I’d pushed previous it numerous occasions, that curious assortment of gondolas piled beside the highway to Morzine and Les Gets. From a distance it seemed like a ski-lift graveyard, light reds, greens and yellows stacked like outsized toys in opposition to the grey Alpine sky. But behind the gates of Taninges Télécabines is one thing completely completely different: a workshop the place brothers Stéphane and Julien Gaudin have spent greater than 25 years rescuing and re-imagining the Alps’ retired cable automobiles.
Outside, the yard is already a museum of mountain engineering. A shiny yellow cabin, the oldest of their assortment, stands beside a weathered crimson one from the Aiguille du Midi, its lettering nonetheless seen, and one other from Grands Montets, the Chamonix carry destroyed by hearth in 2018. There’s even a pod from the Matterhorn and a handful from Saint-Gervais, lined up like relics of previous ski eras.
Inside, the hangar is stacked floor-to-ceiling with gondolas from throughout the Alps: Courchevel, Les Houches, Les Arcs, Morzine, in an array of colours, from lemon yellow beside shiny inexperienced, matte grey subsequent to shiny crimson. Some are polished and fitted with wooden benches and glass tables; others nonetheless put on the flaking paint and sticker ghosts of many years previous. Rows of outdated skis, piste indicators and classic snowmobiles fill the gaps between them. It feels half workshop, half residing archive.
“It started with my parents,” Stéphane says. “They worked in antiques, and we were helping them when we were very young. About 25 years ago, we came across a small two-seater egg from Flégère in Chamonix. It was fabulous. We bought it, and I still have it today.”
For years, the brothers have been met with disbelief. “Everyone thought we were mad,” he admitted. “We felt completely alone, but we said to ourselves, one day there’ll be something to do with these cabins.” They carried on amassing, scouring the Alps earlier than outdated lifts have been scrapped, and slowly constructed what’s now one of many largest non-public collections in France. “We don’t count them,” Stéphane shrugs, “but there are hundreds.”
Over the final decade, the remainder of the world has caught up. As French resorts modernize, a whole bunch of lifts are taken out of service every year. Most are recycled for scrap steel, however a rising quantity are being repurposed as a part of a wider upcycling motion of giving industrial relics a second life. “Ten or fifteen years ago, things started changing,” Stéphane says. “People began thinking about ecology and reuse.”
The motion has unfold far past Taninges. Across the Alps, resorts are promoting off their outdated cabins and chairs to locals keen to maintain a chunk of ski heritage. In Combloux, as an example, residents have been supplied the possibility to purchase a seat from the Beauregard carry when it was changed — €500 for a four-seater “mythical chair.”
One of the patrons, British house owner Victoria Tills, instructed me she could not resist. “We thought it would be a fun addition to the chalet or maybe a nice place to sit in summer. It’s more design than Alpine history, but we wanted one we had a connection to, so getting a Combloux chair felt right.”
Getting it residence was the true problem. “They’re really big and really heavy,” she says. “It wouldn’t fit in the car, so we had to leave it there for weeks. We even debated putting it on wheels and rolling it down the mountain — but decided an out-of-control chair wasn’t the best idea.” Eventually, a good friend with a trailer helped three “fairly hefty blocks” manhandle it into the backyard. “We still haven’t worked out how to put it up yet,” she laughs. “The neighbors already think we’re the crazy English.”
The Combloux vacationer workplace mentioned many locals snapped up the possibility to personal a chunk of the outdated carry, a component nostalgia, half design assertion. As Victoria places it: “It’s a one-off thing. If I ever move back to the UK, God knows what I’ll do with it.”
Meanwhile, the Gaudins have been prepared. “We said years ago these cabins would become decorative objects in chalets, hotels, company lobbies. And now, that’s what’s happening.” Today, their workshop produces all the things from eating pods and backyard saunas to assertion items for architects and occasion planners. “We work with a lot of architects,” he explains. “They want cabins in restaurants, hotels, nightclubs, even in town-hall Christmas displays. People eat fondue or raclette inside. It’s simple, but it works.”
Each restoration is completely different. “When a cabin is in good condition, we keep it,” Stéphane says. “When it’s not, we rebuild it — sanding, painting, bodywork, everything.” A small cabin takes a couple of week to revive; bigger ones can take a month and a half. A sauna conversion is round two weeks. He insists on preserving what he calls the soulthe soul, of each piece. “You have to keep as much authenticity as possible. Polish it, don’t overdo it.”
As I go searching, Stéphane is busy sanding the curved facet of an outdated Poma egg, its uninteresting steel coming again to life earlier than he vacuums away the mud. Nearby, one other gleaming inexperienced cabin waits to be shipped. “This one’s going to a restaurant,” he says. “Wooden ceiling, benches, electrics, it’s all ready to serve dinner on.”
Some initiatives verge on artwork. Just a few of the cabins of their assortment are distinctive: one which served the Brussels World’s Fair, one other from Lausanne, and several other designed by celebrated French engineers. “Each one is different — in shape, in spirit, in story,” he says. “They’re works of art.”
But discovering genuine items has change into tougher. “For the old cabins, it’s almost impossible now,” Stéphane says. “It’s a page that’s turning. Most were dismantled forty years ago and thrown away. Now you have to be lucky, maybe one turns up in a barn or a garden.” The current flood of contemporary gondolas on resale websites has made the market chaotic. “It’s anarchy,” he says. “Everyone wants one now.”
Despite the demand, his method stays private. “When we keep cabins for our collection, they’re like our babies,” he tells me. “There’s a soul behind each one.” Some are too particular to promote: a scarlet cab from the Nineteen Forties, an ambulance carry, and a handful so uncommon the brothers are the one house owners left. “They’ll be for the museum,” Stéphane says — the dream he and Julien have nurtured for years. “We already have a unique collection, maybe the only one in the world. One day, we’d love to open a museum here in Taninges or even a traveling one that could go abroad. But for that, we’ll need help from the council and the state. This valley is surrounded by ski resorts, it deserves a place like that.”
We step again outdoors. The afternoon gentle falls throughout the road of gondolas, the yellow pod, the Aiguille du Midi relic, one from Brévent and one other from the Matterhorn. They stand facet by facet, ready for his or her new life.