What I do
WHAT I DO AND HOW IT FITS INTO YOUR PROJECT
My work has a technical name — visual storytelling or visual narrative — but in practice it’s easier to understand through the result: a series of large-format visual works, developed specifically for the spaces of a hotel, that together build a distinct and unrepeatable visual identity. These are not decorative illustrations or themed murals. They are narrative systems: each work is a chapter of a story the guest moves through without knowing it, from the moment they enter the lobby to the moment they reach their room.
What I do exists at the intersection of graphic design, art direction, and visual art applied to architecture. It is none of those three disciplines in isolation, and that’s precisely why it rarely exists within the in-house teams of an interior design or architecture studio. It’s a specialisation that appears in a project when someone brings it in — and when it isn’t brought in, it simply doesn’t happen. The space is delivered without that layer, and no one misses what was never there.
The point at which I enter a project varies. The ideal is during the concept phase, when the hotel’s identity is still being defined and there is room for the visual narrative to influence spatial decisions: which surfaces to reserve for intervention, which guest journeys to prioritise, which areas have the potential to become iconic elements of the hotel. The later I enter, the more adaptation is required — though I have also worked on advanced-stage projects with strong results.
The process has four distinct stages. The first is conceptual: drawing from the essence of the hotel — its history, location, brand positioning, and architecture — I develop the narrative that will connect all the works. This is the most invisible part of the process and the most consequential. A weak narrative produces visually impressive works that say nothing together. A strong narrative means each work stands on its own and also functions as part of a coherent system.
The second stage is execution. I work on digital canvas using Adobe vector and image composition tools, and 3D modelling software when the project requires it. The output is high-resolution digital files prepared for production at any scale. Since 2026, I’ve been integrating new creative technologies into the workflow progressively, always verifying that the result holds at architectural scale — large formats have technical demands that don’t forgive shortcuts.
The third stage is production and installation. I work with suppliers specialised in large-scale printing and non-standard materials — high-weight vinyl, technical fabrics, acrylic, archival papers, textured surfaces. Installation is coordinated through the project’s Project Manager, in close collaboration with the architecture and interior design studio. My work doesn’t compete with yours or interrupt it — it integrates into it.
The fourth stage happens after the hotel opens: I develop the digital assets derived from the visual narrative so the studio or hotel brand can use them as the foundation for their communications strategy. The same works on the hotel walls appear in marketing campaigns, social media content, stationery, and the website. The visual narrative becomes the graphic system for the entire brand identity. This multiplies the value of the initial investment and gives coherence to every guest touchpoint, before and after their stay.
One thing worth clarifying about how I work: I don’t define the number, size, or technical specifications of the works. I adapt to what the project needs and what the space allows. I have worked on hotels with four large-format pieces and hotels with more than twenty. I have worked on surfaces two metres wide and surfaces fifteen metres wide. The production and installation budget varies significantly depending on those decisions — and those decisions belong to the project, not to me.
WHY THIS DIDN'T EXIST BEFORE
For decades, hotel space design operated on a product logic: quality materials, efficient layouts, visual identity applied to signage. The guest was a consumer of comfort and service. Architecture and interior design responded to that demand with precision and craft.
That logic began to break down around the mid-2010s, when a generation of travellers started making accommodation decisions on entirely different terms. They weren’t choosing the most comfortable hotel, or the best value for money. They were choosing the hotel they wanted to photograph, share, and above all, the hotel that said something about who they were. The space stopped being the backdrop to the experience and became the experience itself.
This cultural shift wasn’t immediate or uniform, but its economic consequences are measurable. There is now a segment of traveller with real purchasing power who is willing to pay more for a space that challenges them visually, that has a narrative of its own, that is genuinely unrepeatable. And they are willing to pay less — or simply not choose — a space that doesn’t, regardless of the quality of its finishes.
What I do responds directly to that demand. Visual storytelling is not decoration added on top of an interior design proposal — it’s the layer that turns a well-designed space into one with a distinct and irreproducible identity. Without that layer, the space can be beautiful, but it has nothing to say. And a space that has nothing to say doesn’t generate the kind of emotional connection that brings a guest back, drives recommendations, or justifies a premium rate above market.
