Xuebing Du (b. China; based in San Francisco) is a photographer, visual artist, and product designer whose practice emerges from the crucible of classical art training and the high-precision demands of the modern tech world. With an MFA in Web Design and New Media, Du brings the principles of design into a photographic language that resists simplicity.
Her still lifes, florals, and portraits fuse painterly textures with the crispness of digital tools, layering colour, light, and atmosphere into images that feel both ethereal and emotionally charged. Whether documenting the fragile vitality of flowers in her Mother of Pearl and Florals series, or responding to the resilient landscapes of Martinique in a commissioned dialogue with Aimé Césaire’s poetry, Du’s lens transforms nature into a protagonist of survival, tenderness, and metamorphosis. For Du, photography is not simply the act of capturing but of preserving fleeting moments, building a visual language that moves between romanticism and clarity, tenderness and endurance.
You studied product design and now hold an MFA in Web Design & New Media. How does this technical foundation inform your photographic vision?
I found myself to be quite specific in getting the angles right, everything needed to be precise. The design principles taught me to always consider the reason behind each decision, to keep only what’s essential and remove anything that doesn’t serve the purpose. This shaped how I think about clarity and decision-making.
Digital tools were a core part of the design program, which naturally led me to explore digital manipulation in photography. That foundation equipped me not only with technical skills but also with a way of thinking. It allows me to push the boundaries of photography by blending influences from traditional painting with techniques drawn from digital design.
Digital tools were a core part of the design program, which naturally led me to explore digital manipulation in photography. That foundation equipped me not only with technical skills but also with a way of thinking. It allows me to push the boundaries of photography by blending influences from traditional painting with techniques drawn from digital design.
You once said your work is shaped by memory and music. If your work could be represented by a song, which song would it be?
If I were to choose one, it would be Here Comes the Sun by Nina Simone — such a beautiful and heartfelt song that helps heal wounded hearts. It reminds us that there is still hope, and that we will make it through winter.
Music holds so many emotional nuances. I tend to listen to different sounds depending on where I am in life. The same song can transport you back in time: to when you were in love, to the moment you felt it slipping away, to when you were trying to hold on. Some songs help us heal, while others carry us when we forget how to love ourselves. The ones I return to are the ones that allow softness, the ones that remind me it’s safe to be vulnerable.
Music holds so many emotional nuances. I tend to listen to different sounds depending on where I am in life. The same song can transport you back in time: to when you were in love, to the moment you felt it slipping away, to when you were trying to hold on. Some songs help us heal, while others carry us when we forget how to love ourselves. The ones I return to are the ones that allow softness, the ones that remind me it’s safe to be vulnerable.
What’s a song, film, or dream sequence that has shaped the atmosphere of your recent work?
I’m deeply drawn to the passage of time. I’ve always been aware of the transience of human connection, life, and nature: how everything beautiful is also fleeting. Photography, for me, becomes a way to preserve a part of it while it still exists.
I remember hearing The Departure by Max Richter years ago and truly feeling the weight of time passing through that piece. No matter how hard I try to hold onto it, time slips away like sand through my fingers, leaving me with nothing but memory. That music haunted me deeply. I know that if I channeled those emotions into my work, it could be incredibly powerful. But I’m also afraid to go there emotionally, it feels too painful.
I remember hearing The Departure by Max Richter years ago and truly feeling the weight of time passing through that piece. No matter how hard I try to hold onto it, time slips away like sand through my fingers, leaving me with nothing but memory. That music haunted me deeply. I know that if I channeled those emotions into my work, it could be incredibly powerful. But I’m also afraid to go there emotionally, it feels too painful.
“I’ve always been aware of the transience of human connection, life, and nature: how everything beautiful is also fleeting. Photography, for me, becomes a way to preserve a part of it while it still exists.”
There’s a sense of romanticism fused with surreal sheen in your images. How do you balance emotional intensity with the crispness of digital aesthetics?
The emotional layer is something I gradually incorporate into my work, depending on how deeply I connect with the subject. Without it, the image can feel empty, lacking the soul and intimacy I want to communicate. I don’t mind the crispness of digital tools, which offer precision and control. I like everything to be in complete focus, with no blur or shallow depth of field: a sensibility I carried over from painting, where detail and clarity matter. This clarity becomes the foundation on which I use colour, light, and texture to introduce atmosphere and emotional depth, something a straight-out-of-camera digital photograph wouldn’t carry on its own.
While film has its own richness in texture, most of my process happens in post-production. Digital photography gives me the freedom to build a different kind of visual language, not to imitate film, but to create one that feels almost weightless, ethereal, and otherworldly. That contrast between emotional depth and visual clarity is where my work often lives.
While film has its own richness in texture, most of my process happens in post-production. Digital photography gives me the freedom to build a different kind of visual language, not to imitate film, but to create one that feels almost weightless, ethereal, and otherworldly. That contrast between emotional depth and visual clarity is where my work often lives.
There is a painterly texture in your images. Could you guide us through your creative process, from the original snapshot to the final result?
My process often begins with a quiet observation. I take the original photo almost like a sketch, capturing structure and light, but knowing it’s only the beginning. Once I have the initial shots, I usually let them sit for a few days before returning to them with fresh eyes. Sometimes I connect with an image immediately and begin working on it intuitively in post-production. From there, I enter a slow, meditative editing process, adjusting colour, light, and surface detail, gradually building toward a certain stillness or emotional tone.
