.
We sat down with Youzhi Bi to discuss her evolving relationship with making, authorship, and the quiet uncertainty that runs through her work.
How does the story of your jewellery unfold when you think about it in its simplest, most essential form?
I see jewellery not as a fixed object, but as something that evolves with time and wear.
For instance, a scratch on a [piece of] jewellery is not damage – it’s a record.

Building from that sense of evolution in your work, how do you think about pieces that feel unresolved or “not ready”?
Almost all of my work feels “not ready” when I revisit it. I can always see ways it could be more precise or resolved differently.
I tend to be quite perfectionistic and hesitant—but I’ve come to accept that nothing is ever truly finished. I used to shelve almost everything, brewing on a sense of completion. Now, I try to share the work even in its unfinished state—because “not ready” is often where the life is.
If we move from finished work to process and thinking, how would your practice translate into a completely different medium?
It would be a drawing—not a finished one, but a sketch. I’m drawn to structure, yet I try to resist overly defined forms. I’m more interested in what emerges organically—through interaction or small accidents in the process.
A sketch holds that quality; it carries the traces of thinking, hesitation, erasure, and uncertainty.

Staying with ideas and assumptions in your field, is there a convention in jewellery design that you find yourself questioning or responding to differently?
I have a somewhat contradictory relationship with this.
In jewellery design, there’s a common assumption that adding gemstones—especially diamonds—automatically creates value. I’ve never fully agreed with that. During an internship at a fine jewellery brand, I often heard “just add diamonds,” as if that alone could resolve a design. To me, that can feel like a way of masking uncertainty rather than developing the idea itself.
At the same time, when I chose my own wedding ring, I did the opposite. I chose a very classic diamond ring with almost no design to it.
The distinction, for me, is that a wedding ring already functions as a symbol. And symbols are remarkably stable—they don’t need to say much, and they don’t really change over time. I was concerned that if the ring had too much design, my perception of it might shift—I might grow visually tired of it, or begin to question it. A symbol, by contrast, feels more neutral, almost fixed.
So I’m not against gemstones. What I question is how they’re often used in design—as a shortcut to value, or to compensate for an unresolved idea. For me, value should come from how an idea is developed, not from materials that are already culturally agreed to be valuable.

When you are in moments of uncertainty in the making process, how does creative doubt show up in your work?
I often find myself questioning whether I’m intervening too much—whether the concept becomes over-articulated, or the making overly controlled.
In those moments, I try to step back. I shift my focus from directing the outcome to allowing the materials to interact and unfold more freely.
I’ve realized that when everything is fully intentional and authored, the work can start to feel closed. What I’m more interested in is leaving space—for something unexpected to emerge, for the material to speak in ways I couldn’t have planned.
Expanding outward, if you were to create a work for a fictional or historical figure, who would you choose?
I would create something for Ditto from Pokémon.
I’m interested in how Ditto doesn’t transform independently, but in response to what it encounters—its identity is always shaped by the external, by what it sees, touches, or tries to become. The piece wouldn’t transform perfectly. It might lag, or distort, or hold onto traces of what it was before—so different states exist at the same time. In that sense, the work wouldn’t represent Ditto, but operate like it—where identity is not fixed, but continuously negotiated through interaction.

Thinking about materials and process, what non-traditional source of inspiration or material engagement draws you?
I’ve been thinking a lot about what happens when I’m not fully in control of how a piece ends up.
It’s made me more interested in the idea of shared authorship—not in a theoretical way, but in a very practical sense, through use.
I’m drawn to materials or structures that can change over time—through wear, or interaction—so the final form isn’t fixed from the start. I’d like my work to stay a bit open, so the wearer and time itself can become part of the process.
When someone encounters your work, what kind of emotional or reflective experience do you hope it creates for them?
I love works that make me pause and think, “Ah, so that’s what it is.”
I hope my work can create a similar kind of quiet moment—something subtle, but clear enough to stay with you.

Looking back at your process, is there a question you wish people would ask more often about your work?
I wish people would ask: “Which part of this piece did you almost abandon?”
There’s almost always a moment where the work feels awkward or unresolved, and I want to give up on it.
But over time, I’ve noticed that those parts often end up being the most interesting—the slightly off-line, or the imperfect edge.
If someone asked me, I’d probably point to that place and say: “That part almost didn’t make it—but it stayed.”
Finally, across different projects and time, what recurring theme or subtle thread continues to appear in your practice?
I’m someone who easily doubts myself. I might finish a drawing and love it, and then question it the next. But I’ve noticed that simpler gestures—like a line that isn’t trying too hard—can still feel right years later.
So in jewellery, I’m always balancing between expression and restraint. I want my thoughts to be present, but not too strongly.
And yet, no matter how much I try to hide, something personal still comes through. It keeps appearing because I can’t fully conceal it—the most I can do is shape how it shows.
About One for the Future (OFTF)
One for the Future celebrates the next generation of jewelry and creative industry professionals. Each year, the program recognizes honorees for their innovation, craftsmanship, and/or unique perspectives. It also provides them with opportunities for mentorship, exposure, and connections with collectors and industry leaders worldwide.
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