Decoration is about addition. Curation is about intention. When I design a space, I do not assemble objects to complete an image; I compose relationships to create meaning. My approach is built on a deliberate balance: roughly thirty percent custom-designed pieces, thirty percent sourced through my addresses around the world, and thirty percent editor-produced furniture. This mix is essential. Bespoke elements anchor the space architecturally. Sourced pieces introduce memory and soul. Editor pieces provide clarity and precision. Together, they create tension, depth, and coherence—beyond style, beyond decoration.

The difference between architecture and decoration is not a question of taste, but of structure. Decoration works on surfaces; architecture works on space itself. As an architect, I begin with volume, light, proportion and movement—not with objects or trends. Spatial identity is not defined by style, but by coherence: how a place is entered, crossed and experienced over time. Objects only gain meaning through their relationship to space. In an image-driven world, architecture resists immediacy. Style can be copied. Spatial identity cannot.

There are places you visit, and places that quietly become part of your life.
For me, Soho House belongs to the second category.

Living between cities reshapes your relationship to space. You stop being impressed by excess and start craving coherence. You look for places that allow you to land softly, without effort, without performance. Soho House understands this instinctively. It offers something rare: the feeling of being at home—wherever you are in the world.

Each House is deeply local, yet emotionally familiar. You recognize the atmosphere immediately. The lighting is never aggressive. The materials feel lived-in rather than staged. The spaces invite you to stay, not pass through. You can work, think, talk, or be silent without ever feeling out of place.

What I love most is how encounters happen naturally. You meet someone in an elevator in Rome. You share a drink on a rooftop in Barcelona. You linger in a patio in Mexico City, surrounded by the quiet strength of an ancestral home. Nothing is forced. Connection emerges from proximity, not intention.

Soho House represents a form of luxury that resonates deeply with me: discreet, intelligent, embodied. It’s not about being seen—it’s about feeling at ease. About comfort without stiffness, elegance without intimidation.

From the historic residences of Mexico City and São Paulo, to the vertical intensity of Rome, the beachside ease of Miami, and the intimate Pool House in Barcelona, each location reflects a different rhythm—yet the same philosophy.

In a world increasingly standardized, Soho House succeeds in something rare: creating a global home without erasing local soul. And for those of us who live in motion, that continuity is the ultimate luxury.

My relationship with brutalist architecture is rooted in experience rather than theory, shaped by a deep brutalism influence encountered through travel and observation. Within my brutalist architectural practice, I draw extensively from the lessons of Brazilian Brutalism and Mexican Brutalism, where architecture embraces mass, climate and structure with conviction. This exposure to raw concrete architecture reinforced my belief in clarity, permanence and restraint, and in an approach grounded in material honesty architecture, where structure is revealed rather than concealed. Today, this heritage informs a contemporary brutalist influence in my work — not as a stylistic statement, but as a disciplined framework guiding proportion, material choice and spatial intention.

Art Deco is often misunderstood. Reduced to a style, a period, a catalogue of motifs. For me, it is something else entirely. It is a way of thinking architecture — a balance between discipline and desire, geometry and sensuality, permanence and confidence. It is not something I reproduce. It is something that shaped my eye.

My relationship with Art Deco did not come from nostalgia. It came from observation. From traveling, from entering buildings where proportions felt right without being loud, where ornament never overwhelmed structure, where elegance was never fragile. Art Deco carries a form of authority — not authoritarian, but assured. It does not ask for attention. It holds its ground.

What attracts me first is its clarity. Art Deco architecture is built on strong lines, precise axes, deliberate compositions. Nothing is accidental. Every curve answers a line, every ornament follows a logic. This rigor is not cold; it is generous. It gives space its dignity. It allows materials to speak without excess.

My name is Benjamin Liatoud.
I am an architect, shaped by movement.

I did not build my eye in a single city or within a fixed framework. I built it by crossing places, cultures and rhythms. Paris taught me structure and proportion. Miami revealed light as a material. Los Angeles offered freedom of scale. Tel Aviv sharpened my sense of tension and restraint. Rio introduced me to sensuality and rawness. Madrid and Athens anchored my relationship to time, to layers, to permanence. Each city left something behind, and together they formed the way I see.

I graduated from the École d’Architecture de Lyon in 2003, but my practice has always extended beyond academia. Architecture, to me, is not an image or a statement. It is a lived discipline — one that engages the body, the hand, the material. I care about how spaces age, how materials respond to light, use and time, and how people truly inhabit what we build.

Art Deco has been a constant influence. Not as a style to quote, but as a mindset: a balance between elegance and rigor, ornament and structure, confidence and restraint. It carries a sense of permanence that resists trends and superficial gestures.

I am deeply attached to materials in their raw, honest form. Stone, wood, metal — materials with weight, grain and memory. I go to marble quarries. I spend time in workshops. I source, I touch, I test. I work closely with artisans, cabinetmakers, metalworkers and craftsmen whose knowledge cannot be replicated by catalogues or screens. My network is built on trust, proximity and time.

I also curate. I search for vintage furniture and objects that carry history and silence. Integrating them into contemporary spaces creates tension — between past and present, permanence and movement.

My work is nomadic, but never detached.
Each project belongs to its place, while remaining part of a coherent, evolving language.
Architecture, for me, is not about leaving a signature.
It is about learning how to see — and how to build accordingly.