“Were it not for shadows, there would be no beauty.” *

It’s Sunday, late afternoon. Light and darkness engage in languid conversation. My favourite time of day. Shadows stretch into the house, softly fading the rooms, washing the walls and floors with blurry patterns. Vague appearances emerge behind old doors. I can’t quite touch them, nor am I supposed to. They’re melancholy ghosts who belong to Lescure’s timeless poetic realm, not its linear reality.

I quite like not being able to see everything clearly, to live under a muted veil, with ambiguity and mystery. At night, the château is always only dimly lit. Shutters and sheer linen curtains diffuse harsh sunlight and glare during the day. The old wooden floors aren’t polished to shiny perfection, but have been given a softer finish with natural oil. And rather than add new and shiny objects, we’ve decorated with natural materials and the worn patina of antiques, every object calm and soothing.

I find solace in the hushed beauty of the house. Shrouded in the softness of the shadows, I’m offered a glimpse of Lescure’s twilight plane of existence, revealing precisely what needs to be revealed and no more.

*In Praise of Shadows, Junichiro Tanizaki (1933)