How Ronan Bouroullec Spends His Time in Brittany
Editor Seungju Yoo | Photographer Miyeon Jeon
At Ronan Bouroullec’s house, the scent of the sea greets visitors first. There is a wild garden of ivy, lavender, hydrangeas and berry bushes, and the ocean is visible from almost everywhere. Inside, furniture he designed himself, his drawings and ceramic reliefs sit comfortably alongside anonymous vintage furniture, traditional porcelain figurines and his treasured pieces of Finnish design.
This interview is featured in Issue 6 ‘Stool 60’.
You’ve been based in Paris lately, haven’t you? The train from Paris to Brittany takes more than three hours. What do you usually do on the journey?
I draw. I grew up in a remote part of the countryside, and drawing was my only friend and my way of communicating. I think that habit just carried on. It’s nothing grand. A pen and paper are enough, and a ticket or a napkin works well too. For me, drawing is a journey of asking new questions and looking for answers. If design is about many people working together to change the world for the better, drawing is a private space where I can express all kinds of inner emotions, even negative ones. When I get hungry, I buy a croque monsieur from the snack bar. It’s the best option in such a confined space.
You were born and raised in Brittany. What kind of place is it for you?
It’s a fascinating place. Even in my parents’ generation, the culture was so distinct that people spoke Breton, a Celtic language, and had to learn French. Traditionally, the mindsets of farmers and fishermen are also closely linked here. I’m interested in both, but I feel a little closer to the sea. I’ve surfed since I was 15, and I swim all year round. When I’m in the water, I feel like I’m part of nature.
I still clearly remember arriving in Paris for the first time at 18, after leaving home. Back then, the buildings were a darker gray than they are now, and there were huge numbers of cars driving very fast. I also lived in Saint-Denis, but my heart was always in Brittany. I can’t really explain why. In this house, where the internet barely works, all I do is sit quietly and watch the landscape change from moment to moment. It’s deeply moving, but paradoxically, taking all of this in is tiring. Look, even now. The light, the wind, the sky and the sea are all moving, aren’t they?
As a creative person, constantly and sensitively absorbing so much information must take a great deal of energy.
Of course, I’m not always observing. Time with family and friends matters to me too. In summer, everyone gathers here and we enjoy the lively atmosphere. But in winter, this place becomes utterly quiet. There’s almost no one around. Even when fierce storms send waves crashing over the lighthouse, I enjoy a warm, peaceful time by the fireplace with my cat. Sometimes an elderly neighbor who loves fishing knocks on my door to invite me for a meal. His bushy beard reminds me of Hemingway. Just today, he brought me some fresh fish he’d caught himself.
How did you find this secluded place, so at one with nature? I’m also curious what drew you to such an unusual space and made you settle here.
I was around 30. I bought a small farmhouse about 100 km from here, which was what I could afford at the time. It was an isolated spot with no neighbors at all. From then on, I browsed real estate websites every day, and looking at houses felt like traveling. Then one day I found this place. It doesn’t float, but it sits right against the sea, so it felt a bit like a boathouse. On the lowest floor, the natural bedrock even forms part of the interior, serving as both the building’s foundation and part of its walls. The way it blended organically with its surroundings caught my eye immediately. I happened to have a reason to visit the area, so I came to see it in person right away.
I heard that, unusually, the building was once used as lodgings and as a sardine cannery.
If you go back a long way, it was originally a house built for the local mayor to live in. After that, it became an inn with a restaurant, an auberge. In the 19th and 20th centuries, it was run by a landlady, and many artists, including painters and writers, stayed here. Among those who stayed for months at a time to work was the Post-Impressionist painter Émile Jourdan. (He brings out a painting by Émile Jourdan from behind the living room curtain.) Look at how he emphasized her strong jawline as she works in the kitchen. Thanks to an art historian who is also the director of the Quimper Museum of Fine Arts, I was able to take part in the auction and win this piece. Later, the building became one of three sardine factories in the area. During World War I, it was occupied by soldiers, and Germans lived here. (He shared more than 100 photos taken by the real estate agent, showing the house when the Germans lived there.) The colorful interior in the photos, with its German-style furniture, tiled floors and decorative stoves, was far from my style. Other people lived here after that, and I bought it 10 years ago.
From Vitra’s Slow Chair to Mattiazzi’s MC15 Quindici lounge chair, you’ve placed chairs of your own design at every window. It’s almost like audience seating facing a stage. Is there a view that particularly draws you?
The house faces east, so it gets lovely morning sun, and the way light and shadow shift the colors is fascinating. The sky from December to February is especially beautiful. Early in the morning and at sunset, it turns pink, and naturally the sea takes on a reddish tint too. In winter, the green plants across the water turn orange, and when the sunlight hits them, they look very warm even in the cold season. The Virginia creeper growing thickly like a hedge along the edge of this terrace also turns red when the weather gets cooler. I saw the same plant growing at Alvar Aalto’s house in Finland. It was a coincidence, but it made me really happy.
