From October 21 to 26, 2025, on the occasion of Art Basel Paris, architect and interior designer Charles Zana will transform a grand nineteenth-century Parisian apartment – formerly home to the historic Swedish Club and just steps from Place de la Concorde – into a universe where architecture, design, and art converge: In Situ, 242 rue de Rivoli. We meet him to discuss his work, his projects, and his passions.
How did you become an architect?
My father, in the 1970s, was deeply passionate about design and art. He belonged to that French bourgeoisie of the Pompidou years, enamoured with modernity. At home we had Florence Knoll tables, the Castiglioni Arco lamp – objects embodying a clear, rational aesthetic. I associated architecture with that world of pure lines and balanced proportions. Since I was good at mathematics and drawn to art, my father simply said: “Why don’t you study architecture?”
Your first project?
While I was still a student, I designed a friend’s apartment in Paris – a loft. I reworked it dozens of times: I had time, enthusiasm, and no urgency to “arrive.” It was my first real project, filled with all the naivety and freedom of the 1980s.
Did that project bring you visibility?
Not at all. Back then, architects didn’t make a name for themselves until their forties. I worked extensively as a student, then moved to the United States before opening my own practice in my early thirties. Today, young creativity is given more trust; people are more willing to listen to new voices, whereas experience used to be everything.
Which project marked your breakthrough?
A large house in Switzerland, around the year 2000. Initially I was supposed to handle only a minor intervention, but in the end the client entrusted me with the entire project. We worked closely with Jacques Wirtz on the garden – an extraordinary collaboration. The commission, the location, and the timing all aligned perfectly: it became a defining project, one that brought recognition and a deeper sense of identity.
You are often described as an interpreter of the French lifestyle. How do you translate that into architecture?
French decoration has always been a balance between an intimate knowledge of the classical and a freedom of invention. Like a great French chef: one who knows the traditional recipe by heart, yet reinvents it with a personal touch. Our golden age is the eighteenth century – a century of proportion, clarity, and lightness. The “well-understood classic” remains the foundation from which modernity naturally emerges.
You are also a passionate collector of Italian design.
I often say that there is no such thing as “Italian design”: design is Italian. It was born from the encounter between visionary architects and an exceptional artisanal culture. It has influenced me profoundly. I admire Sottsass, Castiglioni, Mari, Munari. Sottsass, above all, pushed the frontier between art and design. He taught me that not everything must be functional – the non-functional can also be poetic.
I often compare Sottsass to Bach. When you look at one of his vases, it seems to be just an assemblage of primary forms – a cube, a cone, a cylinder – and pure colours. Yet no one has ever recreated that harmony. It’s like Bach’s Goldberg Variations: they appear free, almost improvised, but every note is meticulously calculated. That calibrated freedom is what I too seek in my projects.
You work on both private and public commissions. What is the difference between them?
Private work is a deeply personal relationship: the client projects desires, dreams, and memories onto the space. Public projects respond to broader economic and social dynamics, yet there is now a growing desire to humanise spaces, to give them a soul. Perhaps it’s because interior architects, who are used to designing homes, understand the psychology of space.
Where does a project begin?
With this (he shows a large pencil, ed). I always start by drawing by hand. Then I add words and images – photographs, artworks, fragments of memory. That’s my starting triangle. The fewer the elements, the stronger the project. I strive for a form of evidence, a natural clarity, where one no longer perceives the architect’s hand but only the logic of light and space.
And what is the ultimate goal?
To achieve perfect balance – a space where everything feels obvious, yet nothing is accidental. I like to think of my projects as akin to a composition by Mondrian or, again, a piece by Bach: complex in structure, simple in appearance. When a space “sounds right,” I know I have reached that ideal point.
How would you define your style?
I would call it “contextual.” I hope my projects are recognisable even though they differ from one another. I work with delicacy, respect, and an attentive eye for materials. I love Scarpa’s idea of the déjà-vu and Branzi’s Animali Domestici – that poetic notion of “domesticated” architecture, harmonious and balanced, where every element naturally finds its place.
Is there a field you haven’t yet explored that you would like to?
I’m fascinated by nomadic architecture – light, ephemeral structures made of fabric, like those of Frei Otto that we studied in the 1970s. Lately, I’ve also been intrigued by fashion shows: emotional architectures that communicate complex messages in just a few minutes. It’s pure architecture, in essence.
What are you working on today?
On the Fondation Bustamante in Arles, housed in a former church with Roman remains; on a Hispanic-style house in Miami, which we chose to preserve entirely; and on Le Cynon, a new five-star hotel in Paris opening soon. We’ve entered my favourite phase – selecting objects, music, artworks – the moment when a project truly comes to life.
