I was already living in the area and used to walk past this house all the time. I was always struck by its large studio windows, which reminded me of the Bauhaus. One day, I finally plucked up the courage to knock on the door. It belonged to a painter I knew, but she wasn't ready to sell. I simply said, ‘If you ever decide to part with this house, please think of me.’ And eventually, that day came. Built in 1910, the house measures around 100 square metres. It originally had just two bedrooms and one bathroom. In only three months, I completely reconfigured it to create four bedrooms and two bathrooms, so I could move in with my three children and my dog. I had just gone through a divorce and was looking for a smaller home that could still accommodate our whole life together. Being just steps from the Seine, surrounded by the forest, while remaining an easy journey from Paris, made it the perfect place for us.

It’s a meeting point between a French country house, my Scandinavian heritage and a deeply maritime sensibility. Living so close to the Seine gave me the confidence to embrace that side of myself even more. I’ve been sailing since I was a child, and my work has always been influenced by boat design: the intelligent use of compact spaces, the precision of every function, the dialogue between wood and metal, and the idea that every element should have a purpose. I loved the idea of designing this house as a kind of little harbour master's home by the water. I didn’t want to create a literal nautical interior, but rather capture its spirit. The stainless-steel kitchen, the timber, the watery palette and subtle references to sailing all run naturally throughout the house. I kept certain original features, such as the floors and the building’s charming irregularities, without feeling the need to preserve everything at all costs. The original open fireplace took up a great deal of space while producing very little heat, so I replaced it with a bespoke ceramic stove by La Castellamonte, a company renowned for crafting made-to-order stoves in an extraordinary range of colours. More efficient, it has also become a striking sculptural feature in the room. Today, this is where everything comes together: life with my children, my work, time with friends and the constant presence of the river. This house represents a new beginning and has become our anchor.

I would probably say the dining table, which I designed in oak and Arabescato marble. It’s where the whole life of the house unfolds: breakfasts, homework, my sketches, long lingering meals and friends dropping by unexpectedly. It was very important to me to create a home that always feels open—one where people can be welcomed at any moment, without everything having to be prepared or perfectly staged. You simply pull up another chair and an impromptu dinner begins. A piece of furniture becomes truly precious when it starts to hold memories. This table is never styled for show; it’s always being used. To me, that’s exactly what design should be.

The boards, ropes, flippers and snorkelling masks aren't there as decorative objects—they're genuinely used. My work is very cerebral and often quite sedentary, so I need activities that bring me back to my body, sharpen my focus and keep me rooted in the present moment. Fontainebleau Forest is my everyday playground for climbing, the Seine is where I swim and kayak, the Alps are for hiking and rock climbing, and the sea is where I sail, surf and dive. None of these activities feels separate from the rest of my life—they genuinely change my state of mind. When I'm sailing at night, alone on deck with nothing but the sea ahead of me, I feel both completely at peace and incredibly strong. In those moments, I have the very real sense that whatever awaits me back on land, I'll be able to face it.

I grew up in a small town in northern Germany, in a family of designers, architects and cabinetmakers. My grandfather was a cabinetmaker, my father an industrial designer, and the family workshop was simply part of everyday life. As a child, I would often accompany them to sawmills and timber yards. During the winter, my father and I repaired our wooden sailing boat, and in summer we spent our holidays out on the water. I discovered materials long before I learned the theory of design. I grew up observing how an object is made, how it ages, and the way a material responds to light and touch. My eye was shaped very early on by this hands-on, deeply sensory environment, long before I studied design. That's probably why my relationship with objects has remained so physical and instinctive.

My Scandinavian heritage is less about a particular style than a way of thinking: the importance of light and function, a respect for natural materials, and a love of simple objects designed to last. This French house, on the other hand, brings its own character—its irregularities, terracotta floors, stone walls, a slightly romantic garden, and all the traces left by time. The last thing I wanted was to impose a ready-made Scandinavian aesthetic onto a French house. I preferred to let the two cultures enter into dialogue and preserve a certain tension between them. The stainless-steel kitchen designed by Jean Nouvel for Reform, set against the original terracotta floor, is probably the clearest example. The two worlds remain very distinct, but it is precisely their contrast that gives the house its identity.