In a harsh seaside environment, light must play a very important role. You have Flos’s Céramique Side, Inga Sempé’s Matin and the Lampyre/w163 lamp, whose name means “firefly” in French. There seem to be more than five lights in the dining room alone.
Natural light is best, but during winter I layer indirect lighting and pay attention to color temperature. I also light candles often, using candleholders by BD Barcelona and Kaj Franck.
How does this beautiful, panoramic setting inspire your creative life?
The landscape around the house seeps into me like a soft mist, beyond the edge of consciousness. It’s not simply an idea like ‘I should use the colors of that sea and those trees in my work.’ There’s one question I always ask myself: ‘Would this design look right on the terrace?’ In other words, I imagine whether it fits the pure essence of its surroundings.
Hay’s Palissade chaise longue on the terrace resembles gentle waves, and even its shadow seems to ripple. It also sits well with the pieces you created with global brands, which are placed throughout the house. Can living every day in a space filled with objects you designed be a way of exploring the essence of creativity?
Actually, this is the first time I’ve kept and used my own furniture at home. Even with finished pieces, when I saw them every day, I’d notice things that bothered me, and it became stressful. But now there’s plenty of space inside, so I can simply put anything I don’t like somewhere out of sight, which makes things much easier. I still look at my work critically and think about how to design better, though. I often post photos I take at home from my own angle on Instagram, and they show the relationship between the environment, objects and myself as it is. I’m drawn to the coexistence of different eras, like an old, worn building and contemporary design. In that sense, this house also works as a kind of test bed.
Besides your own designs, the furniture of Alvar Aalto, whom you’ve named as the designer you admire most, also stands out, from Stool 60 to a table and Screen 100. Why did you choose Alvar Aalto among so many names, and how has his design influenced you?
Around 2010, I was invited to a seminar on Alvar Aalto, and visiting his buildings in Finland made a deep impression on me. I was captivated by the attention to detail, from the door handles, the texture of the walls and the size of the windows to even the placement of plants. I’m not an architect, but I learned a lot about relationships between things, and my respect for him grew even more. He was also an excellent painter. His freedom to move between disciplines became a model for me. When I decided to become a designer, you were expected to specialize in only one field in France, so my drawings were seen not as ‘art’ but as ‘designer’s drawings.’ I was also very impressed by Finland’s ‘democratic approach to design,’ in which things like Alvar Aalto’s stools and Iittala glassware are enjoyed by everyone, not just a particular class.
I hear you use his furniture not only here but also at your Paris studio and home. As both a designer and a user, what do you think is the appeal of Stool 60?
First of all, it’s light and comfortable. It needs no special care, and you can stack several of them. I found my Stool 60 at the Artek 2nd Cycle shop in Helsinki 10 years ago. I’m personally attached to objects that show the marks of time. My first piece of Alvar Aalto furniture was the black-topped table in the middle of the dining room. I bought it from twentytwentyone in London well over 15 years ago. It used to be in a café in Helsinki, and there are still bits of chewing gum that students playfully stuck under the top.
So 2015 was the year you bought your first Stool 60 and also the year you first began working with Artek.
At one time, I thought Artek’s 20th-century designs were already so good that there was no need to make anything new for the 21st century. But my view changed when I launched the Kaari collection, my first project with Artek. Kaari, which means “arch” in Finnish, draws on a practical architectural structure. Pieces of wood bear the vertical load of the tabletops and shelves, while arched steel bands provide additional support. I was deeply inspired by Alvar Aalto’s bent plywood, the ‘L-leg,’ and it’s closely connected to my design. Applying the same approach to furniture with different functions, such as consoles and shelves, was a real challenge. I decided the system wasn’t suitable for chairs, so I left chairs out of the collection. Instead, we included Stool 60 in the campaign images for the Kaari collection.
You and Alvar Aalto share the values of simplicity, clarity, functionalism and human-centered design. In that context, what do you think makes a truly ‘good chair’?
Comfort is a given, but in a word, I’d describe it as ‘a chair like a tea bag.’ Just as a tea bag magically changes the taste and aroma of hot water, a good chair has the power to change the atmosphere of an empty space when you place it there. It should also gain value over time without showing off. It’s rewarding to see chairs I designed 20 to 30 years ago still being produced today. When I design, I always picture what the future will look like.
One final question, which we ask everyone. What is your favorite chair?
Michael Thonet’s Chair No. 14. Its delicate curves show real craftsmanship, yet it was optimized for mass production and is highly efficient industrially. It strikes a fine balance between beauty and function.
Want to dive deeper?
Issue.06 Stool 60
Designed in 1933 by architect Alvar Aalto, Stool 60 has long been part of everyday life in Finland. At home in kindergartens, schools, libraries, and city halls, it symbolizes the 'democratic value of design' in the way its function and use can be freely adapted to each user's needs. Aalto used dense, hard Finnish birch for durability and maximized production efficiency with L-shaped legs made of bent laminated wood. The result was a chair of broad versatility and true mass-production potential. Stool 60 may well be called the most human chair ever offered by an architect who pursued human-centered architecture.
