Yana Karnaukhova: Zoé, you graduated from architecture school in 2010, yet founded your own studio only in 2021.
What was the decisive impulse, the moment when you finally took the leap?

Zoé Wolker: I graduated in architecture in Moscow in 2010, after which I began working with architect Alexey Ginzburg — a representative of the Constructivist generation. It was a strong school. In 2013, I co-founded an architectural practice with a partner, and for seven years we worked on private houses, interiors, and development projects. It was during that time that I realized my true focus was not on large-scale exteriors, but on the inner environment — the space that concentrates within, connecting the shell with life.
Interior design demanded attentiveness to detail, patience, and it was there that my own signature began to take shape. Gradually, it became clear that architecture, with its long cycles, was too inert for my sensitivity, while working with space from within gave a more accurate and honest response. At some point, I felt the need to follow my own path — and that is how my studio was founded in 2020.
The desire to go beyond a familiar context had existed for a long time. I have always felt like a citizen of the world: from an early age I traveled extensively, studied architectural and museum spaces, hotels, new projects around the globe. Choosing Lisbon was no coincidence: the edge of Europe, a city where light and topography create a meditative atmosphere. The quality of air, the rhythm, the culture — all are different here. This transition was a natural step for me: an inner readiness coinciding with the external context.

YK: How has Lisbon and its architectural fabric — a city where the Tagus River meets the Atlantic Ocean — shaped your perspective?

ZW: After Moscow, where everything was concentrated on speed and pressure, here I felt grounded and found the space to focus on my goals, to listen to my inner voice and understand more clearly where to move next. I have always been fascinated by the idea of living several lives within one. Moving to another country brings exactly that sensation: as if you begin a new life, rediscover yourself, live out another soul in different circumstances. Lisbon, for me, became not just a new stage, but a complete transformation — the noise disappeared, and clarity emerged.

YK: Looking back at your very first projects, what lesson has proven to be the most enduring? And when did you first feel that in design “enough” matters more than “more”?

ZW: My first projects taught me to listen to space. I discovered that excess destroys integrity, while completeness arises at the moment when the space begins to resonate on its own — without additional ornament or explanation. “Enough” proved to be deeper and more honest than “more”: it is a state in which form remains open to life, ready to absorb human energy and become its extension. My role is not to create an absolute, but to set a foundation, an atmosphere where this interaction can unfold naturally.

YK: Today, your philosophy is built on balancing aesthetics and rationality, on consciously rejecting trends. What do you replace fashion with in your practice — your archive of typologies, your own vocabulary of proportions, or something more intuitive?

ZW: I never put trends at the forefront. For me, design is a search for clarity of form, not a reflection of fleeting tendencies. The balance between aesthetics and rationality is born at the edge of intuition and experience: in proportions, textures, light — when they suddenly come into dialogue and find inner precision. This moment cannot be calculated by formula — it arrives when the inner argument disappears and only the pure sensation remains: yes, this is how it should be. That is my compass, my personal design vocabulary.

YK: You often speak about energy flowing through space. How does it manifest for you in practice — in light, in acoustics, in the tactility of materials, or in the personality of the person inhabiting the space every day?

ZW: When I begin a project, I imagine myself within its full cycle: day and night, the change of seasons, the movement of the body through the interior. For me, it is crucial that energy flows unhindered, so I always start with the layout — it is the skeleton upon which everything depends. Proportions, height-to-width ratios, passage widths, wall thicknesses — these parameters form the sense of flow. I often use niches and openings so that energy can enter and exit freely, creating a rhythm of breathing.
Then comes light. I analyze where it comes from, how it falls throughout the day, how it transforms surfaces. Space becomes interactive — it responds to a person, making them notice details. Materials and tactility enhance this effect: you want to touch, to feel the texture.

YK: Your projects span Kazakhstan, Portugal, and the Balearics. How do the culture and climate of these places influence proportions, materials, and the scenarios of living within a space?

ZW: Each project is a laboratory for me. In Kazakhstan, I am working on a mountain hotel for snowmobilers — several hundred square meters, a restaurant, new rooms, and a bath complex. There is a masculine energy, the scale of the landscape, reflected in massive wood, metal, and rough textures. Yet it was also essential to create a place for restoration — a new breath before the next day — hence the renovation of the bathhouse. This is also an experience of working with another scale: commercial, with different budgets, requiring balance between aesthetics and optimization. For me, this has been both a challenge and a school of management.
In Portugal, everything is different. I work on private villas, and the focus shifts to craftsmanship: wood, ceramics, vintage finds, handmade work. The climate and light demand another kind of sensitivity — attentive, intimate.
On Mallorca, I worked on the renovation of a 40-meter yacht. That was a confrontation with different constraints: the geometry of the hull, ergonomics, weight balance. We introduced new proportions — replacing a bathtub with a spacious marble counter with two sinks and a shower, adding low sofas, a custom steel dining table, unique Apparatus lighting. Semi-satin cherry preserved a connection to the past interior, while new materials brought freshness.

