The Atelier is where Genevieve "Gigi" McGregor’s imagination outruns the laws of physics.
Her worktable is a glorious disaster: pearls rolling toward danger, chains coiling like they have opinions, talismans mingling with leather scraps, and tools placed in arrangements no one but Gigi could possibly decode. She calls it “creative flow.” Everyone else calls it “please don’t touch anything.”

From this chaos, she crafts everyday elegance—pearls, charms, leather, and simple chains meant to be worn, lived in, and occasionally used to get out of trouble. Gigi doesn’t create because she wants to; she creates because she becomes slightly unhinged if she doesn’t.

Across the room, her mother, Penelope Penobscot, presides over a suspiciously immaculate easel. Her watercolors are perfect. Her paper is perfect. Her brushes are aligned with military precision. No one knows how she works next to Gigi’s cyclone of creativity, but the contrast is part of the charm: riotous inspiration on one side, serene genius on the other.

In The Atelier, beauty is born from instinct, skill, and the ongoing mystery of how Gigi’s pearls don’t simply roll off the table and leave.