“If I lose the vibe, I don’t want to do it anymore. I need to believe in it to wake up in the morning.”

It comes as no surprise — given that he is the son of one of the most ahead-of-his-time designers of the 20th century — that Benjamin Paulin is deeply guided by a forward-thinking instinct and a drive to push design into new territory.

Born to Pierre Paulin and his wife Maïa, Benjamin’s early years were far from ordinary. His childhood home in Paris’s 5th arrondissement was a playground for his father’s creativity, which in turn, he says, gave him a perspective that the world and his place within it were open to his own interpretation. “I grew up in an environment where there was no such thing as religion, certainties, or strong views on how people were different or who was ‘the best,’” he says.

As a teenager, that worldview led him to leave school to pursue a career in music. “It was mostly French rap,” he says, noting that ultimately his genre of choice wasn’t a particularly lucrative pursuit.

Just before his father’s passing in 2009, the Paulin family, including Benjamin’s mother and his wife, Alice, came together to create “Paulin, Paulin, Paulin” — a company dedicated to developing, producing, and selling the late designer’s creations, some of them previously unseen.

Now, Benjamin is fusing two significant parts of his life together, uniting design and music for his latest project, “Sounds Like Paulin.”

Sounds Like Paulin, a collaborative music concept, came together organically. Benjamin was beginning to move in circles with musicians he found personally inspiring, after they’d reached out about his father’s work. “I heard people were going to the Miraval recording studio specifically because our sofa was there,” he says. “It started as a joke, and I thought I should make a studio in my house so they would come to me.” And so he did.

Sounds Like Paulin soft-launched during Milan Design Week 2025, when he took over a Milanese apartment, complete with a cream boucle Tapis-Siège seating system and a khaki-colored Alpha sofa. Perched on a desk was some recording equipment used by artists, such as Italian rapper Ghali, who passed through during the festival at Benjamin’s invitation.

Back in Paris, the project set up shop inside the family home — a bright, four-level space in the city’s 12th arrondissement. Located down a small side street and set back from the road, the house has a plain white front bearing nothing but a tiny “Paulin Paulin Paulin” graphic sticker. Getting access to the studio is a relatively low-key process. If artists want to visit, they simply contact Benjamin, and he makes it happen. “Any genuine connection can lead here; it is not limited to superstar singers or rappers,” he says. “We are drawn to a wide spectrum of musical expressions. There are no rules; it can be about spending time together, talking, taking part in our project, recording one’s own work, or something else entirely.”

This approach echoes his father’s intention for his design work; Benjamin doesn’t see his home or studio as a ground for exclusivity. He views it as more of a community, where people who wouldn’t ordinarily meet can come together to collaborate. Their soon-to-be-released “compilation” record reflects this intention. “We want to be a space where the algorithm is questioned,” he adds.

As with his childhood home, much of Benjamin’s own furniture was designed by his father, allowing his children the same experience of living amongst an enviable collection of sculptural seating systems regularly on rotation throughout the rooms. For the new studio space, however, it is the Dune that takes center stage. Designed by Pierre in the 1970s, the ultra-low slung sofa features softly undulating curves and comes in modular pieces that can be used to create a “landscape” within the room.

According to Benjamin, it was also the piece that catapulted his father’s designs back into the public eye, thanks to that picture of Frank Ocean lying on his own blue Dune at home. Since then, owning a piece of Paulin has become an important status symbol — not because of the price (it’s expensive, but not the most expensive furniture out there by any stretch), but because it signifies an understanding of a niche point in design history, at a time when the industry is opening up to a much wider audience. “My father’s designs, which he created 60 years ago, connected with this new generation,” Benjamin notes.

Hot on the heels of his collaboration with Pharrell, for which he curated the furniture at the Mens FW26 Louis Vuitton show, we sat down with Benjamin to chat about his father’s influence, the way music and design intersect, and what is next for his eye-catching studio.

You were born into a world shaped by your father, Pierre Paulin. Growing up in such a specific design environment, at what point did you realize your childhood home wasn’t like everyone else’s?

Benjamin Paulin: As a child, I never really thought of it as something special because I was inside it. But as I got older, I remember going to other people’s houses and apartments, and I felt my house was so much better than the others. Even when the other houses were bigger and the people were very wealthy, I always thought my house was the best. This environment felt very secure and kind, somehow.

How do you feel that impacted your view of the world?

I grew up in an environment where there was no such thing as religion, certainties, or strong views on how people were different or who was “the best.” This was very structural for me because I was never made to think about whether we were rich people, poor people, or middle class. It opened up many possibilities for discovery.

Can you talk me through what some of the spaces in the house actually looked like?

I had a very funny room. My bed was actually a house that my dad built himself. A house within a house. The rest of the house was a playful landscape in the sense that we never had a regular sofa. We had the Tapis-Siège and prototypes of other sitting concepts, so it was more like an installation. When people were invited to the house, it acted as a “revelator.” If you were someone who felt comfortable with yourself, you would be super comfortable.

It’s fascinating how people respond when you throw away their assumptions of what a chair or a sofa is supposed to look like.

Exactly. It is like a “jailbreaker proposition” for the sitting position; you can sit as you want. Some people are afraid when they don’t have that construction around them. Usually, people are just responding to their environment or playing a role, but they don’t have the opportunity to think, “What am I about?” With Sounds Like Paulin, we are trying to recreate and continue that approach for the studio.

Growing up this way must have significantly impacted your personal taste and how you view material possessions today.

I am not very attached to objects or things in general. I don’t have watches, jewels, or cars; I’m not interested at all. I think this is part of my father’s design philosophy, celebrating the intelligence of a concept and the intelligence of living, rather than luxury or expensive materials.

How does that view affect the space you created for the Sounds Like Paulin studio?