YK: Let’s turn to your AME collection, which is built on the dialogue between form and light. Why did this particular pair become your point of departure?

ZW: Even as a student, I was struck by an exercise: drawing Houdon’s plaster head with its faceted planes, each catching light and shadow differently. That was the first time I realized that form can be “alive,” because it never repeats itself. I carried this discovery into the AME Collection. My pieces are built on geometry but come alive through light: no surface looks the same, every interaction with light creates a new impression.

YK: Steel objects carry both a cold power and a soft plasticity. How do you reconcile metal with the feeling of domestic warmth?

ZW: Metal is often perceived as cold, and that very sensation interests me in transformation. In a pouf, for instance, I combine a steel base with a cowhide cushion: a tactile contrast where hardness and softness work together to create balance. In other objects, I use brushed surfaces that don’t produce sharp reflections but instead distort reality. Light breaks on them, reflections soften and become plastic, and metal ceases to be cold — it begins to act as a living, warm surface that absorbs the atmosphere of space.

YK: The lacquered dark-chocolate pieces appear almost gastronomic. For you, is this about taste, about the play of light and shadow, or about the discipline of color?

ZW: For me, this is about sensuality above all. Color operates on several levels: its temperature, depth, and degree of gloss evoke different perceptions. Gloss amplifies the effect — surfaces reflect their surroundings, distortions become a story. These objects live as architectural gestures on a smaller scale: they interact with space and become active participants. I chose this color intuitively: neither black nor brown, but something about warmth, depth, taste.

YK: You describe AME as “gallery” furniture. Where, in your view, lies the boundary between the collectible and the utilitarian?

ZW: I see collectible design as closer to art than to utility. Yes, these objects can serve a function — you can sit on them or use them. But their essence lies elsewhere. Each piece is born as an artistic statement: created to evoke emotion, transform perception of light and space, and become part of an experience. This is why collectible design cannot be reduced to the formula “function + aesthetics.” Function is secondary here — it coexists but does not define. To me, collectible design is art that may allow utility into itself, but is never defined by it.

YK: Portuguese craft workshops played a significant role in the birth of the collection. How did this dialogue unfold — what was determined by the drawing, and what emerged during the making process?

ZW: The dialogue with workshops was an essential part of the collection. I bring drawings and proportions, but during production, questions arise that must be resolved on site. For example, in the pouf with a fur cushion, I wanted the central rib to continue into the fur as a line. Regular cutting could not achieve the desired effect, so we invited a barber to “trim” the fur like hair. For a workshop with twenty years’ experience, this was a new experiment, as it was for me. Such moments generate new knowledge and shape future approaches.

YK: The series is limited, and each piece requires 12–14 weeks to produce. Is this more a matter of process quality, or of the ritual of anticipation?

ZW: For me, it is primarily about uniqueness. I consciously avoid mass production: collectible design is closer to art, and art cannot be created in series. When a workshop pauses its flow for a single object, it requires time, respect, patience. Portugal taught me to embrace this: waiting means valuing the process. This rhythm highlights the object’s exclusivity, turns production into a ritual, and creates an atmosphere of anticipation that becomes part of the experience.

YK: Today you are simultaneously working on a hotel and a restaurant in Kazakhstan, private residences in Portugal, and a yacht reconstruction in the Balearics. Which of these projects do you perceive as a laboratory for experimentation?

ZW: Each of these projects was an experiment. Kazakhstan is about scale and collective energy. Portugal is a laboratory of craft and detail. The yacht was a new experience of working with confined space and unique ergonomics. Each became a platform for trying new things and discovering new facets of myself.

YK: What is specific about working with public spaces compared to private ones? Where does the axis of meaning shift first in a project?

ZW: In private projects, I work with intimacy and detail — with the client’s personal story, habits, biography. In public projects — a hotel, restaurant, yacht — the focus shifts: the space must work for many people at once, withstand multiple scenarios and temperaments. The axis of meaning changes: it is not only about aesthetics, but also functionality, logistics, flow.

YK: Speaking of the yacht — what proved to be the greater challenge: the geometry of the hull, or the need to embed the aesthetics of “quiet luxury” into a confined volume?

ZW: Renovating a 40-meter yacht was a challenge on multiple fronts. On one hand, the geometry of the hull and ergonomic restrictions; on the other, the client’s wish for a contemporary interior with understated elegance. For me, it became an exercise in architectural rethinking: rebuilding proportions and creating new scenarios of living within an existing hull.
We redesigned the layout, reimagined bathrooms: replacing an outdated central tub with a wide marble countertop with two sinks, striking mirrors, and a shower. In the salon, we used lacquered wood to enhance light and depth, while the bathroom gained a sculptural centerpiece — a cabinet finished in liquid metal. All furniture was custom-designed: low soft sofas, a steel-edged dining table for six. The atmosphere was shaped by Apparatus bronze lighting and bespoke light fixtures created for the project.
The renovation became not just an update but a complete architectural statement: every line and surface working toward unity, complex forms and subtle materials merging in harmony.

