Small Minimalist Paris Apartment Designed with Hidden Storage, 34sqm/365sqft
To walk through the Sharon district of Paris is to step into a living history, where green alleys and open-air markets breathe life into buildings that have stood since the 1800s. My creative journey began in one such space—a 34-square-meter apartment in an old worker’s building that felt like a time capsule. It was untouched, a relic of the 19th century with a layout of small, closed-off rooms that felt entirely unsuitable for the pulse of a modern lifestyle.
In my dreams for this home, I didn’t see walls; I saw an open space designed like an art gallery. I wanted to move “outside the usual framework,” creating a sanctuary where one’s pathway is subtly guided not by doors, but by the placement of art and the flow of the design itself. This required an emotional and aesthetic sensitivity—a need to “listen” and “extract” the essence of a client’s habits to make a small space feel grand.
The heart of my creative process was a long oak console that runs the entire length of the apartment. It is more than just furniture; it is a warm, wooden spine that breaks up the “coldness” of the white walls and the polished concrete floors. It guides the eye toward the artwork at the end of the room, making the 365 square feet feel larger and more expansive. To solve the logistical puzzles of an 1800s structure, I used a polished concrete platform to hide the modern necessities of plumbing and electricity, while simultaneously creating a physical “threshold” between the living and dining areas.
I find a quiet beauty in the “discrete and straightforward”. I chose to tuck the kitchen appliances away within a central block, removing visual clutter so the space could remain a place of reflection rather than just utility. The dining area was reimagined as a sculptural object—a table-height island of stainless steel, marble mosaic tiles, and a shock of yellow plexiglass to catch the light and match the vibrant palette of the art collection.
My search for privacy led me to reject traditional partitions. Instead, I designed an L-shaped layout for the bathroom and dressing room, tucked in the furthest corner to offer seclusion without the need for doors. Even the bedroom was crafted as a “private part of the home,” accessible through a small hallway that signals a transition into a cozy, compact retreat where a white wall serves as a projector screen for evening dreams.
Building this home was about combining constraints, needs, and desires. It was an exercise in doubling functionality—like hiding the laundry under the building’s communal stairs or integrating a walk-in wardrobe into the bathroom space. In the end, the process taught me that a home is not defined by its square footage, but by the way it subtly guides your soul through the space.