Laughing at Architecture: Architectural Histories of Humour, Satire and Wit 9781350022782, 9781350022775, 9781350022751

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LAUGHING AT ARCHITECTURE

LAUGHING AT ARCHITECTURE ARCHITECTURAL HISTORIES OF HUMOUR, SATIRE AND WIT Edited by Michela Rosso

BLOOMSBURY VISUAL ARTS Bloomsbury Publishing Plc 50 Bedford Square, London, WC1B 3DP, UK 1385 Broadway, New York, NY 10018, USA BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY VISUAL ARTS and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc First published in Great Britain 2019 Paperback edition published 2020 Copyright © Michela Rosso and contributors, 2019 Michela Rosso has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as Editor of this work. Cover design by Eleanor Rose Cover illustration: The Exhibition Starecase (pen & ink with wash on paper), a satirical depiction of the staircase at Somerset House, London (designed by William Chambers (1723-96)) by Thomas Rowlandson, (1756-1827) © UCL Art Museum, University College London, UK / Bridgeman Images All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers. Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes. A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library. Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Rosso, Michela, editor. Title: Laughing at architecture : architectural histories of humour, satire and wit / [edited by] Michela Rosso. Description: New York : Bloomsbury Academic, 2018. | Includes bibliographical references and index. Identifiers: LCCN 2018014424 | ISBN 9781350022782 (hardback : alk. paper) | ISBN 9781350022751 (epdf) Subjects: LCSH: Architecture–Humor. | Architecture–Caricatures and cartoons. Classification: LCC NA2599 .L38 2018 | DDC 720.2–dc23 LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018014424 ISBN:

HB: 978-1-3500-2278-2 PB: 978-1-3501-7049-0 ePDF: 978-1-3500-2275-1 ePub: 978-1-3500-2276-8

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CONTENTS

List of Figures List of Contributors Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian Michela Rosso 1

2

3

4

5

6

vii xiii

1

Laughing at the Baroque: A Drawing and Some Texts Compared Susanna Pasquali

25

From Reportage to Ridicule: Satirizing the Building Industry in the Eighteenth-Century Irish Press Conor Lucey

37

The Thorn of Scorn: John Nash and his All Souls Church for a Transformed Regency London Daniela Roberts

57

‘A Joke that Has Gone on Far Too Long’: Mocking the Completion of the New Hôtel des Postes de Paris (1886–1888) Guy Lambert

73

Deconstructing Gaudí: Entangled Relationships between Satire and Architectural Criticism Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes

91

Confronting Problems with a Sense of Humour: Adolf Loos’s Architectural Polemics and Viennese Journalism Ruth Hanisch

109

7

Words and Images of Contempt: Il Selvaggio on Architecture (1926–1942) Michela Rosso 129

8

Osbert Lancaster: Architectural Humour in the Time of Functionalism Alan Powers

9

153

Irrational Interiors: The Modern Domestic Landscape Seen in Caricatures Gabriele Neri 173

Contents

10 From ‘Little Russia’ to ‘Planet of the Apes’: Nicknaming TwentiethCentury Mass Housing in Belgium Evert Vandeweghe

191

11 Saul Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’: Humorous Drawings and Diagrams as Instruments of Critique Christoph Lueder

209

12 The Modern City through the Mirror of Humour: A Different Portrait Olivier Ratouis

229

13 Splendid?! Preposterous! Chinese Artists Mock the Architectural Spectacle Angela Becher

249

Index

268

vi

LIST OF FIGURES

I.1 A. W. N. Pugin, frontispiece from Contrasts, or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

5

I.2 A. W. N. Pugin, ‘New Church Open Competition’ from Contrasts, or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

6

I.3 Self-portrait caricature by the Danish architect Vilhelm Dahlerup on his return from two years of studying abroad, 1866. The accompanying text in a letter to his teacher Emmerik Høegh-Guldberg reads: ‘Now, I only need something to begin with at home, you get so splendidly full of the idyllic new works of art that eventually it must come to independent production’. Wikimedia Commons.

17

1.1 Joseph Anton Koch, ‘The Artist at the Crossroad’, c. 1791, drawing once in the Graphische Sammlung, Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart.

25

1.2 Cesare Ripa, ‘Imitatione’, from Iconologia overo descrittione dell’imagini universali cavate dall’Antichità et da altri luoghi, 1593.

27

1.3 Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum, 1693–1700, unnumbered plate.

30

1.4 Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum, 1693–1700, unnumbered plate.

31

1.5 Francesco Milizia, Roma delle belle arti del disegno. Parte prima l’architettura civile, 1787, frontispiece.

32

2.1 Samuel John Neele, ‘A Plan of the City of Dublin’, 1797. Wikimedia Commons. 38 2.2 Jonathan Barker, ‘A Plan of Merrion Street and the adjacent neighbourhood’, 1762. National Archives of Ireland.

39

List of Figures

2.3 Matthew Darly, ‘The Macaroni Bricklayer’, 1772. Author’s collection.

41

2.4 Oliver Grace, ‘A perspective view of Sackville Street and Gardiner’s Mall in Dublin’, c. 1760. Irish Architectural Archive.

46

2.5 Detail from John Rocque, ‘An exact survey of the city and suburbs of Dublin’, 1756. Harvard University, Pusey Library, Harvard Map Collection.

47

3.1 John Nash, ‘All Souls, Langham Place’. Author’s collection.

58

3.2 George Cruikshank, ‘Nashional Taste!!!’, 1824. Victoria and Albert Museum.

59

3.3 ‘All Souls, Langham Place and St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol’, from A. W. N. Pugin, Contrasts: Or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836.

62

3.4 ‘All Souls Church, Marylebone’, frontispiece of The Gentleman’s Magazine, July 1826.

64

3.5 William Heath Robinson, ‘John Bull & the arch-itect wot build’s the arches – &c – &c – &c – &c’, 1829. British Museum.

65

4.1 Charles Fichot, ‘Paris, le nouvel Hôtel des Postes d’après le projet officiel de M. Guadet’ (Paris, the new Hotel des Postes according to Mr. Guadet’s official plan), L’Illustration, 8 May 1880.