The technology to do this work existed before 2018. Large-scale printing, digital composition tools, the ability to intervene on architectural surfaces with precision — all of it was available. What didn’t exist was the conviction, within major Hospitality corporations, that it was worth investing in. That leap was made by a leadership team at Minor Hotels Europe & Americas — Isidoro Martínez de la Escalera as CMO, Raúl Téllez as Director of Design — who understood before anyone else that the new traveller wasn’t buying rooms, they were buying experiences with meaning. nhow was the testing ground. The economic results of that bet are now public and verifiable.
For an architecture or interior design studio, the practical implication is concrete: the hotel clients you work with are already feeling this pressure from the market, even if they can’t always name it. When a property owner or hotel CMO says they want their new hotel to “have personality” or “not feel like just another hotel,” they are describing exactly the need my work addresses. The relevant question isn’t whether that demand exists — it does, and it’s growing — but whether your studio has the capacity to respond to it when it comes up.
TANGIBLE RESULTS: AN INVESTMENT WITH A CLEAR RATIONALE
Talking about return on investment in the context of experiential design tends to generate resistance from two opposite directions. Some feel that art and visual narrative shouldn’t be measured in economic terms — that their value is intrinsic and needs no financial justification. Others, from a more conservative standpoint, consider this kind of intervention an expendable cost, an aesthetic indulgence that doesn’t affect business outcomes.
The data doesn’t support either position.
My most documented work is the five interventions I developed for nhow Hotels — Amsterdam, Frankfurt, Brussels, Rome, and Milan — as part of a broader project that included internationally recognised architecture and interior design studios such as OMA, the practice of Reinier De Graaf, and Rafael De La Hoz. nhow is, within the Minor Hotels Europe & Americas portfolio, the highest revenue-growth brand of this decade. It outperforms in profitability brands with far greater hotel volume within the same group. It is the most profitable brand in the portfolio despite the development cost per hotel being significantly higher than that of other brands.
The relationship between those two facts — higher development cost, higher profitability — is not a paradox. It is exactly the logic of the new traveller described earlier. A guest who chooses nhow isn’t buying a room: they’re buying an experience they cannot find anywhere else in the world. That justifies a premium rate. And that premium rate, sustained over time, produces a return on the initial investment that the chain’s figures confirm.
nhow Amsterdam opened in 2020, at one of the worst possible moments for the hotel industry. The brand’s growth curve starts precisely there. I’m not attributing that growth solely to my work — that would be inaccurate and dishonest. Behind nhow there is a leadership team that made bold decisions and a comprehensive brand proposition that goes well beyond the works on its walls. But experiential design was a structural part of that proposition, not a cosmetic addition. And the economic results are public and verifiable for any professional who wants to review them before making a decision.
What I can state with precision is this: in the projects I have been part of, the investment in my services plus production and installation costs has generated net return within five years. For an intervention in a hotel that will operate for decades, that is a very reasonable amortisation horizon. And that return is not only financial — it includes brand value, organic media coverage, the content the space itself generates on social media at no additional cost, and competitive differentiation against hotels with larger operating budgets but weaker visual identity.
My work can appear unnecessary from the outside. I understand that perception — it was the same one held by leadership teams before 2018. But there is now sufficient evidence, real and measurable, that it isn’t.
IT ALL STARTS WITH A CONVERSATION
If you've read this far, you're likely evaluating whether it makes sense to incorporate this kind of service into a specific project, or exploring whether it could have a place in how your studio works with hotel clients.
You don't need to arrive at that conversation with anything defined. No brief, no assigned budget, no certainty that this is what you're looking for. Most of the collaborations I've developed started with an open question and a perfectly reasonable degree of scepticism.
What is needed is time and a willingness to listen — on your part and mine. This kind of service isn't fully understood until it's seen in context, and it isn't properly evaluated until it's tested against a real project. That's why I always prefer a conversation to an exchange of emails.
If you're based in Madrid, I'd be glad to meet in person. If not, a 45-minute video call is usually enough for both of us to come away with a clear sense of whether it makes sense to keep talking.
