A changing field

GP: It’s a recent trend, but here in Paris, there are far more architects now than there used to be. I think it’s part of a broader shift happening in architecture. One reason might be the growing awareness of the environmental crisis, but also, there’s been a change in how architecture is taught. Younger architects are more conscious of these issues and want to approach the practice differently. They often can’t find a place to do that within traditional practices, so they start their own. There’s also this shift in how we view work and life. At school, we were taught to devote ourselves entirely to architecture, working long hours. But as we’ve moved forward, we’ve realised we want to do things differently. For many of us, starting our own practices seemed like the best way to make that happen.

AP: Older and more established practices often haven’t adapted their structures, so if you want something different, you really have to create it yourself. That’s probably one reason we’re seeing so many new practices emerging. The same goes for addressing the environmental crisis—it’s easier for new practices to adopt careful, sustainable approaches from the beginning, while older firms may find it harder to change established ways of working.

GP: I’d also add something else. Over the last 10 years or so, there’s been a shift in the profession itself. It used to be dominated by men, but now, about 70% of architecture students are women. I’m sure this has an impact on the field. It’s not exactly a revolution, but it’s a significant change.

Realisations and happenstance

GP: I graduated from Versailles Architecture School and spent a year in Palermo as part of Erasmus. After studying architecture, I worked in applied practices, mainly at Parc architectes, where I focused on competitions and led a concept team. Later, I worked at Sou Fujimoto in Paris, but by the end of that experience, I knew I wanted to do something different. This realisation coincided with the COVID crisis, so I began freelancing for a small practice called DEPEYRE MORAND. It was a great experience and allowed me to start working on my own projects. Around that time, Alex and I began collaborating, and about a year later, we officially started working together. In parallel, I’ve been teaching for five years—first at Versailles Architecture School with my former boss from Parc, and now at Saint-Étienne.

AP: I studied in Lyon, spending all my school years there before moving to Barcelona. It was during the height of the financial crisis, but by chance, I found a small office—Liebman Villavecchia Arquitectos—that welcomed me. The practice is run by Eileen Liebman and Fernando Villavecchia, a couple with a wealth of experience. Working with them felt like an extension of my education. Their practice is well-organised and focused on transformation, refurbishment, and rehabilitation. It was my first real exposure to this type of work, and they gave me the tools to approach it thoughtfully. I had to translate those lessons into a French context later, but their influence remains strong. What I learned there wasn’t just technical—it was a way of thinking, observing, and working with existing structures. Their focus on detail and construction taught me to care deeply about every element of a project. I spent a year drawing almost exclusively in 1:50 or 1:20 scales, rarely larger, which helped me develop an eye for precision. Their mentorship left a lasting impression, and I often think back to their advice when approaching new challenges. 

After that experience, I joined the team at Parc, where I met Gabrielle in 2016 while working on a competition in Papeete, Tahiti. I was there for about four months, and we worked together during that time. That was the first time we really collaborated, and we realised we worked well together. A few years later, after about a year of working on our own projects in parallel and constantly discussing ideas, sharing thoughts, and asking each other for feedback, we decided to make it official and form the practice together. That was in 2022.

GP: The funny thing is the decision to start our practice is kind of tied to Tahiti. When I was at Parc architectes, I was supposed to go to Tahiti as part of that competition, but the trip was cancelled because of COVID. I had the plane ticket in my name, though, so I held onto it. Two years later, Alex and I decided to finally take the trip together. Coming back from Tahiti, we had all this time to talk about our future, and that’s when we decided to officially set up the practice. 

The LOULOU House

AP: Our first real project together was a roof extension for a beach house in Normandy, which we called Loulou. It was a family project—Gabrielle's aunt was the client, and it was a house she had known since childhood. It was a small holiday home from the 1920s, located in a tourist area. The program was simple—small bedrooms and a big, open living space. The house was in rough shape when we started, almost like a ruin. But we loved its character and wanted to preserve it.

GP: We were probably the only ones who wanted to keep the house. The contractors wanted to demolish it, but that wasn’t an option because if we tore it down, we wouldn’t be allowed to rebuild the same square footage. So, we convinced everyone to keep it.

AP: Structurally, it was a challenge. We had to find ways to make it safe while adding a second level. The house didn’t fit the typical style of the area—it stood out among all the fake wood constructions with painted façades. We wanted the extension to speak to the uniqueness of this house rather than mimic the surrounding architecture. We worked with materials that tied into the original structure, using a modern layer of coating that played off the existing details. It was important for us to stay true to the house’s identity. At one point, we even discovered a hidden basement during construction, which forced us to adapt our plans. It was a real exercise in problem-solving—working with engineers, the construction team, and revising drawings on the fly while sticking to the original vision.

GP: This project taught us so much. We started developing our tools—doing detailed surveys, creating diagnostics, and organising everything in Archicad. It was a long process for such a small house, but it really helped us establish our methods. And we were navigating all of this during the material price crisis, which made everything much more expensive. It was tough, but it taught us how to handle these challenges.

