Interviews with Kan Hui

The assumption that dark colours shrink space is one of the most persistent myths in residential design. What we discovered—and what we hope this project demonstrates—is that darkness, when handled with precision, can actually expand spatial perception. The key is understanding that spaciousness is not the same as brightness. Spaciousness is about the eye's ability to move without obstruction, about visual continuity, about the absence of fragmentation.In Light In Dark, we used grey‑black materials not to close the space in but to dissolve its boundaries. When feature walls, cabinetry, and surfaces share a cohesive dark palette, the edges of the room become less defined—the eye does not stop at a colour change; it flows. This is precisely why dark tones can make a small space feel larger: they reduce visual noise and create a seamless envelope. We complemented this with vertical lines that draw the eye upward, glass transparency that allows sightlines to penetrate, and layered lighting that carves out depth. The lesson for other designers is this: don't default to white because you are afraid of dark. Ask instead what darkness can do for you—how it can unify, how it can add weight and calm, and how it can make a compact home feel like a deliberate retreat rather than a compromised box.

This project fundamentally changed how we think about light. Before Light In Dark, we treated lighting as a support system—something that made the architecture visible. Now we treat it as the architecture itself. The defining insight was realising that in a dark‑toned space, light is not an additive; it is the primary medium through which the space is perceived. Without light, there is no space. With light, there are infinite spaces.The smart‑panel integration—allowing the client to switch between cinema mode, work mode, and ambient mode with a single touch—was not a technological gimmick. It was a recognition that a home serves multiple emotional functions across a single day. The same 473‑square‑foot unit needs to be a focus zone for work, a relaxation zone for evenings, and a social zone for guests. Each of these demands a different lighting script: dynamic dimmable lighting in the living room for flexibility, soft indirect light in the master bedroom for winding down, and task lighting in the study for concentration.What this reveals about human‑centered design is that true personalisation is not about choosing a finish or a fabric—it is about giving the occupant control over their environment's emotional register. We believe the future of residential design will be defined not by what materials we use, but by how we enable inhabitants to modulate their own experience of space through light.

The storage strategy in Light In Dark was driven by a simple principle: storage should disappear into the architecture, not compete with it. The client has few clothes but many collectibles—trophies, medals, personal memorabilia. This meant we had to design two entirely different storage languages: one for the master bedroom, where clothing needed to be hidden, and one for the living areas, where collectibles needed to be displayed.In the master bedroom, we designed a two‑level platform with a hydraulic lift bed that sinks storage space downward while keeping a flat sleeping surface. This is storage that you do not see until you need it—it respects the calm of the bedroom while delivering substantial capacity. In the living room, the modular TV cabinet system extends from the TV wall to the dining area, integrating different functions while maintaining visual continuity. The glass cabinet doors are not just storage—they are display cases that turn the client's collections into part of the décor.What this reveals about our philosophy at Arm Studio is that we never see storage as a compromise. We see it as an opportunity—a chance to integrate function so seamlessly that it becomes invisible. Every cabinet, every platform, every shelf in this project was designed not as a box to hold things, but as a gesture that contributes to the overall composition. That is the difference between a storage solution and a design solution.

The sequence of decisions was deliberate and methodical. Step one: we established that darkness would be the backdrop, not the feature. This is a critical distinction—we were not designing a "dark room"; we were designing a room where darkness provides the canvas for light to perform. Step two: we introduced vertical lines throughout the space—in the cabinetry, in the metal trims, in the glass door frames. Verticality counteracts the tendency of dark colours to feel like they are pressing in; it draws the eye upward and creates a sense of elevation. Step three: we layered the lighting. A single overhead light in a dark room would indeed feel oppressive. But when you have dimmable strips, directional spotlights, and ambient glow working in concert, darkness becomes dimensional rather than flat.The fourth and most important step was materiality. We used matte lacquer on cabinet doors, black stone‑patterned laminate, and stainless steel metal trims embedded at the edges. These are not glossy surfaces that reflect harshly—they absorb and diffuse light softly. The result is a darkness that feels velvety and enveloping rather than cold and hard.Navigating these challenges reshaped our confidence profoundly. We now approach dark palettes not with caution but with conviction. We know that darkness is not a risk to be managed—it is a tool to be wielded. The bias against dark tones in small spaces is not grounded in perceptual reality; it is grounded in fear. And fear, as we have learned, is not a design principle.

