Taking a cue from the land, the sun, and the glistening Mediterranean Sea, not established trend forecasters, interiors echo the splendor of France the way Mother Nature intended, many say.
Blue—once believed to keep all manner of misfortune away—lands in a wave of favorite shades, from the sapphire blue that bathes the sweeping coastline to the sky blue in the cloudless countryside to the violet blue of lavender beds faded by the sun. Splashes of balmy yellow, poppy red, and deeper claret shore up sites flooded with light, winning admiration, too.
Color also makes its way from faithfully tended vineyards, olive groves, and wheat fields, as well as orchards with the latest crop of peaches and plums. As if that weren’t enough, the shifting shades of leafy green offer even more decorating choices.
Finally, in a country entrenched in its fabled past, mellow old-world shades of ochre—whose pigments range from oxblood with undertones of brown to pale yellow—are coaxed from the earth into rooms where they vie for the right to have their say. Not that the color is limited to interiors—hardly. Seventeen painterly shades—including sienna, umber, and, not least, terra-cotta—swathe houses in the Lubéron village of Roussillon, whose rolling hills are an important resource for ochre sold around the globe.
While the color wheel is a universal tool considered helpful in pairing hues, the French maintain that world authorities cannot improve on nature, whose endless color possibilities coexist in harmony. As proof, they offer a chic mix of visual interest and drama, straying beyond conventional combinations to more distinctive, unexpected choices, after focusing on the use of the room and changing light, both natural and artificial.
No matter that more than a century ago French chemist Michel Eugène Chevreul’s pioneering work as director of Gobelin, the famous tapestry and carpeting manufacturer, contributed to the development of the color wheel. Given that France’s climate and terrain vary from region to region, most people prefer trusting their instincts—drawing color from nature’s schemes or the façades of historic sites.
Intense, saturated Mediterranean hues that can hold their own in the glaring sun fill dwellings in the South of France, where subdued tones can look lifeless and dull. By contrast, vibrant colors appear garish in Paris, which sits at about the same latitude as Seattle, and where a more formal, yet relaxed, spirit often pervades without splashes of gilding.
In the French capital as well as other places with moody weather, posh muted shades such as oatmeal, parchment, putty, and taupe project gracious, sophisticated airs that are anything but drab. Mixing subtle values of the same color appeals to the uptown sensibilities of Parisians, whose cosmopolitan style requires that wall finishes, fabrics, and furnishings simply complement each other rather than court attention.
In the pursuit of beauty, some scrape centuries of paint off walls, trying to unearth the original color, or at least one suggestive of what once was. Dozens more see no need to make any changes to a place filled with memories. Since most dwellings remain in the same family for generations, all see the charm in paying homage to the past while embracing the palette of France.
Fine furnishings and fabrics venture outdoors as the “Louis Soleil Collection” for Sutherland —on Regal Row in Dallas—makes its debut. Nickel-plated, weather-resistant, stainless steel nailheads adorn an al fresco Perennials stripe. The hand-carved teak frame—designed by award-winning John Hutton—is offered in numerous weathered finishes.
The Power of Color
Translated, an old French proverb proclaims, “A white wall is the fool’s paper,” not taking into account the hundreds of paint chips on the market that people might be left obsessing over—actually, enough to make some stick with white.
In a serendipitous turn, however, the adage also deserves credit for publicizing the power of color, which can make authoritative statements, alter outlooks, and help shrug off stress. It also can solve some irksome design problems—without moving walls, raising roofs, adding on, or making other structural improvements, which, in this world of uncertainty, is equally impressive.
A Pierre Deux toile lures hues from the South of France into a guest room. The trundle bed is new and the trunk antique.
It is a stretch to say, however, that any adage would ever hold the French hostage. Those who don’t subscribe to its view are quick to point out that white contains a spectrum of colors that change with the light, causing a room to appear gray at one time of day, green another. But even they readily acknowledge that to increase the sense of space, highlight admirable architecture, and quell ceiling shortcomings, it is worth adopting the following guidelines that make a room more inviting:
Light, less-than-intense cool colors—for instance, blue and green—make walls recede, giving quarters lacking square footage a far more spacious feel.
