In Conversation with Maya Lin: Where Art and Architecture Meet

Few artists have transformed the landscape of contemporary art and architecture as profoundly as Maya Lin. Rising to prominence at the age of 21 with her revolutionary design for the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington, D.C., Lin has spent the ensuing decades creating work that defies easy categorization, moving fluidly between architecture, sculpture, and environmental art. Her pieces invite contemplation about our relationship with the natural world, history, and memory. We sat down with Lin at her studio in New York to discuss her creative process, the evolution of her practice, and her ongoing environmental activism.

Bridging Disciplines: Between Art and Architecture

Elmpod Joy: Your work has consistently existed at the intersection of art, architecture, and environmental activism. How do you navigate these different domains, and do you see them as separate practices or parts of a unified vision?

Maya Lin: I've always thought of myself as existing in the space between boundaries. I was a little uncomfortable when I first graduated from architecture school because I would make buildings that were very sculpture-like and sculptures that were very architectural. For a while, I worried that I needed to choose one path or the other, but I gradually realized that this in-between space was actually where my voice existed.

I don't consciously think, "Now I'm making art" versus "Now I'm making architecture." The difference for me is more about function. Architecture must solve certain functional problems—it needs to keep the rain out, accommodate the movement of people, and so forth. Art doesn't have those requirements. But both are about creating experiences, and in both, I'm interested in how people perceive and move through space.

As for the environmental work, that's intrinsic to everything I do. My concerns about our relationship with the natural world inform the materials I choose, the forms I create, and the experiences I try to shape.

The Creative Process: Finding Form

Your work often begins with research into natural formations, topography, and scientific data. Could you talk about how your process unfolds from initial concept to finished piece?

Lin: Each project begins with extensive research. I need to understand the site, its history, its geology, and its ecological context before I can begin to envision what might exist there. For something like the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, that research was historical and cultural. For my more recent environmental works, it might involve studying water systems, endangered species habitats, or climate patterns.

I'm a visual thinker, but I don't begin with sketching. I read, I collect data, I absorb information—and then I start to see forms. Sometimes these forms come to me almost instantaneously; the Vietnam Memorial was like that. Other times, the process is more gradual.

I work very physically with materials. I build models—lots of them. I need to understand how something will exist in three dimensions, how light will interact with it, how people will move around it. There's an intuitive aspect to this that's hard to articulate, but it's about finding a form that resonates with the research I've done and the questions I'm exploring.

"I'm interested in the relationship between the intellectual and the experiential—how we understand something conceptually versus how we feel it physically."

Many of your works transform scientific data into physical forms that people can experience emotionally. What draws you to this translation between abstract information and tangible form?

Lin: I believe we understand differently when we engage with something physically rather than just intellectually. You can read about climate change or species extinction, but experiencing a physical representation of that data can affect you in a much more profound way.

My "Systematic Landscapes" series was very much about this—taking geographic information systems (GIS) data and creating large-scale installations that viewers could walk through. When you can feel the topology of an ocean floor with your body by walking around and through it, you develop a different kind of understanding.

I'm also interested in revealing patterns and systems that might otherwise remain invisible. The natural world is full of fascinating mathematical structures and ordered systems that we often miss. By translating these into tangible forms, I hope to make those hidden patterns visible and felt.

The Vietnam Veterans Memorial: Reflection and Impact

It's been over forty years since the creation of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial. How do you reflect on that project now, and how did that early experience shape your subsequent work?

Lin: The Vietnam Memorial taught me so many things. I was only 21 when I won that competition, and I had to defend a design that many people initially found troubling or confusing. That experience taught me to trust my instincts and to stand by my vision, even when facing criticism.

It also showed me the power of simplicity. The memorial is essentially two simple moves—a cut in the earth and a wall of names. But within that simplicity, there's room for profound personal experience. People bring their own histories and emotions to it, and it becomes a container for those individual experiences rather than dictating a specific response.

I've carried that lesson throughout my career—creating spaces that allow for personal reflection rather than imposing a single narrative. I'm interested in work that reveals itself slowly, that changes with time, light, and the movement of the viewer.