The creative spark came from a single observation: in Hong Kong, we are surrounded by light—neon, screens, street lamps, the constant glow of the city. Yet we rarely experience darkness as something positive. We treat it as an absence to be filled. The concept of "light in dark" reversed this thinking: darkness is not emptiness; it is a canvas full of possibilities.Translating this poetic idea into material decisions meant choosing surfaces that could hold darkness without becoming dull—matte lacquer, stone‑patterned laminate, stainless steel trims. Translating it into spatial proportions meant using vertical lines to keep the eye moving within the dark envelope. Translating it into lighting decisions meant treating each light source as a deliberate mark on the canvas—the amber glass pendant light as a warm focal point, the dimmable strips as soft washes, the track spotlights as precise highlights.Every corner of this home was designed with this canvas‑and‑mark relationship in mind. The study has task lighting for focused work; the living room has dynamic dimmable lighting for evening relaxation; the master bedroom has soft indirect light for winding down. Each space is a different composition on the same dark ground. The name "Light In Dark" is not a description—it is the instruction manual.

Receiving the Bronze A' Design Award is both an affirmation and a provocation. It affirms that our conviction—that darkness can expand rather than constrict, that lighting can be architecture rather than decoration, that storage can be gesture rather than compromise—has validity beyond our own studio walls. It provokes us to ask: what else have we been assuming incorrectly? What other design orthodoxies are waiting to be dismantled?For Arm Studio, this recognition motivates us to double down on what we call "material honesty"—the idea that every material should be chosen not for its trendiness but for its ability to contribute to the emotional atmosphere of a space. We are also more committed than ever to lighting as a primary design discipline. Light In Dark taught us that the most powerful design tool is often the one that is invisible when it is working well.Looking forward, we intend to explore how these principles apply to other typologies—commercial spaces, hospitality, even outdoor environments. The relationship between darkness and light is not confined to residential interiors. It is a fundamental human experience, and we believe there is much more to discover.

The client's brief was remarkably specific: he had few clothes but many collectibles. This single fact reshaped the entire spatial hierarchy. In a typical small apartment, the bedroom is the primary storage zone and the living room is for relaxation. Here, we inverted that logic. The master bedroom became the primary clothing storage space, using the hydraulic lift platform to maximise capacity while maintaining a calm, uncluttered sleeping surface. The living room was designed to showcase trophies and medals—not as clutter, but as curated exhibits.What this demonstrates about personal storytelling is that specificity is not a limitation—it is a liberation. When you design for a real person with real habits, real preferences, real memories, you are forced to make decisions that are meaningful rather than generic. And strangely, the more specific the design becomes, the more universally it resonates. People connect to authenticity. They may not have the same collection of trophies, but they understand what it means to have objects that matter. They understand what it means to want a home that reflects who they are.This is the paradox of personalised design: the more deeply it serves one person, the more powerfully it speaks to everyone.

In a space where darkness dominates, texture becomes the primary language of differentiation. When you cannot rely on colour to create visual interest, you must rely on how surfaces feel—and how they appear to feel. This was the guiding principle of our material selection.Fine‑core plywood and ENF‑grade boards provided the structural backbone—clean, precise, capable of holding the sharp lines we needed. The matte lacquer on cabinet doors absorbs light rather than reflecting it, creating a soft, velvety surface that feels calm to the eye. The black stone‑patterned laminate adds a subtle organic irregularity—a reminder that even in a controlled palette, nature has a place. The stainless steel trims embedded at the edges catch light in thin, precise lines, introducing a crispness that balances the softness of the lacquer. The fabric accents—in the bedding, in the upholstery—bring warmth and a sense of human touch.The most important tactile decision was perhaps the least visible: the dark grey wear‑resistant flooring on the platform structure. It had to feel solid underfoot, stable, reliable. In a space of shadow and controlled illumination, the ground must be unquestionably present. These material choices are not decorative—they are the emotional infrastructure of the space.

The experiential difference is profound—and it is the central revelation of this project. Enter the living room in "cinema mode": only the dimmable LED strips remain on, casting a low, warm glow along the edges of the ceiling and cabinetry. The space feels intimate, enveloping, almost theatrical. The boundaries of the room soften; the dark walls seem to recede into shadow. You are not in a living room—you are in a mood.Enter the same room in "work mode": the track spotlights come on, high‑CRI, precise, illuminating the desk area with clean, focused light. The space suddenly feels crisp, alert, purposeful. The darkness that felt enveloping moments ago now feels like a backdrop that sharpens your concentration. The room has not changed—the light has changed, and with it, the entire emotional identity of the space.What this reveals is that materials and furniture are static; light is dynamic. A sofa is always a sofa. A wall is always a wall. But light can be warm or cool, focused or diffuse, bright or dim. It can make a space feel expansive or intimate, energetic or calm. No material selection, no furniture choice, can achieve this range of emotional registers. Light is the only design element that can transform a home from one thing into another at the touch of a button. And in a compact urban apartment, where every square foot must serve multiple purposes, this adaptability is not a luxury—it is a necessity.