First I read the script a few times, spotting the key moments the set must highlight. Then I sketch rough outlines, thinking about the tone of each scene and the story that needs to flow through the space. I choose woods that fit the period and feel of the narrative—oak for sturdy, timeless scenes, pine for lighter, rustic ones. Each piece gets a purpose: a table might hold a character’s secret, a window frames a pivotal dialogue. I make sure the grain and finish complement the lighting and color palette. And I always keep a hand‑crafted detail that feels true to the story, because a piece that looks good but tells nothing feels empty. In the end, the set becomes a silent storyteller that supports the film’s heart.

I look at what the piece must do first. If it’s a backdrop or a prop that only needs to set a mood, I keep it clean—simple cuts, natural grain. If it’s a focal point, like a throne or a door that a character interacts with, I add a flourish: a carved motif, a hand‑turned profile, a subtle inlay. The key is balance; the flourish must serve the story, not shout over it. When I get stuck on a detail that feels right but might overpower, I usually pull back a step or two. I look at the scene from the audience’s eye, or ask a colleague to view it without context. If the detail still feels heavy, I trim it, or move it to a less prominent spot. A good set is quiet confidence, not a stage for the wood itself.