Intentionality, simple beauty & functionality.
I was born in a very rural part of Northern Provence, France.
My childhood memories are a patchwork of smells, sights, and experiences from a different era experiences from a different era, each one echoing the principles of simple beauty and sustainability.
I can still smell the polish applied to furniture at my great aunt's antique shop, where functionality met simple beauty in every corner (she seemed to be constantly polishing and massaging a table or an armoire, her old cashmere sweater stained by the dark oil).
She would drive around farmhouses in the region and buy old pieces of furniture in various stages of decay, sometimes kept beautifully, sometimes not. With the help of a carpenter, she would carefully mend them, bringing them back to life and unearthing their lost beauty and functionality.
Her reputation was far-reaching, with people from all over France driving to her for antiques that embodied sustainability before it was a trend. (no, she wasn't on Instagram; she might have been on the Drôme Yellow Pages, though).
Above the old stable was an attic filled with bric-a-brac, lamps with no wire, gutted chairs, metal signs for barbers or pastry shops, wire baskets... Even the bric-a-brac felt purposeful, like a cemetery for objects that had had a good run and whose revival was unnecessary.
Everything always felt just right at Michelle's, a place where simple beauty and functionality coexisted effortlessly.
In the summer, her house was kept dark to keep the heat at bay, and in the winter, the large fireplace in the living room would have a glow that would bounce on the terracotta floor and ricochet off the glossy furniture. She would cook like she would run her shop: with precision and economy (she was a widow).
I can still taste her shallot vinaigrette at the bottom of a sizeable wooden bowl before the lettuce, just picked from her garden, would be tossed in it.
To this day, I remember her as a true incarnation of intentionality, simple beauty, and functionality. There was no place for waste in her life, and she had no desire for it.
Once, when I was 10 or 11, she proposed that I go shopping with her in Lyon, a couple of hours away. She declared, "It is time for me to buy some new clothes." I was excited and a bit puzzled; I had never seen her wear anything but pants and cashmere sweaters in the winter, which she traded for t-shirts in the summer. Like the furniture she cared for, her style was one of timeless and effortless charm—simple beauty in its purest form: although a little rough at times, it was always honest. Even the stains on her sweaters or t-shirts, clearly coming from her work, never looked dirty. She always looked impeccable to me and unassumingly sophisticated.
When we arrived at a fancy store, the salesperson recognized Michelle immediately.
That day, we bought just a few cashmere sweaters and a couple of other items, and when we left, she waved goodbye to all, assuring them she would be back in 10 years or hopefully a bit more, as usual. Michelle was relieved that it had been done; for her, this shopping trip was only about buying what she needed and ensuring that every item had a purpose and functionality.
When I later moved to NYC, after a decade and a half of building a life here, having children, and becoming a single parent, I found myself returning to those principles of sustainability, consuming what one needs, buying differently, and surrounding myself with objects that embody functionality, energy, and integrity. This approach might seem like a particular "lifestyle," a fabricated trend for many. But to me, it is a deeply ingrained value system that my great aunt Michelle lived by—a life of coherence, where sustainability, simple beauty, and functionality were not just buzzwords but the essence of her existence.
