Inside Tara Bernerd’s Global Design Journey 

“Travel has always been fundamental to my life and my work,” says Bernerd, who recently published her second monograph, Tara Bernerd: A Design Journey (Rizzoli). “Each trip expands what you observe and absorb, and that nourishes the creative drive.” That outlook courses through the richly illustrated volume, which chronicles eleven recent projects across hotels, spas, restaurants, and residences. Each uniquely responds to its cultural and geographical context through impeccable craftsmanship and clever details while shrewdly attuned to the high expectations of discerning global travelers. “Good design transports us without us being entirely conscious of the fact,” Bernerd writes in the preface. “It should take us somewhere we don’t want to leave, somewhere that resonates deeply.”  

That ethos has remained ironclad over the nearly 25 years since Bernerd founded her studio. Once she connects with a place, “I’m notoriously known for saying that I’m going to move there,” she jokes, likening the process of discovering an unfamiliar location to meeting a new friend. “I create homes for myself all over the world.” Below, in an interview that has been edited for length and clarity, she traces her path from an early breakout project in London to her ascendance as one of hospitality’s most sought-after designers, sharing the instincts and influences that continue to take her to the world’s most captivating corners.  

I never knew with certainty that interior architecture would become my life’s work. I left school at 16 and had a strong creative streak, but my path developed through apprenticeship and learning rather than a traditional route. I realized early on that when I walked into a room, it spoke to me. There was a creative drive, but also perseverance. It felt innate. 

One of my first projects came when I was very young, before I founded my studio. I discovered a huge abandoned loft in Battersea, London. At the time, the area had far fewer residents than it does today. I assembled a small team and transformed that raw space into a 4,000-square-foot apartment with concrete walls inspired by Tadao Ando. It was unusual at the time and won several awards, even though I was essentially unknown. That project became the catalyst for what I do today. A few years later, someone in the film business offered to buy it with everything inside. At that moment, I realized what I was doing might become a career. Since then, I have simply continued forward, finishing one project and moving on to the next while trying to improve each time. In this profession, the older you get, the better you become. 

Travel has always been fundamental to my life and my work. Even in my childhood and formative years, I was constantly moving through different places and cultures. Every journey adds something. Each trip expands what you observe and absorb, and that nourishes the creative drive. You cannot simply decide you want to work somewhere; travel has to become part of who you are. 

Different places influence the way I conceive interiors in very distinct ways. Time spent in Japan instilled a deep appreciation for care, discipline, and attention to detail. In recent years, I have spent a great deal of time in Milan, where I am the creative design partner for Frette. Working there with artisans has been like returning to school. We developed collections of throws and furniture with Medea 1905, and the process pushed me to reconsider materials at a very intimate level. Suddenly, I was thinking about the weight of a throw, whether wool or cashmere was appropriate, or how the curve of a piece of wood might change the character of an object. It was humbling and invigorating. Mexico also left a profound impression on me when our studio designed the Maroma hotel. Experiences like that reinforce how important it is for interiors to feel rooted in their surroundings.  

I never want to create something that looks themed or overly literal. Instead, the goal is an effortlessly chic result that still reflects the essence of a place. If I’m working in Switzerland, I might reference local stone. In Mexico, we embraced dusty terracotta tiles and local craft traditions. That sense of place is essential. 

I often say that good design transports us without us even realizing it. That invisible transformation is everything. A photograph can never convey the experience of actually standing inside a room. You might not consciously analyze the floor, the woven ceiling, or the concrete wall, but you feel the combination of materials and atmosphere. That is why our studio works in such a bespoke way. We never copy and paste from one project to another. Every project begins by identifying its own DNA. From there, we build layers: the architecture, the spatial planning, the vistas through a room, and finally the furniture and objects that bring the environment to life. 

Those layers affect how people feel. Colors affect us; materials affect us. If you enter a beautifully considered room, you instinctively relax. I recently visited The Hari hotel in Hong Kong, which we designed several years ago. Sitting in the restaurant there beneath a sculptural ceiling with deep burgundy seating and pink tones woven throughout, I felt completely drawn into the environment. It almost makes you want to sit back and order a martini. If a space can create that reaction, then we have succeeded. 

Understanding a place begins with curiosity and immersion. My studio includes designers from more than a dozen nationalities, and many of us travel constantly. When we begin a project somewhere unfamiliar, we spend time studying the culture and the character of the city. When we designed Rosewood Munich, for instance, we returned repeatedly to understand the warmth and elegance of Bavarian culture. It’s almost like meeting a new friend and gradually discovering who they are. 

Craftsmanship sits at the heart of everything we do. Most of our designs originate within the studio, but we collaborate closely with artisans to bring them to life. I’m drawn to materials with texture and warmth—wide timber floorboards, raw stone, lacquered surfaces, smoked glass. Fabrics are something I am extremely fussy about. The process always begins with form and proportion, and then materials respond to the context of the project as well as practical considerations. After all, these interiors are meant to be lived in. 

Working with heritage brands has strengthened that appreciation for craft. Designing textiles for Frette, for example, required studying how different fibers behave. Certain patterns could only be achieved in cashmere because wool could not deliver the same level of detail. I wanted the throws to have weight and substance, not feel flimsy. That level of exploration deepened my respect for artisans and their knowledge. 

Ultimately, interiors are emotional. Every project develops its own personality very early on. Once we establish the DNA of a project, the rest begins to unfold naturally. Of course, there are moments in a large project when practical considerations intervene—budgets shift, elements must be simplified—but if the core vision is strong, the final result will still hold together. 

What continues to drive me is that sense of discovery. The early stages of a project are always the most exhilarating. These hotels take years to complete and require enormous patience, but they remain endlessly fascinating. I still wake up excited about the work ahead. The day I start thinking of it as simply a job will be the day it stops working for me. Design is not separate from my life; it is simply who I am.