When textile designer Elaine Ng Yan Ling moved from the UK to Beijing for a corporate job, her life as an expat didn’t just give her a chance to explore design in a new context; it also reconnected her with Chinese culture. She found herself immersed in Beijing life by residing in a hutong—an alleyway formed by lines of traditional courtyard houses and a distinctive feature of Beijing’s urban landscape.

“Living in a hutong completely changed how I viewed community and creativity,” she says. “Neighbors interacted in such a close, authentic way, which made me rethink how culture, behavior, and daily life inform design.”

Her move wasn’t just about a new job. For Ng, it became a way of learning about her heritage—seeing Chinese culture not through institutions like the V&A and the British Museum as an outsider, but in an everyday, firsthand experience.

And she’s not alone. Across Asia, a growing number of diaspora creatives are returning or relocating, choosing to build their practices in places many may still dismiss as less artistically free than the West.

In cultures where the “safe” path still means doctor, lawyer, or banker, their decision to pursue creative work can feel like an act of rebellion—challenging myths about Western superiority in creativity and traditional ideas of what a “real” career should be.

The Myth: West = Creative Freedom, East = Conformity

For decades, cities like New York, London, and Berlin have been romanticized as the ultimate stages for artistic freedom, while Asia has often been viewed as a place of conformity or limited creative opportunity. That belief shaped how many of today’s Chinese diaspora creatives started out.

Though UK-born, Ng grew up in Hong Kong before returning to Britain for university. She admits she held assumptions about the West being more creatively free or full of opportunity than Asia. She was drawn to study in the UK partly because of how Western education framed creativity, putting as much weight on the process as the final product.

“My teachers encouraged open-ended questions, exploration, and building our own process of learning,” she recalls. “In contrast, Hong Kong’s education system at the time felt very rigid. There was usually just one “correct” answer, and I struggled to fit into that way of thinking.”

Rebecca T. Lin, a muralist and illustrator who grew up with an English choreographer mother and a Chinese sound engineer father, had a similar outlook when she left for university in the UK. “I was aware from growing up in Asia that my family was the exception to stereotypical expectations, where it’s common within Eastern cultures to relate success to stable jobs or collectivism,” Lin tells RADII.

“Although my parents were successful in their endeavours, I initially believed I didn’t have the confidence to succeed in an environment where there was a wide perception of irresponsibility in freelancing, especially within a creative field.”

The Move (Back) to Asia: Who’s Doing It and Why?

Today, more Chinese-heritage creatives are moving—or moving back—to Asia. Not as a fallback, but as a path forward. In entertainment, design, and the arts, Asia’s growing markets mean fewer gatekeepers, more room to experiment, and a shot at building something on their own terms.

Actors and performers have been some of the most visible in this shift. A 2025 South China Morning Post feature noted how Asian diaspora actors often find more complex roles in Hong Kong or Taipei than in Hollywood, where typecasting and tokenism remain stubborn hurdles. Even now-established stars like Daniel Wu built their careers in Hong Kong before pivoting to Hollywood, showing how Asia can be a springboard rather than a limitation.

For designers and visual artists, the motivations are just as compelling. Lin realized she could compete more effectively in Hong Kong’s emerging arts scene than in the saturated Western market.

“I quickly realised it would be more strategic to tap into a professional future as a freelance artist if I aimed to become a ‘big fish in a small pond’,” she explains. For her, returning wasn’t a compromise—it was an opportunity.

Upsides and Downsides of Being a Creative in Asia

Designer Henry Chung spent his teens and early career in London before returning to Hong Kong in 2017. At Alan Chan’s studio, he noticed many briefs were coming from the Chinese mainland, and after a trip in 2018, he decided Shanghai would be his next move. By the end of 2019, he relocated and now runs his own practice.

In contrast to polished Western systems, Shanghai’s appeal was the fast pace and sense of possibility. “The so-called immaturity of the creative scene in China is also, in a way, a positive— there are opportunities here to meet clients and projects who are open to new ideas whilst their consumers are becoming more sophisticated and demanding.” The speed suits him too: “With the hecticness and speed of Asia… things will often get made and done.”

At the same time, he admits managing clients’ expectations can be tricky, as that pace means projects can be very rushed and hectic. It can also be harder to gain trust for mentorship. “With Chinese culture being a bit more reserved and closed off, to gain knowledge from your elders and superiors can take a lot more effort,” he says. 

