A Century-Long Wait
Sharing the life story of an extraordinary Chinese woman in honor of Women's Month.
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Almost a year ago, the University of Pennsylvania’s Weitzman School of Design took an extraordinary step to award the Bachelor of Architecture degree posthumously to Phyllis Whei Yin Lin, a female Chinese student whose application was rejected nearly a century earlier because the institution didn’t begin admitting women until 1934. Born in 1904, Lin may not be a household name in the United States, but she is celebrated as the first female architect, writer, and poet in China.
Lin hailed from an aristocratic family, enjoying a significant advantage thanks to her father, Lin Changmin, who eagerly embraced Western culture through his education and extensive travels. In contrast to many traditional Chinese families of that era, which often prioritized marriage prospects over their daughters’ education, Lin Changmin recognized his daughter's exceptional potential and ensured she received an education at schools founded by foreign missionaries from a young age.
During her teenage years, a memorable trip to Europe with her father opened Lin's eyes to the world of architecture. This transformative experience fueled her passion and solidified her commitment to pursuing a career in this field.
Also, during this journey, Lin — a woman of striking beauty and cultured refinement — captivated the hearts of two remarkable young Chinese men. One was Xu Zhimo, a celebrated romantic poet whose most renowned love poems were inspired by Lin, his enchanting muse. The other was Liang Sicheng, an aspiring architect and son of a leading Chinese political reformer and intellectual. The love triangle became the gossip of the day. Ultimately, it was their mutual passion for architecture that brought Lin and Liang together.
The young couple returned briefly to China before embarking on a transformative journey to the United States, where Lin was eager to join Liang in pursuing an architecture degree at the prestigious University of Pennsylvania. Unfortunately, the school admitted only men at that time. Refusing to be deterred, Lin enrolled as a fine arts major while concurrently taking architecture courses at the School of Design. By 1927, she had met all the criteria for a Bachelor of Architecture degree, yet the school denied her the credential solely based on her gender. Lin had to settle for a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree.
After returning to China to marry, the couple set out on an extended honeymoon across Europe, where they immersed themselves in the region’s rich architectural heritage. Influenced by their Western education and worldly experiences, Lin and Liang fostered a deep dedication to the study and preservation of traditional Chinese architecture—a pursuit that attracted little interest from others during a tumultuous time in China, marked by domestic conflict and foreign invasions.
The young couple faced the daunting task of starting from scratch, as no official records or guidebooks on ancient Chinese architecture existed. They pieced together their leads from ancient texts, clues found in cave murals, and even folk songs. These leads frequently propelled them into the remote countryside to unearth hidden architectural gems. Such expeditions brimmed with hardship: they traveled by “mule cart, rickshaw, or even on foot,” braving “muddy roads, lice-infested inns, dubious food, and the risk of encountering bandits, rebels, and warlord armies,” as noted in a Smithsonian profile.
Lin exemplified extraordinary resilience during her journeys, firmly establishing herself as anything but a fragile flower. Adventurous and fearless, she often found herself as the sole woman scaling the rooftops of ancient structures, meticulously inspecting tiles and intricate carvings. she pressed on alongside Liang. Their relentless dedication resulted in the documentation of nearly 2,000 exquisitely crafted temples, pagodas, and monasteries—treasures that were on the brink of oblivion.
Lin was brimming with boundless energy. In addition to her expeditions, she wrote poems and essays, graced the stage in theater performances, and hosted spirited discussions with prominent intellectuals in her home.
Unfortunately, after the Japanese invasion of China in 1937, Lin had to leave almost everything behind. She and her family joined other war refugees evacuating to southern China before moving onward to the southwest. Amidst this exhaustive upheaval, Lin contracted tuberculosis. As wartime shortages of medicine and nutrition hampered her recovery, she remained undaunted by illness and harsh living conditions. During this period, she co-authored *Architecture History in China* with Liang, producing a significant work that continues to influence the field.
Lin and Liang emerged as pioneers. Many ancient structures they documented later succumbed to destruction, either during the wars or the Cultural Revolution. Nevertheless, their book, enriched with meticulous drawings and notes, endures as a precious legacy, enabling future generations to marvel at, study, and draw inspiration from these lost architectural wonders.
After the Communist Party seized control of China and designated Peking as the capital, Lin and Liang, as leading figures in the field of architectural preservation, urged the party to safeguard the city’s historical architecture, including its ancient walls and gates, to the greatest extent possible. Preservation, however, was far from the party’s priorities. Leaders like Chairman Mao viewed ancient structures as vestiges of feudal imperial rule—symbols the party sought to erase in favor of bold new icons heralding the Communist Revolution.
On Mao’s orders, workers razed most of Beijing’s historic gates and leveled its city walls, inflicting an irreparable loss. As later architect Xiao Hu noted: “Having served for 850 years as the national capital, Beijing had the best-preserved imperial city in the world, with a huge palace complex still intact, the residential area which includes courtyards and hutongs, as well as the enclosed city-walls and their watch towers. It took Chinese emperors centuries to build their fabulous capital, but only a decade for the Party to obliterate its excellence.”
Lin played a key role in designing the emblem of China and the base of the Monument to the People’s Heroes in Tiananmen Square. However, she and Liang were largely sidelined, as their strong advocacy for preserving ancient buildings made them appear suspicious to the Communist Party.
Lin succumbed to tuberculosis in 1955. Mourning her loss, Liang designed her tomb, crowning the headstone with a white marble wreath and motifs from the Monument to the People’s Heroes—Lin's own design. Liang included inscription on the headstone, “Architect Lin Huiyin’s Tomb." During the Cultural Revolution, however, Red Guards scoured the words from her headstone, reducing it to a “tomb without words.” Liang, too, faced repeated persecution during this tumultuous period and died in Beijing in 1972.
On May 18, 2024, the University of Pennsylvania’s Weitzman School of Design posthumously awarded Lin a Bachelor of Architecture degree, honoring her contributions to China’s architectural heritage and rectifying the historical injustice of denying women access to architectural education. Nearly a century after her efforts, Lin finally received the recognition she had earned.
In China, Lin’s son resisted calls to restore her defaced tombstone. He argued that its scarred surface is a tribute to those like his mother—who fearlessly championed their passions—and a stark reminder for future generations to heed history lessons.
I couldn’t agree more. Some wrongs demand correction; others should remain exposed. Restoration can sometimes veil the past, smoothing over its wounds. It is better to leave the scars exposed, reminding us to reflect and hopefully learn.
Thank you, Helen. This is an excellent story about how some people ignore the cultural norms and achieve greatness for themselves and for their culture.