Dark, warm colors—red, orange, and yellow—do just the opposite. Advancing hues work overtime making generously sized rooms appear more intimate by absorbing light.
Rich, sun-drenched colors look best after dark lit by candles, picture lights, wall sconces, and carefully placed table and floor lamps, with dimmer switches adjusting lighting levels. During the day, deep colors accentuate cracks and patches on walls, as well as make ceiling imperfections difficult to ignore.
Daring, sizzling hues are worth thinking twice about, should the whim strike, unless one is living in a region with saturated light that blatantly demands colors as brilliant as the sun.
Walls and molding with minimum contrast—which means the latter painted just slightly deeper than the former—fashionably disguise nondescript trim and other surfaces lacking architectural panache, such as radiators. Avoiding visual rivalry also brings the illusion of height to a low-ceiling room. Some argue, knowingly, that mixing one-third to one-half a can of wall color to two-thirds to one-half a can of white perceptibly elevates a ceiling to even greater heights.
Conversely, a ceiling painted the same color as the walls seemingly lowers the ceiling. So, too, does painting it darker than the walls.
In spaces with sufficient light, a subtle shade of white works well as a frame for contrasting walls.
Garrets are not a place to experiment with bold, eye-popping colors, even when bathed in light. The same serene shade on walls and ceiling masks odd contours, increases the feeling of space, and leaves a room feeling tranquil, which is indeed the goal.
Enveloping walls and sloping ceilings in a small-scale patterned paper also creates an air of spaciousness that matches the mood of the times.
Glazing—a decorative painting technique whose quiet sheen colors a painted surface and adds depth—calls attention to crown molding and skirting worthy of praise. Whether or not the color contrasts with the walls, glazing is a necessary step to project the sought-after patina of age, many contend.
Trompe l’oeil—an optical illusion that does its utmost to delight the heart and arouse curiosity—makes a flat surface appear three-dimensional. In French, tromper means “to deceive or to trick”; l’oeil, “the eye.”
Appreciation for Texture
A room with few textures produces the feeling of space. But in the minds of the French, a fluid mix is far more pleasing and a pleasure worth pursuing, considering that a setting with all sleek finishes is unavoidably cold, while texture results in triumphant warmth.
As it happens, texture has a reputation for shaping rooms much as color, whose opposites attract. Yet, integrating disparate materials can be awkward, mostly because layering furniture, fabrics, and lighting requires pulling together more than myriad variations of rough and smooth. Unless contrasting finishes create the feeling of well-being, a setting can be jarringly off-putting—more shocking than charming.
In those awash in the signature extremes—light and heavy, hard and soft, coarse and shiny, refined and relaxed—harmony is the ultimate goal. Whether expressing passion for the ancien régime or a taste for Napoléon III and Empress Eugénie’s eclectic, overstuffed Second Empire (1852–70) splendor, French artistry demands juxtaposing soft, sensuous surfaces among those perceived severe—the more subtly, the better.
Venturing beyond the usual, a Louis Philippe clothing rack with cane inlay, dated 1845, puts a fashionable spin on a hallway wall.
Here’s how the French do just that and then some:
Faithful to their heritage, exquisitely fashioned, hand-forged railings wrap balconies and staircases, which is hardly surprising, given that the French gift for making magnificent objects from iron is well known.
Unassuming fireplaces, worn wood floors—sometimes laid in a herringbone pattern—and handsome, heavy doors clad in original fittings, unpretentiously speak for themselves.
In rooms with high ceilings, exposed wood beams fuse the warmth and charm of rural France with the unmistakably urbane sensibilities of Paris, conveying the feeling of a country house far from the capital.
