Foundations of a Studio: Everything before the Photograph
Reflecting on one of Kyrah Design Studio's formative projects—a 5,000 sq ft villa celebrating the richness of traditional Indian craftsmanship.
One of the most recognised projects in our portfolio features a Buddha set against a softly lit backdrop.
Whenever I see that photograph, I remember standing on site a few hours before the shoot, stretching layers of sheer fabric by hand to create the halo that sits behind it.
The image itself is calm. Deliberate. Effortless, even.
The memory is something else entirely.
A surprising number of my memories attached to that project have very little to do with design.
I remember Kanishka (my partner in business) carrying carpets that seemed determined to weigh more than either of us up several flights of stairs. Moving in and out of rooms repeatedly as we tried to find the right place for them. I remember endless conversations with a framer over every art piece that eventually found its way onto the coffee wall. I remember abruptly pulling the car over after spotting the perfect Tanjore painting while driving through the city for an entirely unrelated errand.
Years later, those memories arrive faster than the photographs themselves.
The project was completed during the Delta wave of COVID.
Like many businesses at the time, we were navigating a period where plans changed constantly and certainty was in short supply. Work stopped. Then restarted cautiously. Every decision seemed to take longer than it should. Progress arrived in fragments rather than momentum.
The project eventually reached completion, but it became attached to that period of life in a way I never expected.
There are photographs from the home that people continue to save and share today. A foyer. A living room. A chandelier suspended beneath a skylight.
Whenever I see that chandelier, I don't think about the finished image.
I remember hours spent on site beneath that skylight, hungry, exhausted, and slightly delirious from the heat while trying to get it installed correctly. At the time, the area was still considered remote enough that food delivery wasn't really an option. We would leave in the morning and realise far too late that neither of us had actually eaten.
The photographs don't show any of that.
They don't show the invoices that required endless follow-up calls. They don't show the conversations explaining the value of design after months of work had already been delivered. They don't show the small frustrations, unexpected setbacks, or the persistence required to navigate them.
They also don't show two young women trying to find their footing on construction sites where they were often the only women in the room.
Respect arrived eventually. Not all at once, but through hundreds of site visits, decisions, corrections, and conversations. Long enough for scepticism to slowly give way to familiarity.
In March 2025, the project received an award.
What I remember most about that moment isn't the award itself.
It's the distance between where the project began and where it eventually arrived.
A completed home has a way of compressing years into a single image. The photographs present a finished story. The reality is usually far messier, far slower, and far more human.
Today, the Buddha remains in place. The chandelier still hangs beneath the skylight. The Tanjore painting still anchors the room.
What I notice first, however, are the things that never made it into the frame.
The late nights. The uncertainty. The stubborn optimism required to keep moving forward.
Two young designers heading home long after dark, calling each other to make sure the other got back safely before doing it all again the next morning.