75

4.2 Draner [Jules Renard], ‘Les baraques de la poste, place du Carrousel – Vô disez que c’était le restauraichone du Louvre? – Oui, milord, le Louvre à l’époque de Louis-Philippe’ (The post office huts, Place du Carrousel – It was a restoration of the Louvre, you say? – Yes my Lord, the Louvre in Louis-Philippe’s time), Le Charivari, 20 July 1880.

76

4.3 Louis Poyet, ‘Pourquoi l’Hôtel des Postes ne fonctionne pas. Les montecharges’ (Why the Hôtel des Postes doesn’t work. The service lifts), L’Illustration, 13 August 1887.

80

4.4 The new Hôtel des Postes, on the corner of the Rue Etienne Marcel and the Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Conservatoire National des Art et Metiers, Service Intérmenisteriel des Archives de France, Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine, Archives d’architecture du XXe siècle, Fonds Julien Guadet.

82

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List of Figures

4.5 Henriot [Henri Maigrot], ‘Actualités. Légitime stupéfaction de la statue de la Place de Victoires en voyant enfin fonctionner l’Hôtel des Postes’ (Legitimate stupefaction of the statue on Place de Victoires Square on seeing the Hotel des Postes finally running), Le Charivari, 24 July 1888.

85

5.1 Casa Milà as a garage for zeppelins, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 4 January 1912.

92

5.2 Antoni Gaudí crowning the city’s cathedral with a sculpture of the Madonna, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 17 March 1911.

95

5.3 El Diluvio, Suplemento Ilustrado, 5 March 1910, cover.

96

5.4 A satirical interpretation of the miniature reproduction of Montserrat erected in the Ciutadella Park, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 27 September 1895.

101

5.5 Gaudí as Wagner, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1 April 1910.

104

6.1 Neue Freie Presse, 25 September 1898, front page. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

111

6.2 Trude Fleischmann, Adolf Loos and Peter Altenberg, 1918. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

113

6.3 Lina Loos in her Studio in Sievering, post-1906. Author’s collection.

114

6.4 Caricature of Adolf Loos from Die Bühne, 1927. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

116

6.5 First edition of Adolf Loos’s Ins Leere gesprochen, 1921, cover.

123

7.1 ‘Piacentini il gran flagello…’ (Piacentini, the great plague…), February 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

133

7.2 ‘La cometa infausta ovvero il Marcello Piacentini incombente’ (The inauspicious comet, or the looming Marcello Piacentini), March 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

135

7.3 Leo Longanesi, ‘La definitiva sistemazione di Roma secondo l’architetto Piacentini’ (The definitive layout of Rome in the idea of architect Marcello Piacentini), May 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

137

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List of Figures

7.4 ‘Come sarà la nuova via Roma a Torino?’ (What will the new Via Roma in Turin be like?), June 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

138

7.5 ‘Bandiera Gialla: Razionale a bordo’ (Yellow flag: Rational on board), April 1933. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

139

7.6 ‘Saggio sopra l’architettura di Francesco Algarotti. Disegno di Longanesi. Linoleum di Maccari’ (Essay on architecture by Francesco Algarotti. Drawing by Longanesi, linocut by Maccari), September 1933. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

142

7.7 Mino Maccari, ‘Un’indigestione di razionale’ (An indigestion of rational), August 1936. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

144

7.8 ‘L’itala architettura all’architetto che per sete dell’or la distruggea, gridi e sia il grido fausto benedetto, mors tua vita mea’ (The architecture of Italy, to the architect who destroyed it for the sake of his thirst for gold. Cry, and the propitious cry be blessed: your death, my life), March 1942. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

145

8.1 Osbert Lancaster self-portrait, from Richard Boston, Osbert, 1989. Collection John Murray.

154

8.2 Osbert Lancaster, Progress at Pelvis Bay, 1936, cover. By permission of Clare Hastings.

158

8.3 Peter Fleetwood-Hesketh, ‘The Street of Taste’, from John Betjeman, Ghastly Good Taste, 1933.

159

8.4 Osbert Lancaster, ‘The Draynflete of Tomorrow’, from Draynflete Revealed, 1949. By permission of Clare Hastings.

162

8.5 Osbert Lancaster, ‘Twentieth-Century Functional’, from Pillar to Post, 1938. By permission of Clare Hastings.

164

8.6 Osbert Lancaster, ‘Jungle-Jungle’, from Homes Sweet Homes, 1959. By permission of Clare Hastings.

167

8.7 Osbert Lancaster, ‘High-Rise’, from A Cartoon History of Architecture, 1974. By permission of Clare Hastings.

170

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List of Figures

9.1 ‘Erster Besuch der Schwiegereltern im trauten Heim des jungen Paares’ (First visit of the in-laws to the young couple’s home sweet home), Oskar Garven, Kladderadatsch, 12 April 1931.

175

9.2 Alfred Gastpar, ‘Neue Lebensformen’ (New ways of living), Stuttgart, 1927: ‘The latest ways of living by Mies van der Rohe: the roof-gardenpool with the attached house. No rising dump. Minimum kitchen. No furniture. Can be turned to any wind direction, therefore air, light and sun are completely according to need.’

177

9.3 Alfred Gastpar, ‘Neue Lebensformen’ (New ways of living), Stuttgart, 1927: ‘The “Le Corbusier Game”, aka “He has to come through this hollow alley”, aka “The Camel in the needle eye”’.

179

9.4 Anonymous, ‘Untitled’, Frankfurter Nachrichten, 1928.

180

9.5 Alan Dunn, from The Last Lath, 1947.

185

10.1 ‘Het leven in de hoogbouw, gezien door eenzijdige partijgangers van de laagbouw. Het leven in de laagbouw, gezien door eenzijdige partijgangers van de hooghouw’ (Live in the high-rise, as seen by onesided partisans of the low-rise and vice versa), in Renaat Braem, ‘Over de wooneenheid Kiel-Antwerpen’, Bouwen en Wonen, 1954.

195

10.2 ‘Little-Russia’, Zelzate. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

196

10.3 ‘Korea’, Lokeren. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Kris Vandevorst.

197

10.4 ‘Smurf ’s Village’, Turnhout. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Karina Van Herck.

198

10.5 ‘Little-Jerusalem’, Beringen. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

199

10.6 ‘Planet of the Apes’, Ostend. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

201

11.1 Saul Steinberg, ‘Untitled’, 1950, published in The Architectural Review, 1950. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society.

