I do not have positive experiences of sofa shopping. As with most things in life, this is the fault of my parents. Growing up, it seemed as though buying a new sofa was an ordeal. It was a project, a saga. Successive weekends would be lost to a slow trudge around showrooms, the novelty of launching oneself backwards to test cushions for comfort wearing off fast. When we did find something promising, our hopes would be dashed when a tape measure revealed that the blasted thing wouldn’t fit through our front door (it’s very narrow).
We only went through this experience a couple of times, but it left an impression. Sofas are impossible to buy, I concluded, and whatever you end up with will be a compromise.
Or so I thought. In June, Ligne Roset whisked me away to its headquarters in the South of France, and I now find myself consumed by the urge to go sofa shopping. How did they do it? How could a survivor of such terrible childhood sofa trauma become such a convert? Well, they gave me some context. When eight year old Gwen was spending her Saturdays in Sofas & Stuff, she didn’t have the foggiest idea of how or why those settees came into being, they had no backstory, there was no history. But the sofas at Ligne Roset’s Briord museum and outlet, Studio 180? Now, they gave Grown Up Gwen a reason to become emotionally invested.
Ligne Roset is a family company, now in its fifth generation. Originally an umbrella handle-making enterprise, it produced its first upholstered chair in 1936, and has kept innovating ever since. On my French trip, my fellow journalists and I were lucky enough to be given a tour of the archive by Olivier Roset, current co-CEO. He took us through the story of the brand, but along with the commercial message and sustainability credentials, we heard family anecdotes and stories of misadventure – much more endearing than tales of unblemished success.
The archive, like Olivier’s spiel, was an engaging mix of Greatest Hits and fondly remembered flops. Iconic pieces, such as the 1973 Michel Ducaroy Togo, were displayed alongside the 1991 Jean Nouvel Profil and 2001 Ronan et Erwan Bouroullec Faulteil, both of which performed poorly at market, a suspected consequence of Olivier’s uncle’s adoration – it is a family joke that any design he really loved wouldn’t sell.
The decision not to brush commercial failures under a rug was disarming. Instead of a self-congratulating monument to company achievements, the museum was a reflection of the commitment to experimentation and collaboration that Ligne Roset has practiced for over 160 years. The Profil and Faulteil may not appear in living rooms worldwide, but they are beautiful objects that are worth remembering.
Many of the highlights were from the 1970s, and some have been tweaked for re-editions, out this autumn. Our little tour group got very excited when two of our favourites, Michel Ducaroy’s Marsala and the ML 80 shelving system, were revealed to be up for reincarnation. In its original form, the Marsala had a plastic external frame and leather upholstery, but it is now reborn with a wood frame, and a choice of fabrics.
As one might expect, it is seen as both a blessing and a curse that the greatest area of consumer interest (excluding contract clients) is the midcentury hits. A whole host of new designs can be released, but at the end of the day, most people just want a Togo. The Togo, for the uninitiated, is a low-profile, many folded settee, which shocked the furniture industry of 1973 with its lack of frame and feet.
Even if you don’t know it by name, you know it (or its many imitators) by sight, and I encourage you to get to know it by seat. Prior to this trip, I had never sat on a Ligne Roset sofa. Perhaps this was the sole reason for my anti-sofa-shopping-sentiments. The Togo is a balm. My spine has never known peace like it. When I managed to tear myself away from it, I went around the Studio testing every other model, and I was not disappointed. Even seats that looked somewhat uncomfortable were wonderful. I had fun in a sofa shop; it was a shock when we left the building and saw precisely zero flying pigs.
So the lore (and supreme comfort) had piqued my interest, but it was in the factory where I started to feel a fascination developing. As a longtime fan of How It’s Made, Inside the Factory, and, of course, Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, I was quite excited to be taken around a furniture factory, but the Ligne Roset operation surpassed expectations. The warehouses were spread across a 45,000 square metre lot surrounded by vineyards, their interiors huge and airy with exposed beams and views of the countryside. The people inside weren’t covered in PPE, and appeared terribly relaxed. You could be forgiven for thinking not much was going on in there, but you’d be wrong. Just as the correct ingredients for baking a baguette are enshrined in French law, there is only one way to make a Ligne Roset sofa, the right way, and it cannot be rushed.
We watched as the most minute imperfections on each hide and roll of fabric were marked up by eye, every piece of timber checked and cut into planks on site – there wasn’t a single part of the process that didn’t require real care and attention. Perhaps the most impressive sight was the one-man show that is the upholstering of a Togo, a physical feat that takes years of training to perfect. I’m a sucker for anything that requires dedication to a craft. Be it a moon jar that took a potter decades to throw, or an iconic modular sofa, the knowledge that something took blood, sweat and tears moves me. Time to buy a Togo, and possibly a few other bits to keep it company – Ligne Roset make great lamps, too. Maybe I’ll treat my parents to a day out at the Bromley store…
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