The pieces we show and live with are designed to put everybody on the same level. In a traditional room, everyone is in their own little secure space, protecting their territory. But when you are in the Dune or the Tapis, you are seated in a way that is open to discussion. It creates a natural, friendly, and open environment.

Around 2020, it seemed as though Pierre Paulin’s furniture was some of the first design “objects” that people outside the traditional design world really started to respond to. Why do you think it resonates so much with people who aren’t design experts?

I think it has a lot to do with the Covid period. People were stuck in their houses, and they were looking at pictures of someone like Frank Ocean and thinking, “This is the life I want.” But they didn’t want the furniture of old rich families because you can’t invent that history in one second. If you try to invent it, it looks like “new money,” and it’s ugly.My father’s designs, which he created 60 years ago, connected with this new generation at exactly the moment they were accessing property and needed a sofa. It offers a new lifestyle. We’ve managed to build something that goes beyond design now, but the foundations are still rooted in it.

Before you started working on Paulin Paulin Paulin, you were in the music industry, right?

I quit school to make music. For about 12 years, I had a band called Puzzle, and I was just doing French rap. It wasn’t very commercial, but it was an amazing time. Rap music in the second half of the ’90s was all about sampling. I discovered all types of music: jazz, soul, and classical.

Do you see a link between your father’s creativity and your own, in this respect?

There wasn’t much relation between my father’s designs and my music when I was a teenager, but after he passed and I started working on these prototypes, the universe twisted, and this “multiverse” was created.After we did a project with Louis Vuitton in 2014, I met people like Kanye West, who were the first to ask for pieces. Because I was already interested in their music and they were interested in design, we shared common interests. I wasn’t just meeting a potential client; I was meeting someone I wanted to be connected to.

You’ve mentioned that you aren’t really a “business person” in the traditional sense, which brings a lot of authenticity to these connections.

I’ve never been business-minded. I can get very ambitious because I want to make things happen, but money cannot be the only interest because it doesn’t keep me passionate. When we started Paulin Paulin Paulin, we actually proposed the pieces to some big companies, and they refused to produce them. So we did it ourselves.

It must be hard to maintain that control when working with a brand to reissue the vintage pieces.

In the industrial market, it’s complicated to follow ’60s designs exactly because they want to make them more “economic” by changing the cuts. We still work with big companies like Gubi, Artifort, and Ligne Roset who produce some pieces industrially. But the pieces we produce ourselves are the ones we think wouldn’t survive the industrial process.

Let’s talk about the present moment and specifically “Sounds Like Paulin.” How did that project start to take shape?

I worked on a project at Miraval in the south of France, and I heard people were going there specifically because our sofa was there. It started as a joke, and I thought I should make a studio in my house so they would come to me. We landed on Sounds Like Paulin for the name because we wanted something that looked Paulin, but was about music. Then, artists like Travis Scott started calling to see the studio while they were in Paris.

And it’s not just rappers; you’ve had a very diverse group of artists coming through.

We’ve had amazing quartets, contemporary composers, and jazz musicians. We realized we were in a situation where all these people could potentially meet. Commercially, someone who worked with Steve Reich might have no interest in Travis Scott, and vice versa. But because they share the same taste for furniture and architecture, something can happen. We recorded a project with the Quartet Zaïde and Bryce Dessner from The National, and we have a Larry June piece coming soon, too.

Why was it important to you to represent a wide range of genres?

We want to be a space where the “algorithm” is questioned. Today, if you listen to Travis Scott, the algorithm just shows you his friends. We want to create another algorithm that brings people together through a shared interest in design.

Sounds Like Paulin is set to debut with a multi-artist compilation. Can you tell us more about that?

The compilation is basically our entourage. It’s still under construction because the music business is complicated; you have to clear songs, and sometimes things change at the last minute. But overall, it’ll encompass the spirit of independent freedom. We don’t want to be a boring project for a big brand; we want our freedom for the creation. The first songs from the compilation will be with Larry June and it will be released in June. We are also working on two other albums: one named The Cristalist, the first album focusing on cristal baschet, an instrument created in the ’50s by the Baschet brothers and played by Marc Chouarain, and another album with the Zaide quartet playing Bryce Dessner and Steve Reich, recorded in the Paris house.

Is Sounds Like Paulin intending to become a record label too?

In part, yes. Several types of projects will emerge: albums, compilations, stage projects, and more. Everything can intersect and overlap; it is a fluid, evolving entity.

What is it like for the artists recording in that space?

Artists feel very inspired by the space — not just the furniture, but the art, the instruments, and the people they meet. We want to build a community. We want to be a partner for them when they are in Paris. I want to help them find the best restaurants, meet intellectuals, or find an amazing dancer or video maker they would never know otherwise.

Given the studio is located in your actual home, how do you make it work, living in the house with your family while hosting all these people?

It’s very organic. Sometimes we have 200 people in the house, and sometimes it’s just the family. My three daughters are always around, and our office is there, too. We’ve never had any problems; it’s always been super friendly and kind. We’ve never even had a wine stain on a sofa. People are super respectful. It’s a space that opens doors for young people who don’t know anyone else. When I was a kid, I felt that famous or rich people were in a different class that you couldn’t access. I want to make sure everybody can access everybody as long as it’s peaceful.

People often comment on the fact that the design industry feels less exclusive than other creative industries. How do you see that in comparison to the music industry?

Design and music are all about bringing people together. When you see a huge star in the street, the only interaction is usually a picture. But when you are in the same house, on the same sofa, you don’t even ask for a picture because you can just talk like normal people. Asking for the picture changes the situation and kills the vibe. If I lose the vibe, I don’t want to do it anymore. I need to believe in it to wake up in the morning.

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