Category: linear chandelier

Blimey, that’s a proper niche question, innit? You’ve got me thinking about this one client’s flat in Shoreditch—back in, oh, must’ve been autumn last year. Total nightmare layout, honestly. The living room was this awkward, long thing, with the fireplace shoved off to the right, and the only decent wall for the telly was way over on the left. Felt like your neck was on a swivel just trying to have a cosy night in. You know the type?

Anyway, that’s where these clever little blighters come in. An asymmetrical linear chandelier. Sounds a bit fancy, but really, it’s just a light that doesn’t play by the rules. It’s not a perfect rectangle or a centred blob. It’s got a bit of a wonky, off-kilter shape to it. And let me tell you, in the wrong room, it’ll look like you’ve had one too many G&Ts when you put it up. But in the *right* room… magic.

So, which rooms are shouting for one? Think about spaces that feel a bit… lopsided. Not in a bad way, but in a “the architect had a moment” way. Like that Shoreditch place. The main seating area was clustered near the fireplace, leaving this long, gloomy void towards the dining bit. A standard centred pendant would’ve just highlighted how empty the other half was. Bit sad, really. But we hung one of these linear numbers—this brushed brass one from a little workshop in Bristol, gorgeous thing—on a diagonal, following the sightline from the sofa to the dining table. Didn’t centre it on the *room*. Centred it on the *function*. On the *journey* through the space. Suddenly, that void felt intentional. Like a connecting corridor of light. The whole flow of the room just… settled.

Or take kitchens with a massive island at one end and nothing but cupboards at the other. Drives me bonkers when I see two identical pendants plonked symmetrically over the island in a long kitchen. Makes the empty end look even more forgotten! A single, longer asymmetrical fixture, stretched out over the island but with its weight visually pulled towards the busier end? It’s a bit of visual sleight of hand. It tells your eye where the action is, and gives a nod to the quieter zone without shouting about it.

Bedrooms are another spot. Ever been in one where the bed’s under a window because that’s the only wall that fits, and the ceiling light is smack in the middle of the room, right over your feet? Rubbish for reading! Slap an asymmetrical linear chandelier on a track or a cable system, and you can drag that light source right over to where your head actually is. It’s about lighting the life you live, not the perfect blueprint some builder followed.

The trick, and I learned this the hard way after a proper disaster in a Chelsea townhouse—don’t ask—is that the fixture itself shouldn’t be the star. It’s the wingman. It’s there to solve a problem, to stitch the odd bits of a room together. If you walk in and just go “Wow, that’s a weird light,” I’ve failed. You should walk in and think, “Oh, this room feels right,” and maybe not even know why straight away.

It’s not for every space. If you’ve got a perfect square drawing room with a centred rug, for God’s sake, get a normal chandelier and be done with it. But for those wonderfully weird, wonky, “how do I make this work?” spaces that give older buildings so much character… that’s where this bit of lighting mischief truly sings. It’s a conversation between the room’s flaws and the design. And sometimes, that’s the best chat you can have.

Blimey, you’ve gone and picked the most mesmerising centrepiece, haven’t you? An arabesque chandelier in a Moroccan-inspired lounge… just saying it out loud makes me smell the orange blossom and hear the faint trickle of a fountain. I once spent an entire afternoon in a riad in Marrakech, back in 2019, just staring at a similar chandelier—the way the light danced through the coloured glass onto the zellij tiles was pure magic. Right, let’s talk furniture. You can’t just plonk a modern sectional in there and call it a day. It’d look frightfully awkward, like wearing trainers with a caftan.

First thing that comes to mind is low-slung, sumptuous seating. Think massive floor cushions—proper ones, not the sad beanbag from uni—in rich velvets or worn-in leather. I hauled a pair of vintage leather poufs from a market in Fez once, and the patina on them tells a thousand stories. You want to sink into them, you know? And a low, carved wooden sofa, the kind with deep seats and a mountain of embroidered cushions. The wood should look like it’s been kissed by the sun for decades—dark teak or cedar, with those intricate geometric carvings. Don’t get anything too polished or perfect; a few nicks and scratches add soul. I made that mistake early on, buying a brand-new “antique-style” coffee table. It looked sterile. Ended up swapping it for an old brass tray on a weathered wooden base, and the room instantly sighed with relief.

Then there’s the tables. Go for hammered metal—brass or copper—or more of that carved wood. Round shapes are your friend; they soften all the geometric patterns from the mosaics and the chandelier. I’ve got a little side table from a souk in Essaouira that’s just a slab of thuya wood on a wrought-iron base. It’s imperfect, wobbly even, but it holds a tea glass and a lantern perfectly.

Now, you might see a chandelier like the allen roth eberline chandelier in some showrooms—it’s got those curved arms and a bit of that ornate feel. It could work in a pinch, especially if you’re blending styles, but honestly? For a proper Moroccan soul, you want something with more colour, more hand-blown glass, more… intention. That allen roth one is a bit too “clean” for the chaos of beauty we’re going for here.

And textiles! Good grief, don’t skimp here. Layer a Berber rug over those stunning tiles—something with a thick pile and bold, tribal patterns. Then drape a sheer, fringed canopy from the ceiling near the seating area. It catches the breeze and the light from the chandelier in the most dreamy way. I nailed a vintage kilim to my wall once, and the reds and blues in it made the whole room feel warmer, like a hug.

The key is to think organic, lived-in, and layered. It’s not about matching a set. It’s about collecting pieces that feel like they have a history, that invite you to curl up, drink mint tea, and lose track of time. My lounge is my favourite room in the house—it’s where the day’s worries just sort of melt into the patterns on the cushions. Start with one real, heartfelt piece, and let the room grow from there. You’ll know when it feels right; it’ll just… hum.