Le Corbusier

by Nicholas Fox Weber

  Recognition was coming at last. By the end of the year, Le Corbusier was informed by Josef Hoffmann, the man who had once been too busy to see him, that he had been named a “membre correspondant” of the Bund Österreichischer Architekten.61 It was a major honor from an organization that included among its founders Klimt, Otto Wagner, and Karl Moser—even if these were the same Viennese masters whose work he had always loathed.

  The future was assured: “For us, the painful hours have passed, there remains no more than what is agreeable: to make sure that it is beautiful.”62 There was no question who the “us” was: Le Corbusier and his widowed mother.

  XXIV

  Learn, he told himself, before you die, to live beyond the jurisdiction of their enraging, loathsome, stupid blame.

  What do crows think when they hear the other birds singing? They think it’s stupid. It is. Cawing. That’s the only thing. It doesn’t look good for a bird that struts to sing a sweet little song. No, caw your head off.

  —PHILIP ROTH, The Human Stain

  1

  On January 10, 1927, in the hectic surroundings of his office, with everyone around him working away frantically, Le Corbusier suddenly wrote his mother a short letter. Eight draftspeople were in sight; these were hardly the circumstances under which he normally took the time to write.

  Time was scarce in “this violent whirlwind in which I find myself,” but he felt compelled by “the violent ups and downs of the idea.”1 What prompted that repetition of “violent” and was more important even than his frenzied pursuit of architecture connected to his thoughts of the previous day, a Sunday. It had been the first anniversary of his father’s death. Although he was off by two days—Georges had actually died on January 11 of the previous year, not January 9—all day long Edouard had been reliving the events of a year before. This was when he recalled the vital details of his father’s death and the little needle “which allowed him to leave this earth without further consideration.”2 While Edouard and Albert and their mother and the cooperative doctor were all party to the determination to help the calm and rational Georges Jeanneret end his life with euthanasia, there is no way of knowing if Georges himself participated in this decision. But this letter makes the event itself clear. The older Jeanneret had been suffering excruciating pain and had reached a terminal state. When Edouard had lain down next to his unconscious father, he had known that a well-organized death, based on carefully measured quantities of the proper mix of chemicals and proceeding at a clockwork pace, was to occur.

  To find the most effective means and use them correctly was the mark of a rational, intelligent life. They had given that injection as matter-of-factly as Le Corbusier deployed water pipes, revealing rather than concealing the truths of existence. The honesty and boldness with which his natal family had determined his father’s means of dying was consistent with the new aesthetic with which Le Corbusier was now triumphant. Mechanical efficiency did not displace human feeling but, rather, honored it. His father’s trembling voice and wise words of departure had made clear that the time was right.

  2

  Founded just after the end of World War I, the League of Nations stood to benefit all of humankind by maintaining world peace and promoting international cooperation. Here, countries of every stripe and size came together as members of a global community.

  When Le Corbusier was invited in 1926 to participate in the competition for the organization’s headquarters on the shores of Lake Geneva, he and Pierre Jeanneret laid out a utopian dream. The complex of neat building slabs all raised on pilotis represented a fresh approach to the true meaning of community and cooperation. The wing housing the Secretariat was to be a sleek band that appeared to float in space, its form graceful and harmonious. The crowning jewel among the various structures supported by elegant and lithe legs would be a massive assembly hall built for meetings of up to 2,060 delegates. A bold, abstract composition looking triumphantly over the rest, it was sure to instill confidence in the processes it facilitated. The assembly hall was to be made of reinforced concrete and covered in polished granite, with a concave facade silhouetted against the lake. Its large windows would shimmer between trim steel mullions. Those materials encased a myriad of elements, giving unity to five hundred offices, a balcony for journalists over the enormous auditorium, a roof garden, ample toilets, changing rooms, and a restaurant.

  The overall complex was designed to be welcoming and pleasant, with a covered entranceway assuring a comfortable arrival even in bad weather. Pleasantness and efficiency were central goals in every aspect of the scheme. The heating and ventilating systems, the access for automobiles and arrangements for parking, the streamlined offices geared to accommodate the latest technology, and the flawless acoustics of the Assembly Hall were all impeccable.

  The structure was to be situated between the lakeshore and the mountains in a way meant to ennoble the activities that would occur within. Like an urbanized version of Mount Athos, the arrangement would enhance the serenity essential for the negotiations that were the league’s mission, while providing a vista that embodied peace.

  AFTER SENDING IN the plans and drawings at the end of January 1927, Le Corbusier experienced the letdown that often occurred at the conclusion of one of his creative bursts. On February 3, he wrote his mother, “Since our League of Nations plans went off to Geneva, a great sensation of emptiness reigns here. I am somewhat the worse for wear, deflated as always after a big effort.”3 He was also suffering from having given up his habitual pipe smoking earlier.

