Our walls do not belong to us, we belong to them.
Like in Roman Polanski's The Tenant, the war between the building and the occupants is endless and being an interior designer is a trivial attempt by humans to take over.
We have been in the same premises for ten years and we have chosen the laziest way to make peace with the walls: pure and simple abdication.
The place that we are in is an ancient silk factory. Its floors and entrance hall are filled with large racks that have been there since the late 19th century.
There are curtains on each rack that used to protect the silk reels from the sun, units with remarkably tight-fitting drawers, and superb oak ladders sliding across the panels.
From time to time, we come across a small reel of silk in a drawer, a reminder that we will never be the true masters of the place.
When we took over the premises, glass and PVC panels assisted by 80s furniture fought fiercely against these superb fittings.
We dumped it all and swore allegiance by placing ancient and valuable books on the racks and animal trophies on the walls.
Our only concession to modernity: a transvestite or a naked woman is in the reception area once a month.
After ten years of peaceful occupation, and the fact that I saved a considerable amount of money doing without a hairless and/or glasses-wearing interior designer, I have come to the conclusion that there is no better way to practice a creative job than to allow ourselves to be swallowed up by a setting that does not reflect what people have in mind when they imagine an advertising agency.
I would love to work in a tunnel, on a boat, or in a lighthouse.
But what I would prefer, above all, would be to set up my agency in a brasserie.
You see: I love noisy environments as long as I make it my nest.
After all, it's only normal when you work in the noble trade of capitalism's watchdog!