Around the corner, the third, most intimate, sequence of the store is revealed—from the burnt sienna bench, one takes in an old brick fireplace and, through a large window, a secluded garden.

Aesop Seven Dials inhabits the central terrace of a trio on Monmouth Street, one of the seven roads that converge around a sundial pillar in the heart of London’s West End. Nestled between two richly-hued shopfronts, alabaster arches frame our façade window and inform the curved language of the interior walls.

Visitors move across a vaulted threshold into a deep amber space: the first chamber holds an abundance of products while cast iron basins protrude from the wall. Exposed timber floorboards give warmth underfoot and lead clients up two stairs onto a landing where a fluted timber and brass cabinet holds court. Around the corner, the third, most intimate, sequence of the store is revealed—from the burnt sienna bench, one takes in an old brick fireplace and, through a large window, a secluded garden.

‘Better to be without logic than without feeling.’

Charlotte Brontë