Glazing lends an old-world aura to textured, hand-plastered walls, by reflecting light differently than paint depending on the base and top coats used. White walls layered in translucent biscuit, for instance, give the appearance of worn parchment. (For walls that lack character, American Clay Plaster in Albuquerque, New Mexico offers a formula easily mixed with water and troweled over most any primed surface including textured ceilings and old paint. Twelve standard colors imitate rough Provençal plaster or Venetian plaster.)
Venetian plaster—another decorative finish favorite—borrows alluring tints such as dove, ivory, and champagne from the luminosity of eighteenth-century silks, thus bestowing character.
Since dramatic textures attract more than their fair share of attention, most Parisians use them sparingly, perhaps offering a clue why today more people favor painted rather than splashy gilded furniture. Or why area rugs are more popular than carpeting running wall to wall.
Domestic furnishings are the norm. But a widely held attraction for hand-painted Italian country desks and commodes makes both increasingly difficult to find.
Reflective surfaces—crystal chandeliers, antique mirrors, and French forties coffee tables among them—multiple the light and city views. After being ignored for most of the twentieth century—mostly because they harbored memories of war and the German occupation of France (1940–44)—furnishings from the 1940s now outshine many collectables, recently prompting the French firm Pierre Frey to introduce a forties-inspired fabric collection. Mercury lamps and verre-églomisé vases (painted on the reverse side of the glass) also radiate fresh modernity.
Cut velvets make a bold statement, defining what it means to be fashionable.
Sumptuous silk-taffeta curtains—or window treatments in other fabrics with a glossy finish—catch available light, communicating an elegant, uptown spirit that complements deep moldings and elegantly carved boiserie glazed light gray, gray-green, or gray-blue.
Posh fabrics—some from the grand house of Braquenié—also rise to the occasion, tempering the stuffiness of oak-paneled boiserie, while casting parquet de Versailles floors and antique urns turned into lamps in new light with a gamut of stylish shades.
Soft, nubby weaves such as chenille, corduroy, twill, tweed, and wool cast shadows that absorb light, much like advancing hues. Although warm and welcoming, they appear casual, regardless of the colorway.
Natural linens in nature-inspired hues also evoke a carefree manner. And cottons even more so; plain or patterned, they do the same.
Clearly, there isn’t much chintz in Parisian flats. Nor are there many bold florals. Stripes, spots, plaids, and checks bring pizzazz to relaxed areas, though the look depends upon their scale and the most prominent textile.
Authentically French, monochromatic toiles de Jouy (pronounced twälz-da-‘zhwee) grace furniture, lamp shades, and walls. Story-telling rural and mythological etched scenes—printed in sepia, red, violet, aubergine, or indigo on the finest cotton ground—originated in the eighteenth century Oberkampf factory in the town of Jouy-en-Josas, near Versailles.
Color-drenched cotton prints called indiennes—first produced in seventeenth-century India and then imported to France, look right at home in laid-back Provence. In Parisian circles, seldom are they seen.
An eighteenth-century fascination with China led to a fondness for chinoiserie, which remains en vogue to this day. The curved shapes of fish, birds, flowers, and pagodas offset harsher lines.
Whether adorning the skirt of a sofa, an ottoman, or a chair, nothing softens tailored silhouettes like deep bullion fringe. It also dresses up a room.
Without looking as if it is trying, fringe mitigates hard edges on throw pillows while camouflaging seams and zippers, which are hardly chic.
Though often perceived as poor relations of their more refined neighbors, the humble sit across from the grand, the ordinary across from the extraordinary, unobtrusively imparting French flair yet making it clear that good taste is not about personal wealth or visual extravagance.
Mellow wood pieces with warm, varied patinas promote the image that a setting has evolved over time. Simultaneously, they ground a room with light walls.
While two wood pieces sitting side by side gives rise to the sense that something is amiss, fabric separating wood finishes erases any hint of a rivalry.
Most important, finishes need space to breathe. Seemingly, only then can texture influence the character of a room in a positive way.