In dialogue with the existing

AP: In essence, each of our projects seeks to bring together heritage, materials, and the aesthetic dimension of design into a thoughtful synthesis. For me, heritage is about what we collectively choose to transmit. It’s a social choice—what we as a society decide to preserve, value, and pass down. It’s not just about old buildings or those made with expensive materials; it’s about both the material and immaterial. These two dimensions are deeply connected when it comes to heritage. In our practice, we treat every project with the same care and professionalism as we would a historic monument or a centuries-old church. We aim to diagnose, understand, and work thoughtfully with the existing structure. This focus on the existing matter—what’s already there—becomes the foundation for how we design and build around it. For diagnostics, we work in two phases: on-site and off-site. On-site involves immersing ourselves in the building, understanding how it’s constructed, and identifying how different parts connect. We typically make an initial visit to draw, take measurements, and get a feel for the structure. Then, there’s a second visit where we assess the building’s condition, identifying any pathologies or weak points. This helps us decide where action is needed and what’s worth preserving.

GP: And then there’s the off-site work, which is all about research—archives, old plans, photos, whatever we can find. Alex loves spending hours in archives, opening old boxes, and discovering beautiful hand-drawn plans or unexpected details.

AP: The archive work is essential because if you skip it, you might miss critical details about the building’s history and evolution. For instance, understanding the different states a building has gone through can completely change how you approach an intervention.

GP: And it’s interesting how the on-site and off-site work inform each other. You go back and forth, discovering new layers of the building’s story and construction techniques. It’s like piecing together a puzzle. Then, when construction starts, it becomes a test of everything you’ve diagnosed. Surprises always pop up—things you couldn’t verify before—and you have to adapt and rethink your approach on-site. 

What lies beneath

AP: One project that stands out is Villa Hefferlin, a famous house by André Lurçat. While working through the archives, we found photos from its construction, which showed its skeleton of concrete and basic masonry. It was fascinating because the reality was so different from the modernist fantasy of pure concrete.

GP: Those photos revealed how elementary the construction actually was, breaking the myth of modernist purity. And when you approach a project with that kind of understanding, your intervention changes entirely. The house had also been heavily altered over time, with interior redesigns that didn’t align with the original modernist aesthetic. For example, just a few years after it was built, the interior was transformed into a colourful Andalusian-inspired style. Discovering that in the archives was a fun surprise.

AP: Our studies and archival research also helped us identify that the main quality of Villa Hefferlin was its spatial distribution and the architectural promenade envisioned by André Lurçat, which had completely disappeared under successive interventions.

GP: The commission, focused on restoring the terraces and roof terrace, gave us the opportunity to reintroduce materials and dimensions that could simply recover that quality, while making the house’s changes legible.

AP: When dealing with existing buildings, we focus on their inherent character. For one project, we used straw for construction—a material that allowed us to work with good environmental values but without making it obvious or preachy. It was like a secret: the house was made of straw, but we didn’t flaunt it.

GP: The goal was to express the material in a more sculptural, plastic way—not as a gimmick, but as something powerful and subtle. Working with experts in straw construction was a great way to expand our knowledge and network.

A lexicon for transformation

AP: When I worked in Barcelona, I discovered this term in Spanish: reformar. I love the concept of reforming, which doesn’t really exist in French. In France, we have rehabilitation, restoration, and renovation—but it’s not the same as reforming. When we start a project, we need to define what we’re actually doing. Are we renewing, meaning building the same way but new? Are we refurbishing, which involves adapting to a different way of living in the building? Or are we extending—maybe by adding to the roof? If you don’t clarify this question from the start, the project won’t work—you’ll misunderstand the existing building, make mistakes. It’s so important to define these things precisely.

GP: It reminds me of a talk I gave at the Saint-Étienne school about the architectural language of transforming buildings. It was about themes like colour, material, and shape—how they show a building’s transformation. Afterwards, we had a long discussion about language and naming. For me, it’s an ongoing collaboration between vocabulary and the shapes we create. 

AP: Rediscovering a term means rediscovering its design potential. I’m convinced that cultivating vocabulary cultivates a richer imagination for designing. When you have the exact word you need, it’s like treasure—you don’t need to invent anything; you just need to find the right word. For us, keeping this link between vocabulary and design is essential. Everything is so deeply interconnected.

Keeping the dialogue alive

AP: Our practice was built on the complementarity between two contexts: the city of Paris and the rural landscapes of the Bresse. Over the past few months, the development of small-scale public projects—working with local municipalities to transform and reinvest in existing buildings—has given us the opportunity to shift that balance. Instead of being an office between Paris and Chanoz-Chatenay, we’re becoming a practice between Chanoz-Chatenay and Paris. 

This is not just a change of address but a deliberate choice to test another way of practicing architecture: one rooted in place, attentive to its history, its materials, its social fabric. This move also questions the urban-entered model of practice: how can architecture respond to the environmental crisis if it doesn’t also rethink its geography? 

Working from here forces us to slow down, to build new relationships with local craftsmen, elected officials, and neighbours. It’s an affirmation that the centre can be elsewhere—a commitment to designing from within a specific territory while staying connected to broader conversations. We see this as an experiment in building a resilient, situated, and generous practice.