And of course, the memorial taught me about the relationship between art and public space, about creating work that exists in dialogue with its environment and the people who experience it. Those concerns remain central to everything I make.

Many visitors to the memorial describe having a profound emotional experience there. Were you conscious of designing for emotional impact, and how do you think about the emotional dimensions of your work now?

Lin: I wasn't explicitly trying to create an emotional experience, at least not in a calculated way. I was responding intuitively to the brief of the competition and to my own feelings about the war and its complexity.

What I did want was to create a space for honest grief and reflection. The Vietnam War was so politically divisive, and there hadn't been much space for collective mourning. The memorial needed to acknowledge the loss without making political statements about the war itself.

I think the emotional power comes from its honesty. It doesn't try to heroize or simplify. It simply presents the human cost—all those names—and creates a space where people can confront that reality in their own way.

In my current work, I still think about emotional impact, but it's never manipulative. I want to create conditions where people might feel something authentic, where they might connect with a place, a history, or an ecological reality in a way that goes beyond intellectual understanding.

Environmental Activism: What Is Missing?

Your ongoing project "What Is Missing?" addresses environmental degradation and species extinction. Could you talk about the evolution of this work and how it relates to your broader artistic practice?

Lin: "What Is Missing?" began from a personal place. I've been concerned about environmental issues since childhood, and as I watched habitats disappearing and species being lost, I felt a need to respond as an artist. I think of it as my last memorial—not to a past event, but to what we're currently losing and what we could still save.

The project takes multiple forms—physical installations, an interactive website, and various temporary interventions. It documents what has been lost, what is currently threatened, and what could be restored. I wanted to create something that wasn't just elegiac but also pointed toward possible futures.

Unlike my other works, "What Is Missing?" is explicitly activist. I'm not just inviting reflection; I'm trying to motivate action. But I still approach it as an artist, thinking about how to create experiences that might change people's perceptions and, ultimately, their behavior.

Many environmental artworks focus on documenting loss or highlighting damage. With "What Is Missing?", you also emphasize restoration and potential futures. Could you speak about the importance of this constructive dimension?

Lin: I think we're suffering from what some people call "ecological grief" or even "apocalypse fatigue." There's so much bad news about the environment that people can feel paralyzed or hopeless. I wanted to acknowledge the reality of what we're losing while also showing that effective action is possible.

The "Greenprint" component of "What Is Missing?" looks at how we could reimagine our relationship with the natural world, highlighting successful conservation efforts and proposing restorative possibilities. I've been particularly interested in concepts like "rewilding" and how relatively small changes in human behavior can have significant positive impacts.

As an artist, I believe in the power of imagination. We need to be able to envision different futures before we can create them. And beauty plays a role in this too—if people can experience the wonder and beauty of the natural world, they're more likely to want to protect it.

Materiality and Process

Your work demonstrates a remarkable sensitivity to materials—from the reflective granite of the Vietnam Memorial to water, earth, wood, and recycled materials in later pieces. How do you select materials, and what role does materiality play in your creative thinking?

Lin: Materials are fundamental to how I think. I don't choose materials as decoration or as an afterthought—the material qualities are integral to the conception of the work. For instance, with the Vietnam Memorial, the reflective quality of the polished black granite was essential to how the memorial functions, creating a mirror that brings together the names of the dead and the image of the living visitor.

I'm drawn to natural materials—stone, wood, water, earth—because they have inherent properties and behaviors that I can work with rather than impose upon. I like to reveal what's already there in a material rather than forcing it into an unnatural form.

Sustainability is also a key consideration. I think about the environmental impact of materials, their durability, and their lifecycle. This becomes especially important in my architectural work, where I'm very focused on reducing carbon footprint and energy consumption.

But perhaps most importantly, I choose materials for their experiential qualities—how they feel, how they respond to light, how they change over time or with weather. These sensory aspects are what create the emotional resonance in a piece.

Public Art and Audience Engagement

Much of your work exists in public space and invites physical interaction. How do you think about the viewer's role in your work, and has your approach to audience engagement changed over time?

