Le salon par excellence is, indeed, a work of art, inspired by France’s storied culture and splendid architecture. Most often, however, tangible links to caring ancestors who lived centuries apart make the most abiding impression.
Unlike family cast-offs that dwell in American homes only until we can afford to replace and easily forget them, the French treat long-adored furnishings as pieces of history fit to reign forever in the most coveted spots.
But, then, who could be-grudge a regal armoire, the celebrated source of Gallic pride, the opportunity to pay homage to France with its magnificence? Built in the thirteenth-century for storing armor, the armoire has risen to iconic status since becoming emblematic of French country life.
Variations abound, though some stand apart. Most prized of all are those with deep carving, shaped tops, and the patina of age—the distinctive luster resulting from centuries of exposure to heat, humidity, and light, to say nothing of oil from loving hands, being that the first thing people often do is touch a piece of furniture. Yet, even an armoire that might not ordinarily merit a second look can lend a bit of grandeur when privy to a well-documented pedigree or tales of its meanderings.
No matter that it inevitably overshadows other elements in the room. For centuries, the French have favored large-scale furnishings of noble proportions. Even in small rooms, generously sized furnishings look stately, not stuffy. And, how could it be otherwise? As large châteaux throughout France have given rise to smaller maisons and less-spacious apartments, it stands to reason that furniture would still have the imposing look expected when the custom of handing down family heirlooms remains unchanged.
Predictably, then, the armoire isn’t the only heirloom reestablishing its pre-eminence. Rock-crystal (colorless quartz) chandeliers, trumeaux (painted overmantels), and screens with painted scenes offer the reassuring feel of the familiar while making dramatic statements. Age-old tapestries peering down from walls paint salons with further importance.
In those that want for nothing, chairs of different sizes and ages are tell-tale signs that sites have evolved over time. Matching ensembles—namely anything indistinguishable from the next, including five-piece place settings of the same china and pairs of side tables—hold no interest. Nor, it seems, do many reproductions of originals.
With insistence on quality inherent in French genes, people are remarkably disciplined—capable of living for years without a rug, tapestry, commode or other object of desire until one that is truly loved comes along, meaning one finely crafted, with presence, and the patina of age. To their way of thinking, it is inexcusable to live in a house full of meaningless pieces with no ties to the past, and even worse, one furnished at a hurried pace with pricey objects lacking character.
A chic living room with furnishings crafted in eighteenth- and nineteenth-century France exudes glamour at its twenty-first-century best. Stenciled walls have the faded look of antique textiles.
A tight view of stenciled walls pictured above, by Houston artist Bee Morrow.
In bygone eras, imperial-looking récamiers, settees, bergères (fully upholstered armchairs with enclosed sides and exposed wood frames), fauteuils (upholstered armchairs with open sides) stiffly hugged the perimeter of a room. These days, artfully grouped seating—including ottomans and chaise lounges parked in front of fireplaces—makes it easy for a people with a passion for intellectualizing and appreciation for the decorative arts to discuss most anything, including pressing concerns. Ingrained in polite society is an aversion to talking about personal finances or materialistic attachments, however.
While some people prefer letting bare parquet de Versailles or stone put on their own floor show, others are drawn to the beauty of hand-loomed Orientals. Most, though, favor timeworn Savonnerie area rugs, once woven for royalty, and faded Aubussons with their tapestry-like weave that add an air of dignity.
Yet with the country’s 10 million dogs, or one for every six citizens, clearly having the run of houses, practicality is often a weighty consideration influencing design choices.
Nostalgia aside, durable sisal sprawled across hardwood floors suggests a laissez-faire lifestyle. Humble jute, coir, and sea grass—used for centuries—also epitomize today’s easy ways. Not everyone loves natural grass rugs, however. Dozens find the texture too abrasive for bare feet and infants’ knees, causing it to lose some of its cachet.
Tailored slipcovers with lush detailing—piping, corner pleats, and flat rather than frilly skirts—aim to protect seating with luxurious fabrics and impressive detailing hidden underneath. For that matter, they also camouflage weary furniture, giving pieces a fresh look far less expensively than replacing or reupholstering. At their intimate best, they fit sofas, chairs, and ottomans perfectly.
Even tightly edited spaces host heroic-sized family portraits and photographs in frames, freshly cut flowers arranged en masse, and well-read books heaped high on coffee tables that are roomy enough to hold chess boards.
Sturdy side tables that withstand the rigors of playful, ever-present dogs offer places for wine glasses, plates of cheese and pâtés, and magazines. Always there are plump pillows—stitched from various vintage textiles—to rest against and throws draped in a romantic fashion, not by chance.