  Soon enough, Le Corbusier returned to tobacco; although he occasionally halted, he was a cigarette smoker for the rest of his life. Events in Geneva were one of the reasons. At first, success seemed assured. After architects from all over the world submitted plans, Victor Horta, the president of the jury, wrote the secretary-general to say that the proposal from 35 rue de Sèvres was the only one that would not exceed the budget of thirteen million Swiss francs. Horta recommended that the Le Corbusier/Jeanneret scheme, the jury’s choice, should be awarded the commission. Then the juror from France, the architect Charles Lemaresquier, director of l’Ecole des Beaux-Arts in Paris, pointed out that Le Corbusier and Jeanneret’s plans had not been submitted in the requisite China ink.

  Le Corbusier and Jeanneret’s design had initially been made in China ink on “tracing paper,” according to regulations. But what they actually submitted was in printer’s ink, according to the process known as “Dorel.” This was a conscious decision on the part of the architects. They thought the Dorel impressions, which corresponded to the most current practices of architectural studios, made greater sense, since it guaranteed that the plans would be completely dry, which was not the case with China ink. While Dorel in its final stage used printer’s ink, it required by definition that the drawings originally be made in China ink, so Le Corbusier and Jeanneret believed that their submission fulfilled the requirements of the competition. They made it clear that they completely understood and supported those requirements—since China ink was more precise and exact than pencil, charcoal, or watercolor.

  While the issue of the ink did not immediately put Le Corbusier out of the running, it caused what had seemed certain now to be in jeopardy. Rather than award the commission to him and Pierre as originally decided, the jury now made their scheme one of nine on the short list. Then the General Assembly voted that there was more money to spend on the building complex than originally stipulated.

  A battle ensued over which design to use. Sigfried Giedion, an esteemed authority on architecture, defended Le Corbusier and Pierre’s proposal in widely read newspaper articles, and Karl Moser, the juror from Switzerland, championed it as well. On May 8, 1927, an optimistic Le Corbusier wrote his mother,

  Our situation is brilliant beyond our wildest dreams, and the future may belong to us.

  The French press has made this competition into a success, and we are among the four who have assured France its triumph. We are i
n fact the only moderns, the others being notorious academics. So that the field is clearer than ever: modernism or academicism? We have weapons…. On all sides the Le Corbusier victory is regarded as the victory of the modern and the other leading moderns have no standing in public opinion.

  Here in Paris this is a capital event in the world of architecture. It used to be denied that I knew how to make anything but “machines for living.” Here is proof of the contrary.4

  Recalling a foe who had said that “what we did was not architecture!,” Le Corbusier told his mother, “We’ll talk about all this when I see you next. The other evening Albert was utterly amazed. I myself maintained the most disconcerting calm, judging even at the first news that this was a manifestation of the jury’s impotence. Actually, I knew we had to come out on top, for we had a well-made plan—extremely well-made—and I’m more or less convinced that no competitor had made a study anywhere near so serious. I can’t separate these events from the thought of dear Papa. What deep personal joy he would have had! All the same he would have said: ‘Yes, but. But.’…Those ‘buts’ which testified to the fact that he feared reprisals and upsets. But there are no ‘buts’ here, and Papa would have been deeply happy.”5

  Le Corbusier’s excitement was, as usual, tinged by pain. He believed he had won the commission of his dreams, yet he was suffering from nightmares. They were about his mother. He wrote her that they were too painful to describe, but that when he received a letter from her, he could hardly believe his own relief that she was still alive to write it.

  THEN, IN JUNE, Le Corbusier’s confidence in a League of Nations victory began to wane. He entered the fracas directly in hopes of influencing the jurors, prompting his mother to caution him about the merits of his campaign.

  On June 16, 1927, Marie wrote Le Corbusier,

  I know your experiences will soon be more firmly based; your portrait (and what a portrait, in reinforced concrete!) has been published here as well as the plans for the League of Nations. Albert tells me you are working hard for victory, and your mother must hope it is with loyal arms that you are pursuing your goal, never forgetting everything honorable and upright that our dear Papa had instilled in you….

  I know that here on earth the struggle is a harsh one which requires tenacity and energy, and it is because I know these qualities are innate in you that I can say so.6

  His mother enumerated those qualities: “your simplicity, your true modesty, qualities great men have always possessed, even at the height of their success.”7 Her son’s conceit and boastfulness were, after all, no secret to her.

  3

  Marie Jeanneret harbored no illusions. She acknowledged that even the new dog was having a tough time. “Bessie is making a terrible racket; the postman is the cause, encouraging her hysteria by swiping at her with his hat. Apropos of Bessie, she is back to living her solitary little life, though doubtless regretting her races with the children at Blonay,” she wrote. The loneliness and exhaustion of the dog was comparable to Marie’s own: “I simply cannot do the work all by myself: curtains to wash, beds to air, closets to clean, actually a general cleanup of a ransacked house. Our friends have left, Mme. Matthey to her son’s house in Herisau, our relatives for the ends of the earth! Alone! Sometimes it’s hard. And I know no one.”8

  The one comfort to the sixty-six-year-old was her sons. She told Le Corbusier, “A little article by Pettarel has appeared in La Feuille de Dimanche about the Jeanneret family, starting of course with Le Corbusier.”9 And then there was “the fine boy,” Albert. He was going to Sweden; this pleased her, but only “in part.” For Marie wanted her sons for herself.

