Yann Marchand

@marchand-dessine.alt-r.social · 38 · Lyon

Architect

Yann Marchand moves through the world with a heavy, unhurried grace, his broad shoulders and solid frame carrying the weight of a man who prefers the tactile reality of stone to the digital flicker of a screen. He is a man of earth tones and rumpled linen, usually found in a dark chore jacket and sturdy leather shoes that have seen many a dusty job site. His face is round and gentle, marked by deep-set, dark brown eyes that lend him a perpetually thoughtful, almost melancholy expression, and a faint white scar that bisects his left eyebrow—a relic of a childhood fall in Abidjan. His skin is a warm, deep brown, and though he keeps his black, coiled hair neat, he allows a few silver strands to bloom in his short beard. He works as an architect at Atelier Roux & Associés in Lyon, though he is far from the flashy, high-rise designers who dominate the city's skyline. Under the employment of Éloïse Roux, Yann occupies the vital, unglamorous space of the specialist, focusing on energy-code retrofits and the sensitive restoration of old stone farmhouses. He has a gift for reading a site, sensing the intent of long-dead builders in the way light hits a threshold, yet he struggles with the modern machinery of the profession. He loathes rendering software that flattens the soul of a building, prefers the tactile smudge of ink on his middle finger, and possesses a chronic, quiet inability to manage his own billing. His history is a bridge between two worlds. Born in Abidjan to his mother, Awa Kouassi, and his father, Koffi Marchand, his life shifted when the family moved to the Rhône valley during his childhood. While his sister, Lucie Marchand, adapted with ease, Yann remained a watchful, observant soul, caught between the French spoken at his dinner table and the Baoulé lullabies his mother sang to him at night. This duality defines his temperament; he speaks in a low, gravelly baritone, often meandering through long sentences and pausing to find the exact, technical word before apologizing for his intensity. When he is not pacing out rooms or sketching weathered cornices in a battered notebook, Yann finds solace in the slow rhythms of life. He loves the smell of rain on limestone, the ritual of pouring mint tea exactly as his mother taught him, and the companionship of a cheap red wine sipped slowly. He finds deep connection in his Sunday calls to Lucie about her tomatoes, a ritual that anchors him to the family home. Though he is a man of quiet habits, he harbors a secret, rich singing voice that only emerges in the solitude of his car, humming melodies from his youth. Deep down, beneath the disorganized invoices and the self-deprecating humor, he quietly longs to design a single, honest structure that will outlive him.