With the obsession for detail for which they are legendary, the French have a seemingly endless ability to make decorating appear effortless—an attribute not easy to come by—particularly for a people deliberate in their thinking.
Light pours into a library where old-world comfort and warmth meet and a leather chair holds sway. There is no doubt that this room differs from the one where French novelist Victor Hugo (1802–50) wrote The Hunchback of Notre Dame and Les Misérables.
The Best-Dressed Windows
Central to the salons that harbor them, billowing window treatments screen unappealing views, guard privacy, filter direct sunlight, and, not least, solicit admiring glances. With or without dangling passementerie (trimming and tassels) cascading down leading edges, they hang as glamorously as exquisitely constructed ball gowns, dazzling the eye while revealing the French’s celebrated fascination with beauty.
Until not so long ago, most every Parisian apartment with parquet de Versailles floors and portes fenêtres (floor-to-ceiling windows) that resemble doors, resounded with grandiose curtains that not only seemed to outweigh some segments of the population but also did more for the fabled textile mills hidden outside Lyon than imagined. No more.
In a sign of the times, perhaps, settings appear less opulent lately. Conspicuously missing are elaborate over-the-top cornices hovering above windows, swags (fabric lengths spilling in front of the glass), and jabots (side pieces framing the pane) that many people nowadays consider the height of pretension and a bit much for rooms with precious little floor space. Even valences—certainly a staple in English country houses—are becoming passé. Like cornices, they have a way of vis-ually lowering ceilings, not to mention making windows appear shorter than they are.
These days, fabrics framing towering doors and windows plunge from ceiling to floor, exalting simplicity. Yes, some curtains with utmost style tumble from eye-catching gilded poles accompanied by carved finials worthy of the past. But still more descend quietly from iron rods and rings. Although points of view vary on rod placement, one glance confirms that the smartest curtains fall from as close to the ceiling molding as possible, making even small rooms look somewhat grander.
A tight of library curtains with dash.
Dressmaker headings run the gamut from pencil pleats whose narrow columns create fullness, to fancier pleats pinched at the top, to painstakingly smocked headings where stitched latticework creates a pattern. What makes all exceptionally alluring are some essential characteristics:
To preserve natural light, curtains extend beyond the width of the window twelve to fifteen inches on each side, unfailingly mirroring the scale of the room rather than upsetting its proportions.
For très chic richness, workrooms ceremoniously calculate fabric at two-and-a-half—and more often than not, three—times the distance from one end of the curtain rod to the other, including returns—the space from the face of the rod to the wall. There’s no skimping on fabric. What’s more, the French freely confess that they are not apt to purchase expensive textiles and then fabricate curtains themselves.
Light streaming in windows silhouettes the beauty of lace. But when it comes to airy sheers or gauzy fabrics that the French call voilage—voile, organdy, muslin, batiste—quadrupling a window’s width insures privacy.
Au courant stripes—which Napoléon loved to tout—make their own fashion statement while luring ceilings into appearing taller than reality.
Working together, lining and hidden interlining block light, absorb sound, help prevent sun damage, and turn a casual window treatment into couture. But an unexpected lining—such as an irresistible plaid taffeta peeking from behind a solid silk or wool—alone, adds surprising splendor.
Lest one wonder: Weights stitched in deep, deep hems insure that curtains drape gracefully and then turn under in soft folds.
Curtains simply brush the floor or “break” no more than three inches. It seems those that “puddle” on hardwoods invariably create niches for pampered pooches to sleep. Regardless, the French scoff at curtains that stop short!
Passementerie—rooted in fashion—rouses interest. Tassels hark back to the time of the ancient Egyptians, when they spared embarrassment by snugly keeping royal robes in place. These days, elegant tiebacks and trims have nothing to do with modesty.
Though not as showy as their fringe cousins, braids and tapes supply artful, finished borders with striking individuality.
Narrow piping running down leading edges and streaming across the floor eliminates the need to justify the cost of tempting trim. In the words of twentieth-century tastemaker Sister Parish, “Curtains must always have an edge or an ending,” trumpeting a principle of French design that American designers never tire of repeating.
In French eyes, less-than-perfectly-straight seams, a pattern that fails to match, or fringe sewn in a questionable manner is any window treatment’s undoing.
Handsome natural shades are in keeping with today’s less-is-more look, or a yearning for minimalism.
Dressed up or even dressed down, Roman shades block the sun’s rays and soften windows where curtains would get in the way or simply look like black holes at night. Those mounted with inside brackets draw attention to impressive molding, while shades mounted outside the casing—as close to the ceiling molding as possible—make a window look larger without obstructing either the light or view.
As if to push a short window to the limit, mounting a Roman shade under the curtains gives the window presence. Once again, the guiding rule seems to be that both should be mounted as close to the ceiling as possible.
