Possessed: Christian Liaigre Is a Minimalist With a Taste for Ornate Coconuts

Can it be both? Or is it, say, a question of time? In the 1920s, the great appeal of Modernist design lay in its embrace of an almost machine-made simplicity and its rejection of ornate decoration as not merely superficial but superfluous. Similarly, the elaborations of the 1980s, the junk bonds and faux finishes, were vehemently renounced in the 1990s in favor of John Pawson architecture, Helmut Lang clothing and Calvin Klein Home.

And, one might rightly add, Christian Liaigre furniture. When the Mercer Hotel in SoHo opened in 1998, the low, starkly elegant wenge-wood furniture that Mr. Liaigre designed for the lobby and rooms became a touchstone for minimalist décor. It also made him a household name — at least in 1 percent of houses.

Almost 15 years later, the French designer is still hard at work, having opened his first American store, in New York, this summer. But while he has remained true to his design DNA, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like to shake it up once in a while. That is one reason Mr. Liaigre has a weakness for a particular and obscure art form: extravagantly carved coconuts.

The curious objects date from the 17th, 18th and early 19th centuries, when the sugar and rum trade between the Caribbean and Europe was at its height and sailors regularly found themselves crossing the Atlantic with nothing other than a jackknife, a coconut and several weeks to kill. Sugar scrimshaw, if you will.

Mr. Liaigre’s desire to get off the grid is what led him to the coconuts in the first place. As a boy, he vacationed with his parents at Île de Ré, an old-fashioned-but-chic island off the west coast of France, which he likened to long-frequented American getaways like Nantucket. (No, there is no good French word for “preppy.”) As an adult, Mr. Liaigre bought a house on Île de Ré and goes there whenever he can.

Part of his fascination with the area is its maritime history. Île de Ré is just off the coast from La Rochelle, which was a trade port where ships from the Caribbean would dock and unload. Until recently, he kept a small four-person sailboat at Île de Ré for day sails in the summer. In his early 30s, he was invited by a friend on a sailing trip from St. Barts in the West Indies to La Rochelle. It was a fateful trip. An early convert to the idyllic lures of that island, Mr. Liaigre built his own house there as well.

It was in the maritime museum in La Rochelle that he first saw examples of the ornately carved coconuts that seemingly linked his two favorite islands, and was bowled over.

“The poetry of it was so beautiful,” he said. “I found it so incredible that some sailor should have that kind of talent and dedication. It’s quite fragile work, using a knife to do that.”

He also understood exactly how the art would have come about. Having sailed across the ocean himself, he remembered the long, empty stretches of time begging to be filled.

“Six weeks,” he said of his own trip. “A nice trip, but a little too long.”

Mr. Liaigre started collecting the coconuts in antiques stores in France and the Caribbean. He now has about 12, a few in each house and a couple in his Paris apartment.

The coconuts have provoked no desire in him to go Baroque. Rather, they remain an inspiration and reflection of his ruling ethic: that at its best, design is an expression of the inventiveness that springs from necessity.

“It’s about creativity,” he said. “About what you do with the materials that you have.”

In other words, what do you do when life gives you nothing but time and coconuts? Make lemonade.

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