210

11.2 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Building’, 1950. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, New York, published in Derrière le miroir, May 1977.

214 xi

List of Figures

11.3 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Architecture’, 1954. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, Collection of Leon and Michaela Constantiner.

215

11.4 Saul Steinberg, ‘Portrait of Le Corbusier’, The New Yorker, 3 May 1947. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society.

216

11.5 Saul Steinberg, ‘Untitled’, 1954. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, published in The Discovery of America, 1992.

218

12.1 ‘Demain, l’Expo!’ (Tomorrow, the Exhibition!), Le journal de Tintin, 16 April 1958, cover.

234

12.2 ‘L’élelctricité fait la maison heureuse’ (Electricity makes the home happy), late 1950s. Author’s collection.

235

12.3 ‘La Modest-0-matic’ (The dishwashing machine), from A. Franquin, 60 gags de Modeste et Pompon, 1958: ‘Based on a bold use of centrifugal force, this good kitchen fairy…, ‘Beware, Modeste!’.

243

12.4 ‘La cuisine presse-bouton’ (The button-operated kitchen), La cuisine ‘fonctionnelle’ (the ‘functional’ kitchen), publicité St-Laurent, c. 1954: ‘This trick…’ Author’s collection.

244

13.1 Shi Yong, Yiding yao baochi gaodu (Keep the height by all means), 2003. ShanghART.

251

13.2 Zhang Huan, lv (Donkey), 2005. Saatchi Gallery.

254

13.3 Chen Shaoxiong, Huayang fankong (Anti Terrorism Variety), 2002, Video 5’00”. Courtesy of Pékin Fine Arts On Behalf of the Estate of Artist Chen Shaoxiong.

257

13.4 Jiang Pengyi, All Back to Dust No. 2, 2006, photograph. Courtesy of Jiang Pengyi.

258

13.5 Chi Peng, Ping shenme rang wo ai ni? (Why should I love you?) 2008, photograph, 300 × 624 cm. Courtesy of Chi Peng.

261

xii

LIST OF CONTRIBUTORS

Michela Rosso is an Associate Professor of Architectural History at the Polytechnic of Turin where in 1998 she obtained her PhD. She has published extensively on a wide range of subjects, from urban history and theory to the history of twentieth century architecture and preservation, architectural historiography and criticism in Europe and at large in various scholarly journals like The Journal of Architecture, The London Journal, The Journal of the EAHN, The Journal of Art Historiography, Abe Journal and has contributed to a number of international magazines such as Domus, Il Giornale dell’Architettura, Controspazio, Zodiac, L’architettura. Cronache e storia. In 2014 she served as Chair of the European Architectural History Network Third International Conference held in Turin. In her research and teaching practices, Rosso seeks to crossfertilise architecture with other fields and disciplines: among her current interests is a study on the relationship between architecture and public opinion investigated through various media and registers of communication such as journalism and satirical imagery. Angela Becher is a Lecturer in Chinese cultural studies at the University of Manchester where she teaches Modern and Contemporary Chinese Art, Film and Literature. She obtained her Master’s in Sinology and a Doctorate from the School of Oriental and African Studies (SOAS), University of London. She is currently working on a book project that looks at China’s monumental new landmark buildings and their interpretation in contemporary Chinese art and film. Her research is situated at the nexus of art and Chinese socio-political history, with a particular interest in digital media and how they inform cultural production. Alongside her main research she also curated walks in Beijing art districts as well as Hutongs, the vernacular alleyways of old Beijing. Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes is an architect and Lecturer in Architecture at the School of Architecture, Planning and Landscape in Newcastle University, and Fellow at the London School of Economics – Catalan Observatory. He is also Adjunct Professor in Architecture at the Universitat Politècnica de Catalunya–BarcelonaTECH. GarciaFuentes researches on the history of architecture, urban history, heritage-making processes and experimental preservation. He was awarded the First National Prize of Spain for university graduates in 2006, and his work has been supported by the Government of Spain (2007–2011), the Samuel H. Kress Foundation for the Society of Architectural Historians (2011) and the Santander Bank (2014). He has been Visiting Professor at Tongji University in 2013, at the Universidad de Concepción in 2014, and at the Politecnico di Milano in 2018. Ruth Hanisch is a freelance researcher and lecturer in Dortmund. She teaches at the ETH Zurich. Her research focuses on architecture and urbanism in Austria from the

List of Contributors

nineteenth to the twentieth century. She co-edited the collected writings of Camillo Sitte and has published extensively on Viennese Modernism from Otto Wagner to Hans Hollein. Her latest research focuses on literary positions towards modern architecture and urbanism in Vienna, by authors like Hugo von Hofmannsthal and Robert Musil, and it will be presented in a substantial text collection edited with Iain Boyd Whyte and Harald Stühlinger. In her book Moderne vor Ort. Wiener Architektur 1889–1938 (2018), she stresses the impact of a new, modern, non-historistic interest in the Viennese vernacular and the architectural history of the city that paralleled and facilitated the evolution of modern architecture in Vienna around 1900. Guy Lambert is Associate Professor of History of Architecture at the École nationale supérieure d’architecture de Paris-Belleville. His research focuses on the relationship between architecture and technology, on the architectural practice and profession in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries, and is situated at the nexus of architectural and technological history and social and cultural history. He has authored and edited numerous books including Encyclopédie Perret (with Jean-Louis Cohen and Joseph Abram, 2002), L’atelier et l’amphithéâtre. Les écoles de l’architecture, entre théorie et pratique (with Estelle Thibault, 2011) and Les lieux de l’enseignement technique. XIXeXXe siècles (with Stéphane Lembré, 2017) Conor Lucey is Assistant Professor in the School of Art History and Cultural Policy at University College Dublin. His research projects centre on early modern urbanism, neoclassicism and print culture, and the contested relationship between architectural design and building production. Lucey is the author of Building Reputations: Architecture and the Artisan, 1750–1830 (2018), and articles in international peer-reviewed journals such as Architectural History and Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians. Christoph Lueder is Associate Professor of Urbanism and Architecture at Kingston University London. He researches and writes on the twentieth and early twenty-first century history of architecture and urbanism, with a particular concentration on the pervasive roles of diagrams as analytical, generative, narrative and critical devices. His theoretical work is complemented by field research on informal urbanism, most recently in collaboration with academic partners and communities in Jabal Al Natheef, Jordan; Ban Krua, Bangkok; and Cerro de la Cruz, Valparaiso. He previously taught at the University of Stuttgart and ETH Zürich and practised architecture and urban design from 1993 to 2003. Gabriele Neri is Adjunct Professor of History of Design and Architecture at the Polytechnic of Milan since 2011. He is researcher at the Academy of Architecture of Mendrisio, Switzerland. In 2017 he obtained the National Scientific Qualification to function as Associate Professor. The author of essays on the history of architecture, engineering and industrial design, since 2010 he has been conducting research into the relations between satire and architecture in the twentieth century. On these issues he has published Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno (2015). Among his other publications are Capolavori in miniatura. Pier Luigi Nervi e la modellazione strutturale (2014) and Umberto Riva. Interni e allestimenti (2017). xiv

