CUBED INTERIORS
Beautiful but Borrowed
A Designer’s Perspective on Thailand’s Westernised Interiors
I spent three weeks travelling through Thailand, and as an interior designer, I couldn’t switch my brain off even if I tried. Every café, hotel, and beach club was a case study. I went with an expectation that interiors would reflect Thailand’s deep cultural identity, its craftsmanship, and its spirituality. What I found instead was something far more familiar. Over and over again, I walked into spaces that felt lifted straight from Ibiza or Tulum rather than rooted in Thailand. White plaster walls, soft organic curves, limewashed finishes, neutral palettes, linen upholstery, pale timber, and rattan. Beautiful, calm, highly Instagrammable interiors but interiors that could exist almost anywhere.
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One of the clearest examples for me was Sand and Tan, a café in Koh Phangan. On first impression, it is undeniably well designed. The space is airy and soft, with curved forms, textured plaster, muted neutrals, and a relaxed, beachy elegance. It photographs beautifully. But it could just as easily sit on the Balearic coast. There was nothing in the interior that anchored it specifically to Thailand, no material language, no cultural reference, no sense of narrative beyond the global bohemian resort aesthetic. If I hadn’t known where I was, the space itself wouldn’t have told me. The same feeling followed me to ARK Bar in Koh Samui. As a beach club, it delivers exactly what it sets out to: a relaxed, sun-bleached atmosphere, minimal detailing, sculptural furniture, and a palette of whites, creams, and pale woods. It feels international, stylish, and effortless. But again, it felt interchangeable and boring. The design language mirrored beach clubs I’ve seen across Europe. The architecture and interiors spoke more to a global idea of “luxury leisure” than to Thailand itself.
Sand & Tan Koh Phangan
I want to be clear, this aesthetic exists for a reason. It works. It is calming, aspirational, and instantly recognisable to an international audience, which helps tourist feels safe and relaxed. It aligns perfectly with how people want to feel on holiday, relaxed, light, unburdened. For developers and designers working in tourism-heavy locations, this language is safe. It sells. It signals luxury in a way that Western audiences immediately understand. In a world shaped by Pinterest and Instagram, these spaces perform exceptionally well. But performance and meaning are not the same thing.
What makes this so sad is how rich traditional Thai design actually is. Historically, Thai interiors are layered, symbolic, and historic. Carved teak wood, gilding, lacquer, rich colour, pattern, and hierarchy all play a role. Space is not just visual; it is spiritual, ceremonial, and narrative, driven.
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In contemporary hospitality interiors, these elements are often stripped away entirely or reduced to the smallest gesture, as though cultural identity might disrupt the clean calm of modern luxury. Walking through space after space of neutral minimalism, I began to feel a quiet disappointment. The interiors were beautiful, but they rarely told me anything about where I was. I often forgot which island or city I was in, but the design language remained constant even as the geography changed. It felt like I was experiencing a version of Thailand designed primarily for outsiders, familiar, comfortable, and carefully neutralised.
I can totally see why this shift has occurred. Much of Thailand’s hospitality industry is driven by tourism, and many projects are commissioned by Western clients or designed with Western expectations of luxury in mind. There is also a lingering fear that traditional design might feel dated, heavy, or overly ornate, particularly in contrast to the restraint that contemporary design culture celebrates. In this context, global minimalism becomes synonymous with sophistication. But when restraint turns into erasure, something important is lost.
Wat Koh Charoen Santitham Koh Tao
The spaces that left the strongest impression on me were not the most minimal or the most polished. They were the ones that felt grounded, temples, older buildings, and the rare contemporary spaces that allowed Thai identity to exist without apology. These moments stood out precisely because they were exceptions. They reminded me that modern design does not need to abandon cultural specificity to feel relevant or refined. One temple that resonated with me and correlates with this was 'Wat Koh Charoen Santitham', located in Koh Tao. This temple featured hand-painted murals and decorative painting. Although they were not ancient, they were still able to reflect traditional Buddhist narrative styles, which often illustrated scenes from the Buddha’s life and symbolic elements like the Bodhi Tree (representing enlightenment). Although this was a more modern temple, it was filled with rich historical imagery and styles, and instantly encouraged reflection and moral awareness, while the carved naga motifs and gilded details created a feeling of protection and sacredness. Together, I found that the architecture and ornamentation foster emotional stillness; you felt slowed down, humbled, and gently separated from the outside world. This temple is an example that modern interiors can still have so much history to them, as contemporary construction and finishes are layered with centuries-old Thai Buddhist symbolism, traditional mural storytelling, and classical architectural motifs that carry cultural memory and spiritual meaning into the present.
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I don't think Thailand lacks design culture. It has an abundance of inspiration, but I wonder if the confidence to express that culture within contemporary spaces has been lost? What it risks losing is the confidence to express that culture within contemporary interiors. As designers, I believe we have a responsibility to include the rich history of our environment by translating it so that it can work in contemporary spaces. Our work shapes how visitors understand a place. Interiors can educate, immerse, and connect, or they can flatten identity into something universally digestible. I left Thailand inspired, but also questioning. Questioning whether global design has become too comfortable copying itself. Questioning whether beauty without context is enough. Perhaps the future of Thai interiors lies not in borrowing from Ibiza or elsewhere, but in reinterpreting Thailand’s own architectural and cultural language, allowing tradition, craft, and meaning to sit comfortably alongside modern design. Because the most memorable spaces are not just beautiful. They belong.
When I left Thailand, I felt both inspired and reflective. The spaces that stayed with me were not the beach clubs but places like Wat Koh Charoen Santitham, where symbolism, craft, and spirituality created a true sense of belonging. They reminded me that interiors can hold memory and meaning, not just aesthetic appeal. Next time I return, I hope to see more contemporary spaces confidently embracing Thai identity, through materiality, storytelling, and cultural references that feel reinterpreted rather than erased. This trip has reinforced what I want to bring into my own work: a commitment to designing spaces that are rooted, layered, and specific to place. Because the most powerful interiors are not just beautiful, they belong.
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Ready to move beyond trend-led interiors and create a space with depth, story, and cultural resonance? Let’s work together.