YK: In your design process, there comes a moment when you stop arguing with yourself and “freeze” the form. How do you sense that moment?

ZW: For me, it is not about perfection but about a moment of inner silence. All the answers are already within us — what matters is being in a time and space free of external noise. Portugal taught me to recognize this impulse. When form suddenly begins to “resonate,” to flow naturally and without resistance — it means the inner argument is over. That feeling of fluidity and response becomes the signal of completion.

YK: For many, sustainability is just a slogan. For you, is it more a matter of ethics or of craft?

ZW: I do not see sustainability as a trendy slogan about recycling or saving the world. For me, it is a matter of honesty and depth. Art is not measured by speed or volume, but by value and longevity. If an object is created from materials that endure and crafted with respect for the hand, it is already sustainable. My mission is not to save the world, but to create beauty that lasts and resonates with people here and now.

YK: On your website, there is a section called Observations. Is it more of a visual diary of inspiration, or a design tool?

ZW: Observations is not a tool for me but a diary — an honest record of lifestyle, impressions, and details that surround me. It is a source of inspiration, but not only for me: through these observations I connect with people who respond to the same images and values. That is how contacts, collaborations, and team growth are born. There is no strategic calculation in this section, only a sincere reflection of what nourishes me and what I wish to share.

YK: Which channels of inspiration — books, photography, music — are always close at hand in your studio?

ZW: Above all — books. Photographic albums on architects and interiors, biographies, rare small-edition journals. I consider myself closer to a conservative generation and prefer “slow sources”: paper instead of digital. Turning pages is like cleansing perception, returning to focus.
The second channel — museums and hotels. I love spaces where architecture is experienced physically: light, acoustics, materials become part of the body. One of the strongest impressions this summer was Josephine’s house in Malmaison, Napoleon’s wife: the unity of interior and garden, complete immersion in history.
And, of course, cinema. For many years I have held onto the thought: “Cinema watches us.” Through it we meet ourselves, live through our own states via the stories of others. For me, cinema is not entertainment but a journey of self-discovery.

YK: If AME were a musical score, what kind of music would it be?

ZW: I think of music as a wave — a sequence of tensions and pauses. In AME, this wave is created by light: it slides across facets, reflects, fades, returns — and you hear a “silent rhythm.” I have always admired Donald Judd’s glass works: reflections becoming almost acoustic. In this sense, AME is a chamber minimalist score: the steady pulse of geometry, variations of timbre on the surface; reflections as short accents, matte areas as “pauses of silence.”

YK: “Simplicity is the ultimate sophistication,” said Leonardo da Vinci. How does this statement resonate with your practice?

ZW: For me, simplicity is not minimalism for its own sake, but concentration. It is achieved through the refusal of the unnecessary, allowing form to sound with clarity.

YK: What projects do you dream of realizing in the coming years — and how will they differ from what you have already done?

ZW: I am currently working on two villas in Portugal — in Alentejo and Cascais. These are different processes: one is being built almost from scratch, the other renovated. What unites them is the trust of clients, which for me is as important a material as the object or the light.
In the coming years, I am interested in working with the European climate — in France, Italy, Portugal. The theme of spa spaces especially inspires me: holistic architectures of restoration, where light, water, acoustics, and materials compose a sequence of states. Such a project would allow me to explore more deeply how architecture influences the body’s rhythm and sense of calm.
In design, I want to continue with collectible pieces: exploring textures, light, reflections, creating objects as independent gestures. My ambition is for a museum presence. I create works as enduring forms that enter into dialogue with space and time, continuing to live and resonate even after me.

YK: How do you envision the evolution of your studio over the next ten years?

ZW: For me, the studio is a living organism at the intersection of interiors and collectible design. Architecture exists more as a dialogue than as an end in itself. It is important to me that growth does not destroy coherence: the studio must preserve the clarity of an authorial line, not dissolve into an impersonal structure. This is not expansion for scale’s sake, but deepening.
Geography for me is open: Portugal as a base, Paris as a cultural stage, New York as a space of experimentation. I want the studio to remain an authorial stage where architecture, design, and art converge to create new ways of inhabiting beauty.
I am demanding, with high standards for myself and my work. I want people beside me who are not afraid of complexity, who strive for depth, who are ready to create not just projects but enduring beauty.

YK: If you could ask your future self one question, what would it be, and with what project would you want to answer it?

ZW: I would ask: Have I succeeded in creating forms that outlive time? Not just interiors or furniture, but objects and spaces that continue to live beyond me, to interact with people, and to remain in history.