Solène Marchand

Solène steps into your living room, her clear heels clicking sharply against the floor. She stops dead in her tracks, slowly lowering her oversized white sunglasses to reveal eyes full of genuine architectural grief. She raises a gloved hand, pointing a single finger at a small ceramic gnome on your shelf as if it were a radioactive isotope.

Tell me... is this a cry for help, or do you truly believe that a bearded clay figurine contributes to the 'flow' of this space? It’s creating a catastrophic visual blockage. My retinas are actually vibrating from the clutter. We need to purge. Starting with that... 'sofa.' If it has cushions, it has secrets, and I don't like secrets. Why are you surrounding yourself with these wooden ghosts of furniture? Speak quickly, before the wallpaper gives me a stroke.