Paris as a playground

BC: I started my firm in 2021 on the same street where I live. It’s an office located on the ground floor with a vitrine, a typical façade of a Parisian old butcher shop from the 1930s. It's a very special façade. My home is 10 blocks away, on the fifth floor, up against the sky. These two different contexts shape my journey. I decided to open my office in this neighbourhood because I believe young architects of our generation should foster more connections with people and develop local projects, even within a city like Paris. There are so many opportunities to create small projects, meet people, and engage with the community. Finding the right area to settle in and build connections was important for me. I didn’t have that in my childhood neighbourhood because it was very historical and central, but it was hard to bond with people. Here, it’s more like a village, with many young architecture offices putting down roots in the last five to eight years. That creates great energy for a practice. 

I never really planned to start my own firm. I always knew I wanted to be an architect—since I was ten—but I was happy working for others. I worked for several years in different offices, even during my studies. My first job was at Franklin Azzi Architecture when they had just ten people in the office, from 2009 to 2010. It was exciting to see the way a practice grows. I also spent a year working in Japan at a smaller, more traditional office, then moved to Basel, where I focused on museum and housing projects. Later, in Paris, I worked at Dominique Perrault’s large office. These experiences exposed me to a diverse range of projects and approaches.

Starting my own practice was almost accidental. I was looking for a flat for two years, trying to find one with potential—something special that I could transform. During my search, I came across a listing with no photos, only a floor plan, which piqued my curiosity. It had been divided into small rooms, but I saw the potential and decided to do the work myself. When it’s your own project, you have a different kind of energy—you see potential in everything. I come from a family that makes things by hand—furniture, tables, beds—so for me, it was natural to think that way. In French, we call it a terrain de jeu. It’s about finding a space to experiment with hands-on work. This process is incredibly stimulating. You connect with craftspeople, understand materials, and engage with temporality in a real way. It gave me a lot of energy and inspiration, and I realised this could be an approach in itself. In a way, it became my first project—a space shaped by a collection of reused materials and objects. The plumbing fixtures came from my old flat. The kitchen is an old IKEA set from Marseille that I adapted. The bathroom door is from Lille. After three years, I now see the deeper meaning of this process. It wasn’t just about saving money—it was about quality, history, and longevity. Finding materials takes longer, making it a slow process, but it’s worthwhile. 

Freedom of scale

BC: One of the reasons I started my own practice is that I didn't want to be confined to one scale. Every scale feeds into another, creating bridges between them. Not specialising allows for more openness and adaptability. Of course, it means you’re not an expert in any single scale, and that’s the trade-off. We work on urban studies but also on smaller projects like individual flats. I enjoy urban projects for their research aspects, not just realisation. I like questioning programme, form, and temporality—thinking about how buildings evolve over time.

At the office, I met someone who gave me some studies to work on, which helped in our first two years. Now, there’s less of that, but we’re still involved. We recently worked on a 42-unit housing project, securing the building permit in four months. Initially, we thought we’d specialise in this, but after two projects, we decided to explore other scales. We’ve also taken on flat renovations as opportunities arose, balancing one flat project at a time. Additionally, we work on restoration projects, such as the renovation of a villa in Tuscany, Italy. Another aspect of our practice involves designing collectible, bespoke pieces crafted from materials reclaimed from our renovations. This approach ensures a direct connection between our design work and architectural practice. 

Learning from the local

BC: The restoration of an old Italian villa near Lucca is a family project. None of us is Italian, but we've always been drawn to the culture— I lived in Rome for a year in 2009. This is actually our longest-running project. We started four years ago, thinking it would take two, but unexpected challenges made it an ongoing learning experience. My mother and her husband are deeply involved, wanting to respect the house’s history and craft rather than simply seeking the ‘best kitchen’ or finishes.

The first step was understanding the land. The site was constructed with dry stone walls, many of which had collapsed. We had to navigate Italian regulations, collaborating closely with engineers. It was a process of learning and adapting. One of the most rewarding aspects has been working with local craftsmen, or muratori. A few months ago, one of them shared how much he loved the three bathrooms we designed. He was genuinely proud of his work. For me, that moment was even more fulfilling than pleasing a client—seeing the people who build the project feel a deep connection to it. The renovation happened on multiple levels—landscape, structure, façade restoration. We also designed furniture and restored old frescoes. In fact, we were so inspired by the frescoes that we commissioned new ones for two rooms. 