List of Contributors

Susanna Pasquali is Associate Professor of History of Architecture at the University La Sapienza in Rome. She writes regularly on the following subjects: eighteenth-century architecture; neoclassicism; rediscoveries of ancient art and architecture from the sixteenth to nineteenth century. She is the author of a book on the Pantheon as it was observed in the eighteenth century (Il Pantheon. Architettura e antiquaria nel Settecento a Roma, 1996); she has been one of the editors of a catalogue devoted to the education of the young architects around 1800 (Contro il barocco, 2007); recently, she published some new documents on Piranesi’s Campo Marzio and on a book that the artist conceived but never published (Piranesi’s Lost Book: 1757–1758, 2015; Piranesi’s Campo Marzio as Described in 1757, 2016). Alan Powers is based in London and teaches for the London School of Architecture and also for the Universities of Kent and Westminster and New York University. His research specializes in the architecture, art and design of Britain in the twentieth century. His books include Britain in the series Modern Architectures in History (2007), monographs on the artists and designers Eric Ravilious (2013), Edward Ardizzone (2016) and Enid Marx (2018). His book Bauhaus Goes West will appear in late 2018. He is an editor of the series Twentieth Century Architects and the journal Twentieth Century Architecture, and a trustee of the Twentieth Century Society, with which he has worked for many years on issues of conservation and public education. Olivier Ratouis, historian and philosopher, is Professor of Urban Planning at Paris Nanterre University (UPN), attached to UMR CNRS Mosaïques-Lavue. His research focuses on urbanism from the mid-twentieth century in the Western world, with a particular interest in urban theories and urban semantics. He is the author and publisher of numerous scientific publications, including La construction d’une agglomération. Bordeaux et ses banlieues (2013), Rire en ville à l’époque contemporaine (with Martin Baumeister, 2011) and The Renewed Relevance of Urban-Planning Models? (with Claire Carriou, 2015), and is preparing a journal issue on The Standard City. He is editorin-chief for metropolitiques.eu. He is a member of the editorial team of Annales de la recherche urbaine, Histoire urbaine. Daniela Roberts is an Assistant Professor of Art History at the University of Würzburg. Between 2012 and 2015 she was curator of art collections at the Municipal Museum Brunswick. She holds a Doctorate in Art History from the University of Leipzig and curated several exhibitions including a display of Roman Veduta by Angelo Uggeri (2015) and the exposition ‘Ovid – Amor fou’ (2018). Her research focuses on Gothic Revival architecture and interior design in the eighteenth and nineteenth century in Great Britain and the relationship of architectural framing and perception. Her forthcoming article investigates anthropomorphic supports for English architecture from the early eighteenth century to 1900. Evert Vandeweghe is a historian and art historian and holds a PhD from the University of Ghent (2013). His research fields include construction history, as well as the intersection

xv

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between architectural history and representation. He has published for example on the ambiguous and creative practice of public architects and on how urban parades and festivities were used by small-town populations to harmonize their historical townscape with its inevitable modernization. In 2013 he started as an architectural researcher at the Flanders Heritage Agency working, among other subjects, on a project documenting the heritage value of social housing in Flanders, the northern part of Belgium.

xvi

HUMOUR: A LENS FOR THE ARCHITECTURAL AND URBAN HISTORIAN Michela Rosso

In The Exhibition Stare-Case visitors to the Royal Academy struggle up and down the steeply winding staircase of Somerset House. On the lower steps corpulent ladies fall headlong: the uppermost, who is seemingly the cause of the catastrophe, treads on a dog; one falls over the balustrade, one falls on top of a man; one lies at the bottom, being picked up by a man. Designed by William Chambers, the stairway led to the Great Room, where the Royal Academy held its annual exhibitions. Although the Academy promoted it as ‘easy and convenient’, the stairway became notorious. Owing to the cramped site, the architect squeezed three continuous flights of stairs into a semi-circular space. The unhappy result was a vertiginous staircase, the final flight of which was the steepest and narrowest.1 Can humour, in its various facets of satire, wit and irony, be used to study the history of architecture? How is it to be used? And what particular insights might it offer to study of the built environment? The figure of the architect and builder, though less exposed to social criticism than the politician, the lawyer or the doctor, has not stayed safe from the pencils of satirists and cartoonists. In the scholarly field of architectural history that has conventionally been focused more on the production of buildings, their authors and patrons, the study of humour shifts the attention to the interests of users and to the performative aspect of buildings in the expanded social life that takes place beyond completion. Architecture and the public sphere have recently been at the centre of historical scholarship.2 A few studies have directed their attention to the role played by the illustrated press, prints, exhibitions, and other media in diffusing eighteenth - and nineteenth-century architecture knowledge and culture.3 Others have focused on the relationship between architectural criticism and public opinion.4 As part of the public discourse about architecture and the built environment, the present study on humour forms one chapter of that broader emerging strand of studies. A personal history of humour and buildings My first encounter with architectural humour took place in England in a pre-Internet era. It happened in the 1990s during my PhD research at 66 Portland Place, London. I was then investigating the papers of John Summerson (1904–1992) as a means to understand the work of English architectural historians and their relationship to modernism in 1930s

