The day in the studio doesn’t always begin with a pencil… Often, before the first gesture, there is the slow turning of covers, the weight of a book pulled from the shelf. Certain titles stay close — not for their novelty, but for the way they hold a kind of steady presence. These are not…
Some days, the studio doesn’t begin with drawing—but with the slow gathering of what’s always been there. The objects closest to the hand, the ones chosen without thought, lined along the table in quiet witness. Not everything is new. Not everything needs to be. But each tool holds its own kind of invitation—silent, familiar, waiting….
A notebook lives quietly, waiting to reveal its secrets. Within, pages unfold like whispers—layers of thought, touch, and color, slowly taking shape.Here, (NØ) crafts moldboard pages, weaving textures and stories that will soon become wallpaper—walls that breathe with nature’s spells.But some stories are shy. They hide beneath folds, behind zigzags, inside envelopes—waiting to be discovered…
The morning begins slowly. A small cup of coffee cools beside an open book. (NØ)’s fingers move gently across the page — not hurriedly, but as if they were listening. Lately, (NØ) has been drawn into old botanical atlases. Books that seem to carry, between their pages, the hush of a field, the quiet beauty…
Every year, for halloween, (NØ) cooks this surprise Potimarron. When October comes and the days shorten she brings home small potimarrons from her father’s garden. She prepares them the same way every year with bacon and mushrooms and parsley and béchamel for comfort… Come to see how she draws the ingredients in a notebook before…
In her softly lit atelier, (NØ) carries the weight of a season’s offering: pumpkins, swelled by the summer’s sun, grown by her father in the quiet hum of his garden. A ritual rises—sketching these hollowed forms, filling them with ink, pastel, watercolor, crayon, turning earthy gourds into living poems. Through each drawing, she listens—not just…
One morning, almost by chance, (NØ) folded a stack of paper.No plan, just the quiet desire to hold a moment—between soft creases, between gentle stitches.The tools awaited in a gentle line: pincette, scissors, puncher, ruler, glue—small gestures toward making something home.This is a little booklet, sewn by hand, born from the wish to gather blankness…
There are seasons (NØ) doesn’t want to forget. A sunlit path, a bloom at her feet, the way a breeze moved through tall grass while the light slanted gold. These are not stories to be written—but pressed. Quietly. Carefully. Between pages. This summer, (NØ) wandered with a pocket of petals and brought them home not…
A courtyard of dappled shade, the sound of gravel underfoot, then the silence of rooms filling slowly with color. This summer, the Hôtel de Caumont in Aix-en-Provence offered a passage into a menagerie—not of nature, but of memory and myth.Within it, Niki de Saint Phalle’s Bestiaire Magique unfolded like a fable. Not linear. Not tame….
The days shorten almost imperceptibly — a slow tilt of light across the floor. Somewhere, a bell rings again. Bags are zipped, shoes tightened. A return begins. And in the quiet that follows, something warm is prepared. It is the time of year when structure begins to gather at the edges. But before the rhythm…
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