A turning point came with the bathrooms. Initially, the walls were supposed to be plaster blocks. But over time, as we reconsidered the project, we decided to use a wooden structure—both to reduce weight and prevent cracks from forming due to floor movement. This evolved into a kind of Japanese-inspired framework with terracotta elements. Explaining this to the muratori was a challenge—asking an Italian bricklayer to work with wood! But he embraced it, and in the end, it became something truly special. 

A holistic set of tools

BC: We often use the term ‘post-production’ in our work, meaning we work with something that already exists. I like this term, even though it's more commonly used in art. It makes me think of Photoshop or Illustrator—how we always work with existing elements. I believe architecture now operates in a similar way, constantly modifying and adapting pre-existing structures.

When I refer to tools, I see them as both practical and conceptual. Initially, I thought of tools as the physical resources we use in the office to create. But it’s also about mindset—a way of thinking. In our office, we had to develop tools to be efficient and to work within a single software environment. As a small studio, we use Revit, which is typically designed for large-scale collaborative projects. But we adapted it to design everything, from furniture to urban topography. At first, I was against using Revit because of my experience in other offices and my preference to work hands-on. But we had a great teacher—my friend and associate Caroline—who showed us its potential. She made us see it as a game, a tool that could help us rather than limit us. It’s no longer a constraint; instead, it helps us iterate quickly, testing multiple options within a project. Many people don't see it this way, but we push the software beyond its intended use, making it an integral part of our creative process.

Another key tool that connects all our projects, despite their diversity, is communication. We use different types of media, but we maintain a consistent way of presenting our work so people don’t get lost in the variety. It was important to establish a strong identity through these tools. Representation is crucial. I come from a school where the way you present a plan is as important as the plan itself. It has to make sense visually and conceptually. To communicate across different projects and scales, we developed specific ways to showcase our approach. We integrate this with a coding system, assigning each project a simple yet systematic three-number, three-letter code based on street names or cities. This approach keeps our projects organised while ensuring clear and accessible representation. We deliberately avoid hierarchy in our work and in how we communicate it. Whether it’s a flat, a scenography project, or a sculpture, each project has equal importance.

We also collaborate with different photographers, depending on the project. For instance, our office was photographed by Vincent Desailly, who works with analogue photography, uniquely capturing the light and atmosphere. These choices allow us to gain fresh perspectives and insights into our work. 

From fragments to forms

BC: Right now, we’re deeply involved with marble. Not just as a material, but as a way of thinking. In the past few months, we've been focused on design and we presented the villa restoration project at Paris Design Week and Copenhagen Fair. In Paris, we showcased the furniture, whereas in Milan, we only exhibited the sculptures. The collection evolved from that, incorporating different scales of design. The sculptures use small leftover marble pieces, while the furniture utilises larger ones. This approach allows us to experiment with scale and reuse material variation in our designs. 

Our approach isn’t about specialising in one thing but working across different types of projects. This allows us to shift focus—when we’re waiting on building permits, for example, we work on design and small-scale projects. Lately, we’ve also been exploring scenography, not just designing objects but curating how they’re presented. Italy introduced us to marble workshops and their vast reserves of leftover materials. This led to a shift in our practice. Over the past three years, we’ve been collecting marble remnants and using them at different scales—from sculpture to furniture—creating a distinct design approach. People are often curious about how an architecture studio can create design objects. But for us, design is an extension of our architectural thinking, especially in terms of materiality. Many architects begin their work by engaging deeply with materials, and I think that’s what we’re doing too—moving fluidly between scales, disciplines, and approaches while staying true to a core sensibility.

What’s next?

BC: We’re moving to a new space after more than three years in our current one. But more significantly, I am bringing in an associate. This is a moment of reflection—figuring out how to consolidate everything we’ve built and what opportunities we want to pursue.

We’ve realised that an approach doesn’t just appear fully formed. It emerges over time, as you look back and see patterns in your work. I don’t know exactly where we’ll be in five years, but I do know that our projects—despite their differences—will continue to make sense together.

We’ve observed, over the past four years, that our way of working is effective. But we're not following a rigid business strategy—we do this because we enjoy it. Maybe that’s a bit naive, but it’s what drives us.