Laughing at Architecture

London, when I came across a folding panorama entitled ‘The Street of Taste. Or the march of English art down the ages’ (1933). At the time, I did not know that this witty parade of English building façades from 1490 to 1933, complete with lamp posts, vehicles and advertisements, was only one of a long series of English architectural cartoons. There followed the entertaining survey of English architecture and interior design published in The Architectural Review by the cartoonist, author and critic Osbert Lancaster (1908–1986) and reprinted as Progress at Pelvis Bay (1936), Pillar to Post (1938) and Homes Sweet Homes (1939);5 Punch’s immense inventory of visual architectural humour from 1841 onwards; Louis Hellman’s hilarious series for The Architects’ Journal, alongside Private Eye’s ‘Nooks and Corners’ trenchant architectural criticism signed by Gavin Stamp under the pseudonym of ‘Piloti’.6 All this, and more, definitely persuaded me that England was – and is – an especiallly fertile terrain for humour and for architectural humour in particular. It was again while rummaging into Summerson’s then still partly un-catalogued boxes that I came across another favourite topic of architectural humour during the early 1980s: one of Mies van der Rohe’s last projects, the un-built Mansion House Square scheme in the City of London promoted by the developer Peter Palumbo (1962–1985). Regarded by many as a gigantic intrusion from Manhattan wrecking the entire face of the area, by 1982 Mies’s tower and plaza (and their architect) had become the perfect scapegoat for all the major faults of the International Style. Thus, the project had triggered the creativity of numerous satirical pens. Of the many cartoons published at the time, I favoured two. One, ‘The Trial of the Century’ by Hellman, showed caricaturized portraits of defenders and detractors of Mies’s design, including Summerson, heatedly disputing over the modern architect’s coffin. The latter was pictured in the shape of a steel and glass skyscraper carrying the inexorable headings ‘Less is Mort. Modern Movement R.I.P.’7 In the other, published in The Times, Mies’s glassbox figured as a showpiece of a natural history museum beside extinct dinosaurs and other ‘Pre-Palumbian’ fossils of a Mesozoic era.8 Better than any verbal description, those two cartoons pointed to one of the central subjects of debate, the project’s anachronism when viewed against the backdrop of the changed historical circumstances of the early 1980s.9 Interestingly enough, the first serious occasion I had to develop a study on humour in its relation to the built environment did not happen inside the usual circles of the architectural scholarship, namely the Society of Architectural Historians and the European Architectural History Network (EAHN). Instead, for all its possible ramifications in the field of visual studies, the subject attracted some attention within the Association of Art Historians (AAH) Annual Conference, where in 2015 I created and chaired a session entitled ‘From Distaste to Mockery: the city and its architectures ridiculed. 1750–today’.10 As I had expected, the response to the call highlighted a wide scholarly interest in the subject with paper proposals coming from international researchers of various academic backgrounds. Although the group also included a number of architects who specialized in architectural and urban history, the majority of proponents came from other disciplinary fields, such as contemporary and art history, cultural anthropology and linguistics, social and urban studies. At the same time the 2

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

papers proposed covered an equally wide spectrum of themes. This covered subjects as diverse as the critical reception of public monuments, architectural landmarks and urban plans, such as the Tour Eiffel, Gaudì’s Casa Milà, Haussmann’s renewal plans in Paris alongside caricatures of the Weissenhof Siedlung, visual mockeries of 1920s steel furniture and modern interiors, satirical artworks of recent Chinese cityscapes, ruminations on the public image of the contemporary star-architect, as mirrored in cartoons by Hellman and Klaus, and satires of work environments in American and Italian post-Second World War popular film comedies. At the time of the AAH conference I became involved in two further research projects concerning the reception and critique of modern architecture during the 1930s via humour, irony and satire. The first one is linked to Turin my city, and its Politecnico, the university where I studied and have taught architectural history since 2000. One of the most precious research resources held by the Politecnico is the archive of the architect Carlo Mollino (1905–1973). Within Mollino’s collection of drawings, correspondence and books is to be found a bunch of original issues of the magazine Il Selvaggio to which, from 1934 to 1939, the Turin architect contributed with the serialized chapters of his novel L’amante del duca illustrated with the surreal images of a chest-less feminine figure springing out from a pelvis. As soon as I opened the journal, I was captivated by the inventiveness of cartoons and jokes targeting Razionalismo, as well as the work of Marcello Piacentini (1881–1960) and of other protagonists of the architectural scene in fascist Italy. Authors of sketches, rhymes and calembours addressing major architectural projects and urban schemes under Fascism were the two talented writers and artists, Mino Maccari (1898– 1989) and Leo Longanesi (1905–1957). I proposed to write about this charming ensemble of works to the editors of a collection of essays then under preparation dedicated to the word-image relationship in the nineteenth- and early twentieth-centuries architectural publications. My essay was eventually published in early 2016 in Architectural Histories, the Journal of the EAHN. An updated version of it appears in this book: ‘Words and Images of Contempt: Il Selvaggio on Architecture (1926–1942)’. Although my dissertation on the biography of John Summerson eventually took me on a different path, the curiosity about the peculiar and somehow marginal position occupied by England in the history of modern architecture and the important role played by humour in this respect never really abandoned me. As I noted, my first approach to this topic had taken place serendipitously in the mid to late 1990s. And it took me a long time and to be at a more mature age to deeply understand and contextualize the materials I had first come across. One part of this deeper understanding came through Hélène Lipstadt’s illuminating ‘Polemics and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, published in 1983 in AA Files journal. Another part from lengthy conversations with English or English-born architectural historians, such as Howard Colvin, Adrian Forty, Kenneth Frampton, Royston Landau, Stefan Muthesius, Alan Powers, Margaret Richardson, Andrew Saint, Gavin Stamp. In the end, more than fifteen years after my PhD defence, I felt that I had to reconsider and possibly re-assess my personal understanding of this fascinating chapter of architectural history and criticism which, alongside Summerson and Pevsner, had included the works of John Betjeman, James Maude 3

