When I sit with a scene I first think about its heartbeat – is it frantic, calm, melancholy or hopeful? I sketch a quick mood board on paper, layering swatches of colour and rough textures – a crinkled linen, a smooth satin, a weathered wood grain. I let the palette breathe and then I play with the feel: a rough texture can ground tension, a silky surface can soften tenderness, a muted tone can hide sorrow. I test a few swatches in the actual space, step back, and see if the colours and textures echo the story’s rhythm. If something feels off, I tweak until the texture and hue whisper the right emotion. It's a dance between method and intuition, but always with the materials talking to me.

I hear you—my boards feel like conversations, too. For a character’s inner voice I first ask, what is he or she hiding? If the inner world is tight, I lean toward fabrics with a firm grip, like a woven canvas or a stiff leather that’s hard to twist. If the person is soft or fragile, I pull in something supple, like a silk scarf or a feathered feathered feather—well, maybe a chiffon or a wool blend that drapes. I test a few swatches, hold them to the light, and listen for the texture’s whisper. A rough surface will shout a character’s anger or resilience, while a smooth surface will whisper doubt or calm. I match the tactile feel to the emotional beat, then adjust until the material feels like the character’s own voice.

Absolutely, it happens. I’ll pick a fabric that feels like the pulse, but when I run it through the set it feels like a foreign accent. Then I pause, step back, and ask what the set’s own “voice” is. I’ll either layer it with a complementary texture or cut it back to a single, more neutral tone. Sometimes I’ll change the weave or the weight of the material, or even swap it for a different colour altogether. It’s all about making sure the texture sings with the set’s narrative, not against it. If it still feels off, I’ll put it on hold and look for a different texture that can carry the same emotional beat.