Contrary to expectations, suddenly, balloon shades have joined the ranks of over-the-top window treatments—seldom welcome anywhere.
The Fine Art of Exhibiting Art
With its renowned museums and highly respected art galleries, Paris has long been a paradise for art lovers and artists. It wasn’t until 1850, though, that the first gallery opened. Earlier, struggling artists faced the daunting task of finding venues where they could exhibit their work. The needs of those in the art world spurred France’s art schools, better known as academies, to hold annual and sometimes semiannual exhibitions, or salons.
Among the most esteemed was the Paris salon, where artists selected by a jury jostled for recognition on soaring walls stacked high with art. Since capturing visitors’ attention virtually assured demand for an artist’s work, competition was fierce for coveted eye-level spots.
Reportedly, the jury dismissed artists Pierre-Auguste Renoir, Claude Monet, Alfred Sisley, Jean Bazille, Camille Pissarro, Paul Cézanne, and Edouard Manet, whose distinctive, unorthodox way of capturing light en plein-air went against established tastes. To appease them, Napoléon III (1852–70) founded the now-famous “Salon des Refusés,” (Salon of the Refused), in 1863, which encouraged the French and others to view the Impressionists with new understanding, thus shifting public perception, albeit reluctantly.
Nevertheless, to this day Europeans stack paintings and drawings high on walls and over doors in a manner called salon style. Meanwhile, on this side of the Atlantic, works of art loom in a modern fashion—that is, in a single row surrounded by ample space.
Mixing the humble and the grand, Flemish paintings grace a powder room’s walls. Giving new meaning to unassuming, Dallas decorative artists Joe Mear and Kim Morgan covered the walls with grocery sacks, then applied overlays of metallic tempera paint. The commode is antique.
Either way, displaying works of art is an art in itself, much harder than it looks, even for a people seemingly having a sixth sense for style. It is hardly any wonder, then, that the French borrow tips from none other than their famous museums that offer timeless lessons in placing art, any more than that they add a few ideas of their own:
Paintings make a stronger impression when congregated together, hung inches apart, rather than scattered around the room.
Some of the strongest groupings mass similar subjects—say, landscapes, ladies, children, fruit, animals, birds, flowers, not to mention tightly arranged botanicals or architectural plates—creating a focus of their own. This is not to say that collections must be single-minded to fuse seamlessly; only that a sole subject offers an organizing principle.
Indeed, decking a wall with a thought-provoking composition of oil paintings, watercolors, gouaches, and drawings can shape a single arrangement.
Large or small, a work of art that eclipses the rest—in value or in sentiment—is worthy of pride of place at the center of a grouping, readily drawing the attention of those entering the room. The honor is a testament to its significance.
A small painting hung beneath a larger one arouses interest. Naturally, it is best to view some artwork at a distance, other work close up.
Different-sized frames arranged in a rectangle—either horizontal or vertical—create a sense of order. (In horizontal groupings with a modern twist, an imaginary line separates two rows: the bottoms of the top row of frames hang in a straight line, and the top of frames in the lower row form a straight line. Generally, between the rows, there is about eight inches of space. In a vertical grouping, the outer edges of frames line up.)
Many museums insist on pairing works with frames from the same period. Not that this is an easy thing to do. It is rare to find age-appropriate frames in the flea markets, mostly because not many survived the French Revolution, much less two world wars.
A frame should never overshadow the art. Then again, an impressive frame can garner added respect for a less-than-important work of art by giving it a stronger presence.
For pared-down simplicity, a stretched canvas can hang frameless against a backdrop of dramatic architecture.
An ancestral portrait need not be by Elisabeth Louise Vigée Le Brun (1755–1842), Queen Marie Antoinette’s favorite portraitist, to perch on an antique easel. Most any generous painting can offset a tall wood piece across the room or interrupt the line of furniture all the same height.
The idea of propping paintings on fireplaces reaches back to seventeenth-century England. At the time, lofty gilt mirrors hung above smoke-stained chimneypieces in France’s grandiosely paneled rooms, coloring the capital’s gray light. Sometimes boiserie had oil paintings inset. Paintings also adorned the tall, narrow spaces between windows, as they still do. But these days, works of art often stand on fireplaces, too.
The French are ever mindful that direct sunlight never falls on prints, watercolors, or textiles. Fading, yellowing, and foxing can result from overexposure to light; heat can crack oil paintings.
Although not all works of art need be illuminated in identical ways, low-voltage picture lights often hang above paintings in France. Meanwhile, lighting has gone high-tech in museums and homes here in the United States.
The French traditionally receive and entertain guests in le salon, where style flows from a penchant for detail.