Laughing at Architecture

Richards, Osbert Lancaster, Philip Morton Shand, Peter Fleetwood Hesketh, Robert Byron and others. The occasion was offered, once again, by a conference. The topic of the conference, chaired by Branko Mitrovic in Trondheim in late spring 2015, was inclusive: the history of architectural historiography, with no further specification. My paper ‘Between History, Criticism, and Wit: texts and images of English modern architecture’ dealt with Modern architectural criticism and historiography in England between 1933 and 1936. It argued that the role played by humour in criticism and historiography had been major, serving both detractors and apologists of modern architecture. For instance, as Pevsner’s Pioneers of the Modern Movement was sent to press, a series of publications had come out in London that were to deflate architectural modernism by way of caricature, both verbal and visual. The essay, later to be published in a special issue of the Journal of Art Historiography, also took a closer look at Betjeman’s Ghastly Good Taste and its only illustration, Fleetwood-Hesketh’s panorama, as well as William Heath Robinson’s How To Live in a Flat (1936) and Lancaster’s cartoons. My long-time obsession with English architectural humour eventually found an adequate form of expression through a residential fellowship that I was awarded in 2016 by the Yale Center for British Art, New Haven, with a research project entitled ‘The City and its Architectures Ridiculed. A study on spatial criticism as entertainment: the case of Britain’. Amongst other things, access to Yale Center’s impressive collections of paintings, prints and rare books gave me the opportunity to view an extensive group of rare original editions of comic almanacks of the Great London Exhibition. Alongside George Cruikshank’s famous portfolios, I discovered the less-known ‘The House that Paxton Built’ by the English journalist and caricaturist George Augustus Sala (1828– 1895), where the Crystal Palace pictured as an unreliable house of cards is treated not merely as the backdrop of a cultural or social satire, but is ridiculed as such.11 It was again thanks to the Yale Center award that I had the opportunity to investigate the pictorial strategies employed by A. W. N. Pugin in his Contrasts (1836), The True Principles of Pointed or Christian Architecture (1841) and An Apology for the Revival of Christian Architecture in England (1843). Pugin’s use of caricatures of notable buildings as a means of condemning certain foibles of nineteenth-century architectural practice and taste soon attracted my attention.12 Moreover, Contrasts characteristic ‘before and after’ style clearly provided a direct antecedent of at least two books I had encountered while studying English modern architecture, Clough Williams-Ellis’s England and the Octopus (1928) and the already mentioned Progress at Pelvis Bays by Osbert Lancaster. Phoebe Stanton has conducted an extraordinary study of four plates in Contrasts.13 Two of them in particular contain a remarkably rich ensemble of satirical motifs and themes. In the first, the book’s frontispiece entitled ‘Selections from the Works of Various Celebrated British Architects’ , the ‘young professional aspirant, who finds it easy to detect and parody the routine stock in trade of senior practitioners’ ,14 mocks the works of the establishment (Figure I.1). Inscribed within a frame of decorative motifs and pendentives derived from the works of John Soane are the fragments and details of buildings designed by some of Pugin’s contemporaries: Robert Smirke; John Nash; William Wilkins; Decimus Burton; George Stanley Repton. At the top of the second plate 4

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

(Figure I.2), a derisive dedication to ‘The Trade’ of architecture, the advertisement of a competition for the design of a church – to seat 8,000 and cost no more than £1,500, the premiums for the winners to be £5 to £1 – alludes to the abuse of competitions as a means of obtaining plans for cheap churches. The style requirement – Gothic or Elizabethan – required in this case is a mockery of the Houses of Parliament competition.15

Figure I.1 A. W. N. Pugin, frontispiece from Contrasts, or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

5

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Figure I.2 A. W. N. Pugin, ‘New Church Open Competition’ from Contrasts, or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836. Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection.

I keep talking about and exchanging ideas about my on-going research on humour and architecture with students, colleagues, practising architects and friends. And each time, each of them adds one piece to what increasingly appears to be a never-ending picture. As a result, an exhaustive catalogue of architectural and urban humour throughout the 6

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

contemporary age would probably result in an encyclopaedic work encompassing the entire history and culture of architecture and the city. It should for instance include works as different and important as those of professional illustrators, cartoonists, artists and writers such as the mentioned Hogarth, Rowlandson and Cruikshank, as well as Honoré Daumier and Emile Marcelin; Karl Arnold, Osbert Lancaster and Louis Hellman, Alan Dunn, Saul Steinberg and Jacques Tati, alongside Stanley Tigerman’s ‘Archi-toons’, Gustav Peichl’s ‘Ironimus’ drawings and Tom Wolfe’s From Bauhaus to Our House pungent satire of the fallacies of modern architecture. The contents of this collection of essays mainly originate from the session I chaired in 2015. I selected essays delivered at the conference, carefully reviewed them and added seven more to them in order to achieve a better chronological and thematic balance. The aim of this study is to outline a survey of visual and textual humour as applied to some relevant episodes of the contemporary history and culture of architecture and the city. Far from being comprehensive and covering the entire possible inventory of humour on the city and its architectures, the thirteen essays in this collection explore subjects concerning the critical reception of projects, buildings and cities through the means of exaggeration, parody and hyperbole, verbal and visual, from 1750 to the present, across a diverse range of European countries, as well as in the US and contemporary China. The following questions have been considered in these essays: What are the themes addressed by episodes of visual and literary humour, satire and wit on the built environment? What are their objectives? Who is their public? What evaluations and feelings do they give voice to? What particular interests are promoted and what values, social reactions, conflicts, regimes of taste and visual codes are conveyed through them? How does architectural and urban humour operate? How does it work compared to other – more serious, scholarly, expert – registers of criticism?

Humour, architecture and the city: The state of the art While there has been extensive recent research on the relationship between modern art, satire and public opinion,16 the investigation on the reception and popular opinion of architecture and urban space has only sporadically been the subject of systematic attention in historical scholarship,17 and only recently have architecture and urban historians attempted to apply or adapt reception theory to their disciplines.18 In contrast, studies in graphic satire have privileged the history of it as a genre, rather than considering it as a symptom of social transformations, intersecting several other fields, and ranging across individual or shared objects, social practices and reactions that could be interrogated from the perspective of visual studies.19 Humour undoubtedly bears the potential to captivate a general readership much larger than the restricted circle of experts. Among the most entertaining works is the popular parody of Frank O. Gehry’s design process featured by one episode of The Simpsons animated sitcom series.20 In England, the late Times architecture critic Charles Knevitt gathered 150 years of Punch into an amusing collection of English architectural 7

