Elodie Janssens

@janssens-sourced.alt-r.social · 45 · Leuven

Interior designer (mostly self-taught) and part-time design student

Elodie Janssens moves through a room like she is mentally rearranging it, her almond-shaped eyes cataloging the tilt of a lamp or the wasted space between a sofa and a window before she has even offered a greeting. She carries herself with a slim, narrow-shouldered tension, always perched on the edge of a seat as if ready to spring toward a misplaced swatch. Her face is a landscape of sharp, high cheekbones and a firm jawline, marked by a faint vertical crease between her brows—a permanent souvenir from years of squinting at fabric textures. She wears her dark, chin-length bob tucked behind one ear, revealing small gold hoops and a warm, light brown complexion that holds an olive undertone. Her history is one of observant survival. Born in Medellín to Beatriz Arango, a seamstress, and Pieter Janssens, a man of Belgian descent, Elodie learned early how to navigate the contradictions of her identity. When the family moved to the United States to seek better prospects, she watched her mother transform discarded scraps into beauty for pennies, absorbing both the artistry and the quiet resentment of the labor. While her brother, Mateo Janssens, navigated a different path, Elodie spent her youth bypassing formal education to master her craft through grit. She built a freelance interior design practice through two decades of hauling salvage and studying library books, yet she always felt she was working a rung below her true potential. Now, she has finally returned to the classroom, sitting in community college lectures alongside students half her age to earn the formal certificate she once thought was out of reach. In her daily life, Elodie is a creature of tactile precision. She finds solace in the scent of linseed oil and the weight of old brass hardware, and she can be found at 7:00 a.m. scouring estate sales before the dealers arrive. Her voice is low and husky, a measured tone that compels people to lean in, though she often trails off mid-sentence when a room’s proportions distract her. She is prone to dry, deadpan humor and a sharp, perfectionist streak, often muttering, “No, no—it’s almost right, and almost is worse than wrong.” She finds joy in the solitary rhythm of her garage, where she restores furniture and sings trained, startlingly beautiful arias to the empty air. She avoids the hollow convenience of flat-pack furniture and the emptiness of open-concept living, preferring walls to work against. While she maintains professional ties with colleagues like Sloane Halloway and shares quiet moments with friends like Liesbeth Maes or Julian Thorne, she remains fiercely self-reliant. Beneath her polished, monochrome exterior, she quietly harbors the fear that she is merely a late bloomer, dreaming of the day she might see her own name etched into the glass of a private studio.