IFDM meets the Paris interior style makers – Chapter 5: Chahan Minassian

When did you first realise you were interested in architecture?
I think it all begins with creativity. I was born in Beirut, into an international family with a deep sensitivity to the art of living. My aesthetic education started very early, through the different homes we lived in, as well as through cinema and culture. My father worked in jewellery, so there was a natural sensitivity to quality—to luxury understood as beauty. Then, with the war in Lebanon, we moved to Paris. There, exposure to interiors, to the beauty of monuments and to history further refined my sensibility. At first, however, I studied economics—my father imagined a more traditional path for me: lawyer, banker, doctor. It was only at 22 or 23 that I decided to truly follow my instincts and begin studying interior architecture.

Did you immediately decide to stay in Paris?
Once we left Lebanon, we became Parisians. My family settled here in 1976, and Paris became home.

What was your first professional project?
During my studies I worked extensively as a freelancer: TV sets, window displays, installations. I was drawn to scenography from the outset, because it brings together architecture, atmosphere, light and decoration. Of course, at eighteen you’re not given a 3,000-square-metre site, but those early experiences were essential. My first real project came after my studies, working in an architectural practice. Then, when I joined Ralph Lauren in 1987, I began working in a more structured way on retail concepts, showrooms and interior architecture.

Which project first brought you recognition?
There was a transitional phase, as I spent seven years at Ralph Lauren and all my interior work was tied to that world. The first truly personal project that made an impact came after I opened my own studio: the Starfish restaurant, in 1993.

In your view, what made that project successful?
The fact that I am not simply a decorator—I am an interior architect. This distinction is important to me, because it means the process begins with a real structural and technical approach. I design the volumes, the layout, the construction; then I take care of the décor and the curation of what inhabits the space—artworks, furniture, collectible pieces.
It is this layering that defines my signature: a 360-degree approach that combines architectural groundwork with the “dressing” of the interior. Often these phases are divided among different professionals; in my case, they belong to a single vision.
You describe your work as “chahanien.” What defines this language?
The term “chahanien” was coined years ago by a journalist to describe the coherence he saw in my work—between architecture, materials and atmosphere. For a long time I worked with almost monochromatic interiors: stone, textured fabrics, tinted glass, layered within the same tonal family. I favour mineral, natural colours, combined with a richness of textures.
For me, this is a refined, understated luxury. Light is central: it moves through the space during the day, transforming surfaces; in the late afternoon lamps come on, and by evening artificial lighting reshapes the atmosphere entirely. It becomes almost theatrical—the same space evolves throughout the day.
In a house in Miami, for instance, mornings are bright and aquatic, almost like a spa, with water reflected through glass and stone. By evening, the same space becomes warm, golden, sensual—the whites are in fact creams, the textures catch the light differently. That sense of transformation is something I find deeply compelling.

You work as both an interior designer and a gallerist. Where do these worlds meet?
For me, architecture cannot be reduced to building a shell. It is meant to be lived in, so volumes already stem from ways of living—how one receives, gathers, inhabits a space.
Then comes what I call the “habillage”: the sensory definition of the space through materials, colours, textures. And finally, curation—objects, art, furniture—which is essential. I don’t believe in neutral or abstract interiors. I believe what we love must inhabit the space—not as accumulation, but as part of a coherent narrative. That’s why I enjoy searching in galleries and markets, finding an object and thinking: this could be the starting point of a project. A “chahanien” interior always has a sense of progression, a coherence between its elements. It’s not narrative in a theatrical sense, but it creates emotion.

So the way a space will be lived in is the true starting point?
Exactly. Whatever the project, you must first understand how the client lives: family, habits, whether they entertain often, whether they want something informal or more formal. That is the most important level of service—creating a functional, comfortable space. Everything else—technique, materials, language—is what I bring. Each project carries my signature, but none resembles another. A chalet, a yacht, a New York apartment will be very different, yet you recognise the same hand. It’s like fashion: a spring collection and a winter one may differ greatly, but the language remains.

Is there a field you would still like to explore?
I think I would enjoy designing a museum. Usually, when I design a house, I create an architecture conceived as a precious container for elements I already know. In a museum, it would be the opposite: creating a space capable of accommodating constantly changing content. That idea fascinates me—an interior as a flexible device. I think of Carlo Scarpa: even when the artworks are removed, his spatial calligraphy remains unmistakable. That is what interests me.

Which current projects engage you the most?
All of them—otherwise I wouldn’t take them on. At the moment we are working on major yachts, including a 100-metre one. These are extremely technical yet highly creative projects, allowing us to push the relationship between architecture, sensuality and innovation.
For me, luxury is not ostentation—it is calm, quality, sensuality. It is not a wall in gold. At the same time, I am working on several palazzi in Venice, where I live. These projects involve a continuous dialogue between history, constraints and my own signature. It’s not about recreating the past, but restoring rigorously while introducing a contemporary language. It’s a fascinating process.
There are also apartments in Milan, Rome, Palm Beach—very international work—as well as gallery projects, exhibitions and installations at Fortuny, where I create environments that are at once domestic, cultural and commercial. I’m interested in showing how materials and fabrics truly live in space, rather than simply presenting them as samples.

When you design an object, where do you begin?
It depends. Sometimes it comes from a specific need—a room that requires a chandelier. Other times it starts from a fragment of material, like a piece of glass. I don’t plan collections in advance. An idea comes, and I draw it.
I work closely with artisans, and that knowledge of craftsmanship is one of my key tools. In Murano, for example, there is still extraordinary savoir-faire, though not always matched by strong design research. I go there every week; we produce a great deal, and this constant engagement with making is part of my rhythm. Monday mornings are for Murano—it has become almost a discipline of life.