For me, refinement without comfort has no meaning. A space can be visually impressive, but if you do not feel calm, protected or naturally drawn to stay there, then something is missing. I never approach architecture as a purely aesthetic exercise. I think about how a space is experienced emotionally and physically throughout the day.

I think part of this sensibility also comes from my studies. My graduation thesis focused on traditional Japanese architecture, and I believe it deeply shaped the way I perceive space and emotional balance within architecture. What fascinates me about Japanese architecture is not a formal aesthetic, but the psychology of space: the importance of transitions, rhythm, silence, proportions, shadow and the relationship between emptiness and presence. Even today, I think this influence unconsciously informs many of my projects.

This balance often comes from subtle decisions rather than obvious gestures. I work a lot on proportions, circulation, the relationship between openness and intimacy, and the way light evolves within a room. Warmth is also deeply connected to materiality. I like noble materials that age beautifully and carry depth — smoked woods, natural stone, linen, plaster, patinated metals. They bring texture, softness and imperfection, which prevents spaces from feeling sterile or overly designed. I am also very attentive to transitions and atmosphere. I believe comfort comes from rhythm — the way you move from one feeling to another, from shadow to light, from compression to openness. Even in very minimal interiors, I try to create moments of tension and release, so the space feels alive and emotionally balanced.

Ultimately, I think true luxury today is not excess. It is the feeling that everything has been carefully considered, and yet nothing feels forced. The most refined spaces are often the ones that feel effortless, natural and deeply personal.

It is honestly very difficult to single out one project, because every project we work on comes with its own level of complexity, constraints and emotional investment, which ultimately makes it unique and very personal to me. I tend to become deeply attached to each one for very different reasons.

A few years ago, I probably would have mentioned a Parisian triplex on Avenue Iéna that we completely restructured. It was an incredibly complex apartment, almost labyrinthine at first, and we had to rethink everything: the circulation, the proportions, the spatial hierarchy and the overall way of living within the space. What I loved about this project was the transformation itself — revealing the potential hidden behind the constraints and creating something that felt both deeply Parisian and entirely contemporary.

But today, I would probably speak about a house we have just completed in Knokke-Heist, in Belgium. The project lasted almost six years in total, including around three and a half years of construction. Beyond its scale — nearly 1,300 square meters — what makes this project so special is the extraordinary level of detail and craftsmanship that went into it. My client and I share the same passion for stone, materials and joinery craftsmanship, which pushed the project incredibly far. We explored a very demanding level of custom work, particularly in natural stone assemblies, wood detailing and architectural integration. Every junction, every proportion, every transition was carefully considered.

For a long time, working in Belgium was also extremely challenging from a technical and construction standpoint. It required enormous patience, resilience and precision from everyone involved. But I think these difficulties ultimately strengthened the project and pushed it to another level. Today, the final result feels incredibly powerful to me because it embodies years of dialogue, obsession, refinement and collaboration. It is a project where architecture, craftsmanship and emotion truly came together. And honestly, I cannot wait to finally share it publicly very soon.

Probably two things.

First: “There is always an answer.” I had to learn this the hard way through years of stress, anxiety and difficult situations. When you begin in architecture, every problem can feel overwhelming because the level of responsibility is enormous and the amount of unknowns is constant. Over time, I realized that almost every challenge — technical, human, financial or creative — can eventually be resolved if you stay calm, focused and persistent enough. I was 25 when I started my company. I’ll let you imagine.

This mindset completely changed my relationship to the profession. It allowed me to approach difficulties with more distance, less panic and a healthier form of stress. Architecture is already intense enough; learning how to protect your mental clarity is essential if you want to remain creative over the long term.

The second piece of advice would be: “Trust your gut.” I think developing taste takes a very long time because it requires stripping away external noise and learning to truly listen to your own sensibility. For me, it is almost physiological. I often have a very physical feeling in my stomach when something is right — or when something is not resolved enough yet. It acts almost like a barometer for my level of satisfaction and coherence within a project.

Sometimes this instinct pushes me to completely revisit parts of a project that objectively already looked “good,” but that did not feel fully accurate or emotionally balanced to me. It can be frustrating and demanding, but I think this constant search for coherence is what ultimately shapes strong projects and personal identity as a designer. I had to discover this over time, through mistakes and experience. But today, I trust that intuition enormously.