Lin: I've always been interested in creating work that is completed by the viewer's experience. Even with the Vietnam Memorial, the design anticipated how people would move through the space, how they would touch the names, leave objects, make rubbings. That participatory aspect was built into the conception.

In my more recent landscape works, I often create topographies that people can walk on, sit on, or move around. "Storm King Wavefield" is meant to be experienced by walking through it, feeling the rhythm of the waves in your body as you navigate the space. It's a very different experience than simply looking at something from a fixed viewpoint.

With "What Is Missing?", audience engagement has taken on new dimensions through digital platforms. The website allows for different kinds of participation—people can contribute their own memories of nature, explore different timeframes, or follow various narrative paths. It's a more overtly interactive approach than my earlier work.

But across all these forms, I'm interested in creating spaces for contemplation rather than spectacle. I want people to slow down, to notice details, to reflect. In a culture of constant stimulation and distraction, there's something radical about inviting that kind of quiet attention.

Legacy and Future Directions

As you reflect on your body of work and look toward future projects, what themes or questions continue to drive your practice, and are there new territories you're interested in exploring?

Lin: The relationship between humans and the natural world remains my central concern. As the climate crisis intensifies, I feel an increasing urgency to create work that might shift our perception of that relationship. I'm particularly interested in water systems right now—rivers, aquifers, oceans—and how we might develop a deeper understanding of these essential but often invisible networks.

I'm also continuing to explore the potential of technology to reveal hidden patterns and connections. With "What Is Missing?", I'm using digital platforms to visualize environmental data and create new kinds of narrative experiences. I think technology, despite being part of our separation from nature in some ways, also offers tools for reconnection and understanding.

In terms of new territories, I'm interested in collaborative projects that might bring together scientific research, community engagement, and artistic expression. The environmental challenges we face are so complex that they require interdisciplinary approaches, and I believe artists have an important role to play in that conversation.

And finally, I remain committed to creating spaces—whether physical or virtual—where people can reflect on difficult truths while also imagining more hopeful futures. That tension between acknowledging loss and envisioning restoration feels more necessary than ever.

Advice for Emerging Artists

What advice would you give to young artists, especially those interested in working at the intersection of art, architecture, and environmental concerns?

Lin: First, I'd say follow your curiosity, even if it leads you across conventional disciplinary boundaries. Some of the most important work happens in those in-between spaces. Don't worry too much about whether what you're making fits neatly into existing categories.

Second, develop a deep research practice. Whether you're investigating historical events, ecological systems, or cultural patterns, that foundation of knowledge will inform your work in essential ways. Read widely, talk to experts in different fields, immerse yourself in your subject matter.

Third, trust your instincts and your unique perspective. When I submitted the Vietnam Memorial design, I wasn't trying to conform to any existing memorial tradition—I was responding honestly to the brief in my own way. That authenticity matters more than trying to anticipate what others might want or expect.

And finally, be prepared for the long game. Meaningful work often develops slowly, through persistent engagement with a set of questions or concerns. Don't be discouraged if recognition doesn't come immediately, and don't be swayed by trends. Focus on developing a sustained practice that reflects your deepest values and interests.

Conclusion: The Space Between

As our conversation with Maya Lin concludes, we're struck by the coherence of her vision across diverse projects and forms. Whether creating a memorial, an earthwork, or a sustainable building, Lin brings the same careful attention to site, material, and experience. Her work reminds us that boundaries—between disciplines, between humans and nature, between past and future—are not barriers but fertile territories for exploration and connection.

In an age of environmental crisis and polarized discourse, Lin offers a different approach: one that acknowledges complexity, invites reflection, and quietly insists on the possibility of restoration. Through her art, architecture, and activism, she creates spaces where we might reconsider our relationship with the world around us and imagine more harmonious ways of inhabiting it.

Maya Lin's latest installation, "Ghost Forest," is currently on view at Madison Square Park in New York City through November 2024. Her ongoing project "What Is Missing?" can be explored at whatismissing.org.