  She got her wish. After Albert returned from his travels in midsummer, she wrote Edouard,

  I’ve just washed my hair, taking advantage of the sunshine to dry it, while my dear son has gone off to Walther’s for a swim. You can imagine how happy I am to repossess my boy for me alone, a happiness soon to be doubled by your presence.

  And soon you’ll be here, dear boy—how long you’ve been expected! The garden is delicious, the peaches melt in your mouth, the big plums are waiting for the birds to peck at them, and the three (count them) pears are growing larger on their tree as you look at them. Isn’t it all so tempting? I add the famous swim, the frogs in the sun-warmed shallows, and the cool shade of the paulownia…. If after all that you don’t rush to pack your bags for your native land it’s because your heart no longer beats at the prospect of really good things.10

  The dynamics never changed: Marie Jeanneret perpetually trying to manipulate her younger son’s emotions, and Le Corbusier always fighting the unwinnable battle for her to renounce Switzerland and see the supremacy of his decisions and achievements. Albert—the peripatetic musician/composer, the helpless innocent of the three, unable to sustain a marriage and dependent on two powerful family members—was the only one at ease.

  WHILE IMPORTANT SWISS NEWSPAPERS such as the Journal de Genève were in favor of Le Corbusier and Jeanneret’s League of Nations scheme, others, such as the Gazette de Lausanne, were vehemently against its strident modernism. The mounting opposition, which Pierre, seeing the issues as having to do more with the canton of the family’s origins than with aesthetics, credited to anti-Vaudois sentiment, was effective.11 By July, Le Corbusier again began to smell defeat.

  He retreated to his preferred source of sanity. In the summer of 1927, Le Corbusier concentrated with renewed energy on his paintings. He now believed that he had mastered color by understanding the need for its simplicity, which enabled him to clarify his composition. When Fernand Léger praised the new work accordingly, Le Corbusier was ecstatic.

  His delight with his painting and the progress of the villa at Garches fed an overall optimism in which he became convinced, falsely, that the League of Nations project would be theirs. On July 29, 1927, in one of his phases when he believed himself triumphant on every front, he wrote his “bonne Petite Maman” a rambling epiphany: “Thanks for being ever brave and enthusiastic. Life is a tangled skein, and now and then one achieves a clear patch, something emerges. To know what is right, what is good, is difficult and the result not of sudden and brutal decisions but of a careful procedure during which each day brings its own contribution…. Life has no goal. Life is only a transition—to vain minds one lives one’s life according to a beginning and an end. I myself believe one lives one’s life in order to make it a mounting progress. Yet one day or another such progress slows down; age erodes the creative forces. One sees nothing but limitless ascents…apparently. And suddenly, the measure of a man is ossification, immobilization, a downward path. A sad certainty. One might hope to die at the right moment. But that, too, is a vanity…. I regard myself as an eternal student, always on the threshold of a new problem. I do not conceive of such a thing as maturity. I neither hope for it, nor do I want it. The deeper one enters into a conception (however shallow, however cloudy) of life, the more one is confused and the less one is certain of one’s goal. And the more clearly one discovers that there is a means of accounting for our presence here: it is to be useful, to be generous, to be open. There are holes on all sides: they must be filled—and it is good to do so—with whatever comes to hand. A selfish life is a life without hope. The opposite kind is full of possibilities.”12

  He addressed the issue of Albert’s “neurasthénie,” which translates roughly as “clinical depression.” Le Corbusier warned their mother that she did not adequately understand this illness, but he offered her the comfort that Albert was making considerable progress with Dr. Allendy.

  Where Marie could be most effective was with Bessie, “your idealized comrade.”13 Le Corbusier instructed his mother to attach a three-or four-meter chain to the catalpa tree next to the villa, “No absurd sentimentality here: what she needs is a purge for two weeks. You must not mask affection by attentions to which this creature is indifferent. And if she is tied up for fifteen days (excellent for guard dogs) she will appreciate her recovered fre
edom all the more. Not a wire, with all the dreaded consequences; common sense: a chain [underlined four times], promise me this.”14

  Try as he did to lay down the law, he knew that he was up against a force as intractable as any in his life.

  4

  Le Corbusier and Yvonne took another summer holiday at Le Piquey. The sculptor Jacques Lipchitz and his wife, for whom Le Corbusier had recently built the studio/residence in Boulogne, were living in a fisherman’s house, where Le Corbusier was mesmerized by the tide table and perpetually monitored the sea coming in and receding, as if to measure the passing of time. He developed the idea of buying three pine trees and four square meters of sand. He would, he said, build a hut on this spot of coastline. For others, he would make grandiose villas; for himself, a modest shack facing the horizon. The idea was seeded for his ultimate refuge.

  With Yvonne on holiday in Le Piquey, ca. 1930

  While he was holidaying, Le Corbusier learned that the forces against him on the League of Nations project were gaining strength. He wrote his mother, “The struggle is exactly what I had foreseen: us against academicism.”15 He determined that at the start of September he would spend a week with her in Vevey, from where he would go to Geneva to begin to wage the battle himself, on-site.

  With his mother and her dog Nora in Vevey, ca. 1930