The painterly texture comes from layering, not in the form of brushstrokes, but through deliberate choices I make. In many ways, my editing process is similar to the product design process: I create different variations and carefully decide which one resonates most with my emotional landscape and visual direction.
The painterly texture comes from layering, not in the form of brushstrokes, but through deliberate choices I make. In many ways, my editing process is similar to the product design process: I create different variations and carefully decide which one resonates most with my emotional landscape and visual direction.
Floral subjects dominate your Mother of Pearl and Florals series. Where did the inspiration to focus on natural elements come from?
I went through an exploratory phase in photography during my school years, experimenting with different subjects and styles. Gradually, I realised I was most drawn to nature: the liveliness of plants, gardens, and even deserts. I became fascinated with how light, mood, and tone could shift the emotional presence of an image.
As time went on, my ability to express myself deepened through experiences, especially through grieving a love I lost. I softened. The tenderness I saw in others became a softness I began to embody. That emotional shift found its way into my images, especially through the natural elements that now anchor my work.
As time went on, my ability to express myself deepened through experiences, especially through grieving a love I lost. I softened. The tenderness I saw in others became a softness I began to embody. That emotional shift found its way into my images, especially through the natural elements that now anchor my work.
Flowers are also the main character in the series Martinique. Instead of portraying the people, you turn your lens to the island’s “vibrant, resilient flora:” the Porcelain rose, Alpinia (red ginger), Balisier, and Heliconia. In your words, “each plant embodies a spirit of survival and vitality.” Could you tell us more about this approach?
This series was a commission inviting photographers to respond to the natural landscapes of Martinique, the same landscapes that inspired Aimé Césaire’s poetry. The project created a dialogue between his poetic vision and contemporary photographic interpretation. The commission aligned closely with what I had already been exploring — nature and its emotional presence.
It was a meaningful experience to immerse myself in a culture so different from my own. Learning about Martinique’s colonial past and its continued economic ties to France added a layer of complexity that shaped how I approached the landscape. Each flower felt like a character, bold in form, yet delicate in survival. Through shape, colour, and light, I tried to express the spirit of the island. My images speak to both the resilience of nature and the strength of its people: a quiet conversation between vulnerability and endurance.
It was a meaningful experience to immerse myself in a culture so different from my own. Learning about Martinique’s colonial past and its continued economic ties to France added a layer of complexity that shaped how I approached the landscape. Each flower felt like a character, bold in form, yet delicate in survival. Through shape, colour, and light, I tried to express the spirit of the island. My images speak to both the resilience of nature and the strength of its people: a quiet conversation between vulnerability and endurance.
“The fear of repeating myself without growth is very real. It’s in the nature of being an artist — the constant doubt about whether you’re good enough, or whether you can outdo what you’ve already made.”
You’ve exhibited internationally and worked with brands like Apple, The New Yorker, and the Paris Opera. How do you preserve poetic intent when working within commercial frameworks?
I’m very grateful for these opportunities, especially knowing they came from a genuine interest in my artistic vision. Some clients license existing work, while others commission me to create something in the spirit of what I already do. I think this is a valuable reminder for creatives: stay true to who you are. Brands are looking for authenticity, and when you demonstrate that, they’ll trust and value your creative voice.
That kind of mutual respect is what real collaboration should look like. For me, there’s no clear boundary between personal and commissioned work; the key is to stay rooted in what moves me. If an image holds emotion, it holds meaning.
That kind of mutual respect is what real collaboration should look like. For me, there’s no clear boundary between personal and commissioned work; the key is to stay rooted in what moves me. If an image holds emotion, it holds meaning.
What terrifies you? As an artist, do you confront fear in your process?
The fear of repeating myself without growth is very real. It’s in the nature of being an artist — the constant doubt about whether you’re good enough, or whether you can outdo what you’ve already made. But I’ve come to see that doubt is part of the process. As long as you keep creating and stay true to yourself, your work will gradually evolve. Over time, your skills, your vision, and your artistry will deepen. The work becomes less about proving something, and more of a natural extension of your artistic identity.
What’s the most unexpected place or moment you’ve ever felt creatively inspired?
Death Valley National Park and Mono Lake. I went on my very first road trip with my lover at the time, and I never knew California’s landscape could feel so otherworldly. I used to see it in magazines and always thought the beauty came from the photographer’s vision, until I realised even the best photographers couldn’t capture how it feels to be surrounded by that vastness. You come to understand how beautiful and powerful nature is. I was so inspired just to be there, with someone I loved.
Years later, when I returned to these places, the novelty had worn off. The landscape was still there, but I no longer felt the same way I used to. Still, I created some work there, pieces meant to recapture that first feeling: the freshness, the youth, the chaos, and the transformation.
Years later, when I returned to these places, the novelty had worn off. The landscape was still there, but I no longer felt the same way I used to. Still, I created some work there, pieces meant to recapture that first feeling: the freshness, the youth, the chaos, and the transformation.
How do you know when an image is finished — is it a gut feeling, a technical signal?
It’s mostly my intuition. I could sit and work on an image for hours, and I truly enjoy the editing process because it connects deeply to my emotional landscape. I prefer to ‘catch’ a feeling and create emotional resonance rather than focus too much on technical perfection. That said, the technical process is essential to executing my vision: balancing light, color, and texture until the image has the clarity and mood I’m aiming for. I often step away and return with fresh eyes to be sure. When the emotional tone and visual elements align perfectly, that’s when I know it’s done.