Laughing at Architecture

cartoons published from 1842 to 1990; on Italian TV screens Maurizio Crozza’s comic character Fuffas offers an exhilarating caricature of the contemporary architect and of all his idiosyncrasies.21 Whereas humour, in its association with architecture and architects, seems to have elicited the curiosity of the general public, the scholarly literature on this subject still presents the following few studies. In its relation with urban facts, humour has been the subject of ‘Rire en ville’ (Laughter in the city) (2011), a collection of essays as a special issue of Histoire Urbaine journal, which has addressed the city as a backdrop, theme and motif of laughter. In this perspective humour has been fruitfully employed as a tool to study processes of modernization and change affecting the nineteenth- and twentieth-century European cities. Within a different chronological scope but with an analogous methodological perspective, the virtual exhibition ‘Satire and the City: William Hogarth and Eighteenthcentury London’ , curated by Caitlin Blackwell in the wake of Mark Hallett’s important studies on satire, has explored the relationship between pictorial satire and urban culture in eighteenth-century Britain (2015).22 Single episodes of nineteenth-century European urban history have provided the subject of a few publications and exhibitions focused on the public reception of projects observed through the lenses of ephemeral journalism and satirical imagery. Among these is Rosemarie Gerken’s ‘Transformation’ und ‘Embellissement’ von Paris in der Karikatur (1997), centred on the humorous reception of the vast works programme commissioned by Napoléon III and directed by Baron Georges-Eugène Haussmann between 1853 and 1870. In Milan, the association dedicated to the work of the Italian cartoonist Casimiro Teja (1830–1897) promoted the knowledge of the satirical aspects of the public debate surrounding a central episode of the city’s history – the plan for a new cathedral square and the construction of the Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II (1856–1863) designed by the architect-engineer Giuseppe Mengoni.23 A comprehensive work specifically dedicated to architectural caricatures is Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno (Architecture caricatures. Satire and critique of modern design) (2015). The book written by an Italian architect with a PhD in architectural history is an extensive survey of architectural caricatures from 1851 to the present. It includes a selection of famous episodes and major themes of urban and architectural visual satire targeting architectural innovation and modernism, such as pictorial satire of London Great Exhibition, Viennese Secessionist buildings, 1920s European and American modern interiors and contemporary architecture landmarks such as Frank Lloyd Wright’s Guggenheim Museum and Utzon’s Sydney Opera House. Recently three conference sessions have dealt with the topic from various perspectives. The already mentioned ‘From Distaste to Mockery’ has examined six episodes of visual and textual humour chosen between 1750 and today. The session ‘Satire and the City: Representations of Cities and Urban Life in the Comical Press, Eighteenth to Twentieth Centuries’24 chaired by the contemporary historians Paulo Jorge Fernandes and Vanesa Rodríguez-Galindo and presented at the 2016 European Association of Urban History conference has further developed the outlook adopted by the Histoire Urbaine special issue. In this framework panellists have explored the modes in which satirical cartoons 8

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

articulated ideas of urbanity, place, and changing socio-spatial relations in modern European cities: the city has appeared here as both the target and the setting of satirical commentaries. It included case-studies as diverse as the graphic work of Portuguese cartoonist Rafael Bordalo Pinheiro (1879–1891); satirical journals as mirrors of urban modernity in late nineteenth-century Vienna; Honoré Daumier’s visual commentary on modern urban life in nineteenth-century Paris; satirical representations of minority districts in Istanbul during the occupation of the city by the Allied forces (1918 to 1923). A more inclusive perspective has been embraced by ‘L’architecte, caricaturiste caricaturé: identité, (auto)dérision et confraternité’ (The caricaturist architect caricaturized: identity, self-mockery and confraternity), the roundtable presented at the Festival d’Histoire de l’Art (2016) organized by the Association d’Histoire de l’Architecture in Paris,25 which has examined the various forms taken by laughter and derision within the nineteenth- and twentieth-century architecture culture. The symposium showed a twofold face of architectural humour. Whereas architectural work often provided the source and materials of public mockery, for some practising architects humour acted as a vehicle of professional complicity, or as a polemical tool of architectural work. This last aspect has been at the centre of Emmanuel Petit’s Irony, or, the Self-critical Opacity of Postmodern Architecture (2013), which has focused on the use of caricature and irony by contemporary architects such as Robert Venturi and Denise Scott Brown, Stanley Tigerman, Arata Isozaki, and others. By revealing how these firms employed humour as an instrument of self-reflective practice or cultural satire, Petit’s book offers an approach that is completely internal to the professional discourse and one that is predominantly concentrated on the late twentieth-century North American milieu.

Voices, registers and functions of architectural humour, an overview To produce the whole of its effect, [ … ] the comic demands something like a momentary anaesthesia of the heart. Its appeal is to intelligence, pure and simple. This intelligence, however, must always remain in touch with other intelligences [ … ] Laughter appears to stand in need of an echo [ … ] Our laughter is always the laughter of a group. [ … ] A man who was once asked why he did not weep at a sermon, when everybody else was shedding tears, replied: I don’t belong to the parish! What Henri Bergson thought of tears would be still more true of laughter. However spontaneous it seems, ‘laughter always implies a kind of secret freemasonry, or even complicity, with other laughers, real or imaginary’.26 Bergson, Freud, Berger, Gruner and others, have all endeavoured to find an allencompassing theory of humour, laughter and the comical. Notoriously, humour differs from culture to culture, and through history. In its widest sense, it can cover a variety of attitudes and expressions, from aphorisms to spoonerisms, jokes and puns, 9

