A manifesto to live in: in Clichy, Louis Denavaut turned his own apartment into a testing ground.

A resident of the town for ten years, the interior architect ran this project with no brief and no client other than himself and his family. Forty square metres to begin with, one hundred and ten today, extended by fifty-five square metres of roof terrace. A year of work, carried from start to finish at his own pace.

The extension is written in clear volumes. Large glazed bays open the living space due south, while windows cut at terrace level bring light from above and remove any overlooking. The resulting double-height volume is crossed by a mezzanine with a perforated metal floor, which filters the light and sends it back down, softened, to the table.

Materials are chosen for rightness rather than prestige. Terrazzo underfoot, brushed stainless steel drawn to measure for the kitchen, ordinary tile used without apology in the spirit of Ettore Sottsass, pop green mosaic on the terrace, borrowed from the platforms of the RER and the métro. Nothing precious here: everything is alive, stains and takes on the patina of time.

The furniture follows the same logic. A dining table with a marble top, a dressing room, a linen pendant, a resin coffee table: the architect draws what is missing rather than going looking for it. Around them, a Tulipe sofa by Eero Saarinen, chairs by Enrico Pellizzoni, a nineteenth-century family portrait. A collection that follows no school, only use.

The project says the essential about the way he works: spaces to be tamed slowly, the influence of Alvar Aalto, a taste for places that feel like workshops. Domestic architecture that does not seek to impress, and that lasts.