The Story Behind My Studio

Introduction

Before the sanctuary, there was sweat. Before the strobes and seamless backdrops, there were borrowed corners, broken promises, and a photographer dragging gear up hills just to make light happen. This studio wasn't built overnight — it was carved out of chaos, stitched together with stubbornness and soul. Every photo I take now carries the weight of that journey. And this is the story behind it.

My Studio Story

The Beginning

When I first started, I was already comfortable outdoors. The sun, the clouds, the natural light — they were my friends together with my off-camera speedlites. But deep down, I knew I needed more. If I wanted my photos to look sharper, clearner, more professional, I had to conquer the studio. Besides, Singapore's weather has a mind of its own. A studio felt like the safety net I didn't have.

The Struggle

There was just one problem: I had no budget, and even less knowledge. I wasn't a master of strobes — I was a complete noob fumbling with buttons and settings. Renting a studio just for practising? Out of the question. So I did what any desperate creative would do — I improvised.

Makeshift Beginnings

My first "studio" was my relative's living room. Old four-room HDB, corner unit, reasonably big. I dragged a piece of cloth across the floor, used the light-coloured wall as my backdrop, and balanced an off-camera speedlite against the window light. It was messy and awkward, but it worked.

After that, it was one odd venue after another: a dance studio with impromptu wrinkled white cloth tacked on the wall, a makeup artist's place with me bouncing flash against the ceiling, even a gym where I rolled out black cloth on the floor. At home, I once used a tiny reflector as a backdrop just to do a selfie. Every space became my lab.

Scaling Up

Gyms, meeting rooms, corridors, big halls — I turned them all into temporary studios. Each one tested me. Each one pushed me to lug heavier gear, to sweat more, to learn faster.

Sometimes I frightened myself with how much I was carrying just for one shot. Other times, I nearly collapsed, dragging a trolley of strobes and light stands up a hill to a makeup artist's place. My hands shook, my back screamed, but when the lights finally fired and the shutter clicked, it felt worth it. Every setup was exhausting, but every result gave me fuel to keep going.

The Big Break (Almost)

In 2021, I finally thought I'd made it. A friend loaned me a permanent space at Buona Vista — a real studio, five minutes from the MRT.

I remember standing in that room with a paintbrush in hand, four days of sweat dripping into the walls (and floor) I painted myself. I spent hundreds on brand-new strobes, carried in gear piece by piece, even made a trip across the island to collect a donated designer bar stool to complete the look. I stayed late nights repositioning lights, testing shadows, imagining how clients would fill the space. For a brief moment, my dream was alive.

Then — blackout. Literally. The building's power supply failed. A week turned into two. Then a month. Four wasted trips. Two cancelled shoots. My heart sank as the landlord took the place back. Just like that, all my sweat and hope vanished into the dark.

A New Home

But I didn't quit. After my brothers moved out, I claimed my own living room. The space was small, messy, far from glamorous — but in my hands, it transformed.

Nobody who walked in believed how tiny it was until they saw me work. I could even squeeze in duo shoots. But every shoot demanded more from me: three hours to set up, two hours to tear down. Furniture pushed aside, my mum's trophies carefully relocated, the floor swept and cleared. By the time my clients arrived, I was drenched and half-dead. Yet when the lights went up and the camera clicked, everything came alive.

What began as desperation — a broke photographer borrowing corners of rooms — had turned into a craft honed through sweat and stubbornness. My home studio wasn't much, but it was alive with stories, challenges, and creativity. Every photo carried that weight, and to me, that was priceless.

The Home That Wasn't Forever

But nothing lasts forever. My wife and I moved out, and just like that, the space I'd fought to carve out disappeared. Renting a room meant no studio, no backdrop, no place to create. I was adrift again.

A Bungalow with Empty Promises

Then came a glimmer of hope. The same friend who'd once helped me offered me a place in his new place at Rochester Park. It sounded like a fairytale. He said everything would be smooth, easy.

At first, he suggested a corner by the gym — but with sweaty bodies walking past and unnecessary lights pouring in, I knew it was impossible. So we moved the idea upstairs. The second floor looked perfect. Then came another twist: he would partition the space into two, and I was promised the smaller side. I accepted. It wasn't ideal, but I was hungry for a studio.

I invested again: massive rolls of backdrop paper, a wall mount, and more tools. But when I returned, my "studio" was stuffed with chairs and heavy wooden tables for classes. Each time I wanted to shoot, I would have to move everything aside, set up from scratch, and tear it all down afterwards, before placing the furniture back. Worse — the door was locked. I couldn't even access it freely.

Then the indignities piled up: my tools taken without permission, my six-metre extension cord stolen and later returned broken. I even had to pause my first client shoot because his business partner casually announced he had a weekly class in “my” space. Then, a gym staff member walked in mid-shoot to smoke on the balcony.

That was the final straw. How could I promise professionalism in a place I couldn't even control? I walked away.

Waiting for Tengah

All that was left was to wait for my new home in Tengah. It wasn't in the best location — too far for some clients — but I held onto faith. Those who truly valued creativity would come.

But fate wasn't done with me. Tengah's new Centralised Cooling System (CCS) was supposed to be a great initiative by the government. Instead, it was a curse. From day one, it leaked and dripped condensation. SP Group came five times to repair. They gaslit us, failed to fix it, and refused responsibility. Instead, they offered an endless cycle of repairs, as though my family had to serve their schedule forever. We were determined to cancel it. They refused to refund. The fight dragged on for over a year.

And while the battle continues, I have to shoot without air-con. Most clients need it, and all I can give is an air cooler, many fans, dehumidifiers, open ventilation — and my stubborn will to carry on.

Persistence in the Storm

Looking back, it feels like a string of bad luck. Spaces lost. Promises broken. Systems failing me at every turn.

But here's the truth: every time the walls closed in, I still picked up the camera. I still set up the lights. I still created. Because deep down, I know photography changes people — it builds memories, confidence, stories that last. That belief keeps me standing, no matter how many times the ground shifts beneath me.

So I persist. Against the heat. Against the setbacks. Against the odds.

I persist because this is more than just a studio. This is where visions turn into reality.

How Can I Help?

If you've read this far, thank you. This story isn't just mine — it's a reflection of every artist who's ever built something from scratch, with more heart than resources. If you feel moved, here's how you can support:

• Have a space?

  If you know of a quiet, respectful space in Singapore that could host a soul-centred studio, I'd love to hear from you.

• Share the story.

  If this journey resonates with you, please share it. Post it on social media, send it to a friend, or tag someone who might connect with the work.

• Book a session.

  If you believe in what I do — in the healing power of photography, in the stories we can tell together — schedule a shoot. Your support keeps this dream alive.

• Collaborate with care.

  If you're a makeup artist, stylist, or creative soul who aligns with this healing-centred ethos, let's connect. I'm always open to intentional collaborations.

• Send encouragement.

  A kind message, a note of support, or even a comment can go a long way. This journey has been heavy — and every bit of light helps..

Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for believing in the work. This studio may be small, but it holds big dreams — and every gesture of support helps them grow.