Andy Li
August 6, 2025
Your work focuses on the power of now. What does that mean to you?
The power of now is, essentially, always trying to be present. We are generally led by the unknown, and there's a certain fear that accompanies that. There's so much anxiety about what's to come. And when you think about the past, well, you can't change it. You're always in between two things you can't change. All you can do is focus on now. So the power of now is about embracing the moment, being who you are, and trusting that your decisions and influences are the right direction for you.
Speaking of time, you studied film and textile art in school. Film is considered a time-based art form, but there is also an oft-overlooked element of time in textile art.
I was originally in school for film because I loved music videos. In high school, I was really inspired by Michel Gondry and all of his music videos. I liked the idea of expressing playfulness in a short span of time. It tells a whole story. You're taking music that already tells its own story and adding another element. To make an analogy, when I was a child, the first thing I learned to cook was fried rice, which consists of taking things you've already done and mixing them together again. Music videos are kind of like that. You are able to tell a story that encompasses both the vision of the artist and your own.
In film, there's a lot of collaboration with other people. I ultimately got into fibers as well because I did a lot of work independently. I wanted something I could do while sitting quietly and watching Mad Men or something. I also really liked this idea of time following the thread I was pulling through the fabric. It allowed me to make a moment happen without having to stress about locations and people. These two different mediums show stories in time. One is a thread tying it through a piece of fabric, and the other one, [film], is cutting up that time—I did most of my film projects on 16 millimeter. I like that film is a physical material, and I love the fact that if one second is 24 frames, you have 24 photos per second of just that much light, and each cell and each frame is a different gelatin reaction. It is literally a moment. I see that in embroidery, as the thread is being pulled through fabric: even though it's the same thread, each stitch is unique. I love how both art forms can almost be an analogy of the other when thinking about time.
Another way that time seems to figure into both film and textile art is through the patience that both require of the artist.
It’s important to be aware of yourself and let the ideas come to you. You have to wait for the magic hour to take the right photo. You don't put pasta in the pot before it boils. The late David Lynch, rest in peace, wrote a book called Catching the Big Fish. He compares coming up with ideas to fishing. You just go out there, and when you get a catch, you can reel it in. It’s all about patience and finding your own rhythm. It's about learning how to play with time—collaborating with time.
Besides the ever-present reality of time in your work, you use a lot of humor that, I think, succeeds in speaking to people in a very profound and touching way.
I was very quiet as a kid. Growing up, I was always listening. A lot of my work now is a response to what I hear. I distill emotions in it. I take a feeling in a moment and, in the same way that a circle is all tangents, I imagine my original idea as a circle where each person's unique experience adds to the circle like a tangent. The more diverse approaches that everyone has to an idea, the more defined it becomes. I like to work inside out and evoke the emotion so that viewers can paint their own scene.
When you stop and read one of my pieces, you eventually realize, Oh, this is just broken text. Oh, this is what this says. Oh, but this makes me feel this. That's where the magic happens. Do you feel how I feel? That's where conversation can really begin. Everyone has awkward moments. Everyone has happy moments. But there are all these emotions just floating around that we can really see each other in when we stop to pay attention.
Can you talk about the celebratory element of your Triennial 2025 project? How is celebration well-suited to a public art installation? What does it contribute to the community?
I wanted to find a way to celebrate the individual and make the ordinary extraordinary. What makes a day better? How do you trust yourself? It comes down to asking, How can I celebrate myself? I wanted to put that into the sky. So then I had to ask myself, How do I make that? How do I tell that story?
Throughout the Triennial Accelerator program, I was really trying to hone in on the significance of the location itself. Since Lot Lab is located in the Navy Yard, I took inspiration from naval flag signalling and decided to turn that idea into an opportunity to acknowledge individual achievements.
Today Is the Day exists as a physical installation that you can go visit in Charlestown, but you can also visit the website and share your achievement that allowed you to say, Today Is the Day.
It feels good to say, Hey, today I made my own coffee or, Today I made a call with a financial advisor. Today I found a parking spot and I parked a little bit close to the car in front of me, so the car behind me has a little bit more room to get up. We’re celebrating the little things that make your life—and everyone else's—a little better.
Public art can be like a mirror and the text-based pieces in my work guide you to read things in your own voice. Once you internalize something, you're able to place yourself there.
What do you hope people get out of their experience when they encounter your Triennial 2025 project?
I want visitors to feel supported and appreciated. I want them to feel like they can support and appreciate others around them. I want to give people the opportunity to celebrate their accomplishments in a ceremony so that they can embrace themselves in the moment and honor each other.
Life can feel absurd when you start asking, Why? Why is this here? Why does this exist? Well, why wouldn't it exist? Why do you have to overthink it? Everything is just a moment. And you have to find ways to honor yourself.
This year, the entire city of Boston is being activated by public art, thanks to the Triennial. I hope that, as public art, my project inspires people to embrace the absurdity of life and celebrate the ordinary. When art becomes a part of your everyday life, you want it to exist in a moment that you can revisit—even if that's in your mind. Public art makes that happen in real, accessible spaces.