That lesson hit him hard while working in restaurants. “An example would be enduring one month of chefs giving me the cold shoulder at my mentor’s kitchen, until I helped a chef with a particularly dirty toilet-related task after service, which in turn earned the trust of this particular chef. The next day, I had earned the respect of all the chefs, and I was part of the gang.”

Like Chung, Taiwanese-American ceramic artist and DJ Tif Sung (DJing as Other Shore) also chose Asia over the West. But for her, the motivation was about establishing her foothold in Taipei after years in New York, Chicago, and California. Unlike many diaspora creatives, she says she never assumed the West was inherently freer or better for artists: “I received my artistic training in the West and was looking forward to carving out my corner in Taiwan.”

That corner has turned out to be a mix of Taiwan’s “academia-art world” and underground party scene. With fine art, she finds the scene “cliquey,” dominated by a handful of institutions where success depends on proposals and relationships with professors, in a system she describes as still “hetero-male-dominant.” On the other end of the spectrum, she finds freedom in DJing at DIY, tight-knit community-based events, but makes “little to zero money.”

Others echo this in different ways. For muralist Lin, Asia’s expanding market has been a gift. Growing demand for local artists and regional creative work has helped her build a strong network while drawing on the region’s vibrant history and culture—whether working on bamboo scaffolding or creating artwork inspired by her heritage and mixed culture. Still, the lack of Chinese language skills sometimes limits her audience, and working outdoors in extreme weather can be tough, with health and safety standards not always guaranteed.

For textile designer Ng, the toughest challenge came early on, when Hong Kong’s design ecosystem was still underdeveloped. Since then, the landscape has transformed. New design festivals and a growing appetite for avant-garde work have made the region, in her words, “a much more dynamic and inspiring place to be.” She also points to Asia’s proximity and interconnectedness as a unique strength, with countries close enough to easily share networks, resources, and supply chains. This leads to working more efficiently, and sometimes more innovatively.

Medium Matters: Performer vs. Maker

Chinese diaspora creatives experience Asia differently depending on their craft. For performers, your face and body are front and center. In the West, that can lead to typecasting. In Asia, it can mean visibility and opportunity, especially on screen.

However, Lin points to her brother, a stage actor who left Hong Kong after reaching its limits. Now based in London’s West End, he has built a successful career touring the world, performing in roles that range from Asian to Western to ambiguous. “Whilst there have been definite developments in Asia’s live theatre in recent years,” she says. “There are far more opportunities in the West, with its long-established and respected history. 

For makers, the pressures are subtler but constant. Despite Hong Kong’s rich textile history, Ng struggled to find her footing, as textiles are now mostly associated with fashion. This forced her to create her own model—“inventing processes, finding collaborators, and creating work that was distinct enough to stand on its own.”

Meanwhile, ceramic artist and DJ Sung describes the academic and gallery circuit in Taiwan as “very performative,” where artists are expected to endlessly explain their work, making the artist’s identity inseparable from their work. “In contrast, sure, a DJ spinning on the stage/behind the decks may seem performative. But I don’t need to answer to anyone while I’m DJing,” she shares. “I spend a lot of time partying as an art form. The underground rave scene as an act of rebellion is very immediate and transparent.”

Beyond the Binary: Building a Third Space

For these Chinese diaspora creatives, the decision to root themselves in Asia challenges long-held assumptions about where creativity can thrive. They are neither following the safe script of doctor, lawyer, or banker, nor looking West in search of creative legitimacy. Instead, they are experimenting and building new cultural ground on their own terms. 

For all four, identity isn’t fixed. Lin describes herself as a blend of her two cultures, though she worries that centering heritage too much in her work can limit its resonance abroad. Ng calls herself a hybrid—Chinese in culture, British in process—acknowledging that while cultural identity isn’t the focus of her work now, the search for it has shaped her journey as a designer. Chung values cultural identity as grounding, but insists it shouldn’t define a person outright. And Sung pushes the conversation further still. For her, identity is layered: 51% Taiwanese, 49% American, and now as much about gender as culture.

Put together, their stories point to something bigger. Practicing their work in Asia has reshaped who they are. Not just Chinese, not just Western, but something more fluid and deeply their own. And in doing so, they’re quietly rewriting the creative scene in Asia, and redefining what a “successful” career is supposed to look like in Chinese culture.

All images via Elaine, Rebecca, Henry, and Tif.