From Political Scientist to Village Architect: My Design Journey in Rural China
by Shi Li, adapted from Jim Spear's talk on Feb 18, 2025 at the U of A, "Designing for a Life in China" • Transcript by Sami Mosher and Shi • Apr 22, 2025 • 5-min read
The village mayor sat me down and said , "We've been a community for 500 years, but we just don't know what we're going to do."
Background
Jim Spear and Liang Tang have lived in China since 1986, witnessing firsthand the country’s rapid transformation from their home in a village beneath the Mutianyu Great Wall. Alongside Liang, Jim transformed the village into a model of sustainable rural development. Through ventures like The Schoolhouse and The Brickyard, Jim Spear and Liang Tang pioneered responsible tourism and adaptive reuse in rural China. Their projects, celebrated for balancing innovation with cultural preservation, have earned top honors including the HICAP Sustainable Communities Award, the Great Wall Friendship Award, and recognition as China Countryside Tourism Persons of the Year. Their consulting firm, Beijing ABC Design Studio, has completed over 30 design projects for clients worldwide, with features in Architectural Digest, World Architecture, Time + Architecture, and Arch Daily.
One hot summer afternoon in 1986, while walking back from the Great Wall to a nearby village, I sat down to rest on a rock. A villager approached me, not with tea or directions, but with t-shirts for sale. Somehow, by the end of our chat, I had leased a house instead. That moment marked the beginning of a lifelong journey that would take me from academia to architecture, from theories of governance to the very real business of rebuilding a village.
How It All Began
I’m Jim Spear, a practitioner more than a theorist. Trained as a political scientist at UC Berkeley, I went to China in 1981 to study Chinese at Peking University. After returning to the U.S., I made a bold decision in 1986: to leave my PhD program and move to China full-time with my wife, Tang Liang, and our baby daughter. Liang started as my Chinese tutor and then became my life partner and collaborator in all things.
During that first year in China, we visited the Great Wall, not far from Beijing. That spontaneous decision to lease a house in a nearby village led to decades of transformation, both for me and for the place we came to call home.
From Business to Architecture
Before turning to architecture, I spent years in business. I co-founded what became China’s largest foreign wine import company, then served as Senior Vice President for a major medical products distributor. Eventually, I burned out. I told Liang, “I quit,” and proposed we live in our rustic village house beneath the Great Wall. Though she was concerned about finances and our children’s education, we made the move.
By 2004, we were living in the village full-time. I gradually expanded the property to seven acres, filled with courtyards, gardens, and, eventually, my architectural experiments. What began as a retreat became a laboratory for reimagining rural living.
A Village in Need
In 2005, the village mayor sat me down and said, “We’ve been a community for 500 years, but we just don’t know what we’re going to do. There’s no money. Tourists come to see the Wall, then leave.”
He asked for my help. We began by transforming an abandoned schoolhouse into a sustainable tourism business, eventually named The Schoolhouse. Over time, it grew into a network of enterprises: a glass workshop, rental homes, a restaurant, and a small hotel. Within a few years, we were the township’s largest employer and taxpayer.
My Design Philosophy
I love taking old homes and giving them new life. Architects will tell you this approach is more expensive than building anew, but I find it deeply rewarding. My design philosophy is rooted in ideas drawn from both Western and Eastern traditions:
One concept I have embraced comes from Australian architect Glenn Murcutt, who advocates for “touching the land lightly.” I’ve carried this principle into every project, believing that a building should blend harmoniously with its environment rather than dominate it. Another influence comes from the Japanese aesthetic of wabi-sabi, or chaji 侘寂 in Chinese. It reminds us that nothing made by human hands is perfect, but this imperfection adds depth and character. A building doesn’t need to be flawless to be meaningful; sometimes, it’s the small imperfections that give it a soul. This sensibility is echoed in the work of Chinese architect Wang Shu, whose use of often crude or rough surfaces nevertheless forms a powerful, coherent whole.
I also believe in connecting the old with the new. In all my projects, I strive to preserve the essence of traditional structures while incorporating modern elements. For example, I restored an old village farmhouse by retaining the original wooden frame and thoughtfully adding new structures, including a master suite and traditional entryway, that connect seamlessly to the original without disturbing its roofline. The goal, as always, was to let the old and new coexist in harmony without one overshadowing the other.
Recognition and Realities
Our work eventually drew the attention of local government and Party officials. On one occasion, the Beijing Party Secretary visited our site and asked what we needed most. I answered, “Capital.” However, accessing funding was nearly impossible: our leased village land had no recognized collateral value under Chinese financing rules, which severely limited our ability to expand the project. So, we had to rely on continued earnings and personal investments to grow our business. Despite these challenges, we received valuable support from many people along the way.
As our projects gained visibility, I was invited to consult on rural revitalization efforts across the country. With nearly 700,000 villages in China, the question of what to do with them has become a matter of national policy. The leadership has embraced the idea of xiangchou (乡愁), a concept that reflects the nostalgic yearning for the countryside felt by many urban dwellers. In practice, however, local governments often mistake revitalization for total reconstruction — a tendency that threatens to erase the very authenticity people long for. My philosophy remains simple: Nostalgia, not kitsch. To me, the past and present must coexist meaningfully, not through forced reconstructions, but by respecting what was while thoughtfully introducing the new.
A Global Concern
China isn’t alone in this struggle. On a recent drive through rural Arizona, we passed through Florence, a nearly deserted town kept afloat by its prison and detention center. The hollowing out of rural communities is a global issue.
With today’s technology, including remote work and digital infrastructure, there is a real opportunity to bring life back to the countryside. These communities offer peace, purpose, and a kind of beauty that cities can’t replicate. As we face rural decline worldwide, maybe China’s villages offer lessons: honor tradition, innovate with care, and invest in economic models that allow rural places to thrive without losing their souls. I’ve come to believe that the future of the countryside, whether in China or the U.S., depends on respect: for people, for place, and for the imperfect beauty of what already exists.