From Fine Art to the Fringe

Priya Nair studied sculpture, not theatre. Then a friend asked her to design a pub production of a new play about sisters running a laundrette. Budget: £150. Stage: the size of a double bed. She said yes. "Theatre gives you a problem to solve," she says. "In a gallery, you make a world and hope people enter it. In theatre, the world must work for actors, sightlines, and a thirty-second scene change. That constraint is liberating."

Now she designs for touring companies and regional studios. Her reputation: making small budgets look deliberate. We met in a draughty rehearsal room in Leeds to talk model boxes, skips, and collaboration.

The Model Box as a Thinking Tool

For Nair, the model box is a sketchbook, not a presentation object. "I build at 1:25. Greyboard, foam board, masking tape. Nothing precious." She makes three or four rough models per show, each exploring a different idea. She photographs them from the audience's eyeline, above, and the wings. "You learn what actors will hate. A beautiful wall that blocks every entrance is useless."

• Keep it cheap: Cereal boxes and matchsticks are fine. The model is for you.
• Test sightlines: Cut a small window in the side. That is your back row.
• Add a figure: A 6cm cardboard person shows scale instantly.

"The model stops arguments. When a director says 'darker', I point to the model and ask where. It turns vague notes into practical decisions."

Found Materials and the Art of the Skip

Budgets are often under £500. She shops in skips, charity shops, and industrial estates. "Ask permission. Never trespass. A polite email to a joinery firm gets you offcuts. A charity shop saves fabric remnants if you explain."

For a play set in a flooded village, she built a sloping stage from reclaimed scaffolding planks. The "water" was ripped blue tarpaulin, painted and lit from below. Cost: £180. "It looked like a drowned world, but it was safe to walk on and fit in a van."

Her reliable materials: old doors, pallets, bedsheets, rope, wire mesh, brown paper. "Brown paper is a gift. Paint it, crumple it, tear it. It makes a wall look like it has history."

Collaborating with Directors: Early, Often, Honestly

Best conversations happen before drawing. She reads the script twice, then walks with the director. No table, no mood board. "I ask: What is the play about? What must the audience feel? What is the one image you cannot let go of?"

One director wanted "a memory of a kitchen". They listed what memory leaves out: exact cupboard colours, table shape, fridge sound. The final design: a wooden table, two chairs, unravelling wallpaper. "The director cried at the model showing. Not because it was beautiful, but because it was true."

Advice: share the rough model early. "Directors are not mind readers. I send photos weekly. I say 'this bit is not working' before they notice."

Making Less Look Like More

Limited budgets force invention. Tricks: forced perspective, texture, light. A painted floor cloth looks like stone. A chair under a low lamp becomes a room. "The audience fills in the rest. Give one strong clue and get out of the way."

She warns against over-designing. "If you build every detail, you leave no space for actors. I ask: does this serve the story? If not, it goes." She reuses modular flats, hinges, bolts. "A drawing room wall becomes a hospital corridor with different paint and a lighting cue."

What Emerging Designers Should Keep in Their Kit

Her toolkit: scalpel, cutting mat, glue gun, steel ruler, sewing machine for canvas, cheap sketchbook. "Learn to sew a hem and drive a screw. Learn to read a ground plan. Learn to say 'I do not know yet, but I will find out'."

She recommends assisting. "Carry coffee. Watch a technical rehearsal. See how a design survives contact with actors, stage management, and a very tired lighting technician."

Most of all, serve the story. "The set is not the star. The play is. If your design makes the audience lean forward, you have done your job. And you can do that with cardboard, string, and a good idea."