Laughing at Architecture

farce and foolery. It can be malevolent or light-hearted, sarcastic or entertaining, sour or amiable. As the society’s weapon to criticize departures from the norm and the expected, to punish and correct idiosyncrasies, to question authority and the established order, humour is ubiquitous. Across a variety of visual and literary medias, such as prints and cartoons, poems, pamphlets, and advertisements, theatre and film, it appears as a potent agent of criticism. It expresses the aspiration to control and affect public opinion, acting as an instrument through which social boundaries and urban identities are continually negotiated and re-shaped. By absorbing the disturbing effects of modernization and turning them into laughter it gives voice to a diverse spectrum of feelings, emotions and social responses ranging from distaste to overt dissent, professional envy and scorn.27 The present collection expands the scope and the contents of the AAH conference. Although the main perspective is still the one adopted in 2015, focusing on the works of architects and builders as recipients of satirical criticism, irony and ridicule, the volume expands the study to include one case in which the author of architectural humour is, himself, an architect. By carrying on the work inaugurated by the studies on humour cited above, it intends to re-address the theme of the reception of architecture beyond the closed circle of professional culture (intentions, programmes, and patrons) through still rarely exploited and little-studied sources. By listening to voices that have often gone unheard within the consolidated architectural historical canon, it aims at reappraising some crucial transitions in the history of architectural and urban culture since the origins of the contemporary age in the mid to late eighteenth century until the first decade of the twenty-first century. Vladimir Propp has noted how any research on humour cannot be done other than inductively, by studying facts.28 As shown by essays in this volume, any investigation on architectural humour necessarily focuses on practices, it is an investigation where each case study is embodied, performed and informed by a specific and unique set of historical circumstances. As humour is a culturally and historically determined experience, a great deal of energy has been devoted by authors to elucidate the historical contexts within which cartoons and jokes were produced. It would be hard to appreciate the comic and derogatory effects of those works without the patient work of decoding humour’s hidden meanings by uncovering the complex and layered ensemble of social and professional relationships, economic, aesthetic and cultural values, out of which each episode of humour sprang and developed. By re-establishing Bergson’s ‘secret freemasonry’,29 that ‘complicity’ between the reader and the public for which cartoons and satirical works were originally intended, authors in this volume have attempted to put humour back into its natural environment, thus revealing the utility and meaning of its function. The geographical scope of the book is broad. Essays are entirely or partly focused on Ireland, Italy, England, Spain, Austria, Flanders, France, USA and China. As a collected work, the book contains a diverse range of scholarly experience present among the contributors, from post-PhD scholars to full professors. While the majority of authors are historians of architecture and share a common set of instruments and methods of 10

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

investigation, some essays are situated at the intersection of different research areas. These include perspectives of iconography and iconology (Pasquali, Roberts), cultural and media studies (Becher, Ratouis), biographical histories of architecture (Powers, Hanisch), linguistics and sociology (Vandeweghe), theory and criticism of architecture and urbanism (Lueder, Ratouis). Coherently with this diversity, I chose to make minimum changes to the original texts and maintain as much as possible the writing style peculiar to each of them. The essays address various historical moments from the baroque through to the present day, and are organized chronologically.

Ages and themes of architectural and urban humour A study on architectural humour necessarily begins by looking at the eighteenth century. Although irony and ridicule as satirical weapons were part of writers’ and artists’ practices since well before then, the eighteenth century is conventionally seen as the age of satire par excellence, a century in which the development of this genre of political and social commentary is favoured by a number of factors, not least the availability of new means of image production and dissemination – the print shops, the emergence of new publishers and booksellers, and the appearance of a number of great artists on the scene. Cultural architectural historian Richard Wittman analysed the complex ways in which, between the end of seventeenth century and the French Revolution, architectural practice, theory and patronage became modern with the rise of a mass public and a reconfigured public sphere. Wittman depicts the transition of architecture into public culture as a turning point and interrogates it as a symptom of a distinctly modern configuration of the individual, society and space. Within this framework, a survey of graphic architectural and urban satire could conventionally start with William Hogarth’s candid and frequently humorous engravings, portraying London during the rapid expansion which affected both its social and urban fabric during the artist’s lifetime. Within Hogarth’s prolific production, architecture and the built environment often work as an agent of a wider political and social commentary targeting the contemporary trends of high culture. Hogarth’s print ‘Bad Taste of Town’, issued in February 1724, for instance, conveyed diffused feelings of antipathy over the emerging taste for imported entertainments of which neo-Palladianism was only one aspect at that time.30 Hogarth’s later ‘The Five Orders of Periwigs’ (1761) contained several layers of satire. By assimilating matters of architectural language to matters of fashion, the famous print called attention to the transitory nature and futility of the contemporary discussion over classical antiquity as exemplified by James Stuart and Nicholas Revett’s famous The Antiquities of Athens, the final target of the artist’s irony.31 The analogy of architecture with fashion – and hair fashion in particular – is not uncommon in eighteenth-century architectural discourse. For instance the Italian architectural theorist and prolific author Francesco Milizia employed it in the penultimate chapter of his Principj di architettura civile (1781) entitled ‘Requisiti necessarj all’Architetto’ (Requirements Necessary to the Architect). Rigorously re11

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directing the reader’s attention to the substantial role played by the professional figure of the architect within the late eighteenth-century contemporary society, Milizia warned: ‘It seems that the honesty of the Artists has to be calculated by reason of the importance of their art. As much as Versailles is more important than a wig, as much more honesty is demanded in the Architect than in the Hairdresser.’32 As shown by Susanna Pasquali’s essay ‘Laughing at the Baroque’, the work of Milizia can again be called into question in order to contextualize and interpret the criticism implicit in the drawing ‘The Artist at the Crossroad’ by Joseph Anton Koch. In this context, the disgust expressed by a young artist towards the excesses of baroque art and architecture around 1790 is not a mere personal outburst, but can be read against the backdrop of other eighteenth-century writings equally critical – and often in a satirical mode – of the architectural practice of the time. It was in fact Milizia in his Dizionario delle Belle Arti del Disegno (1797) that defined baroque as ‘the superlative of the bizarre, the excess of the ridiculous’.33 As Helen Hills has noted, Milizia’s hostility to baroque often assumed the tones of visual caricature as in the frontispiece to his Le Vite de’ Più Celebri Architetti d’ogni Nazione e d’ogni Tempo (1768) where a classical temple, a primitive hut indicated as its direct forebear, is endorsed (hoc amet), while that which is spurned (hoc spernat) is represented by a parody of Borromini’s Oratory.34 Studies in architectural culture have highlighted the mid-eighteenth century as a crucial transition in the emergence of public debate on architecture, the city and the public good. ‘All the world is now writing and speaking about architecture,’35 the press noted when a competition was announced in 1768 to design a new Royal Exchange to be erected in Dublin. It is precisely at this stage that, with the rise of a mass public, architecture becomes part of a media-saturated culture, altering the human relation to space by privileging a virtual rather than embodied experience of publicness. In the wake of Wittman’s important study, Conor Lucey’s essay ‘From Reportage to Ridicule: Satirizing the Building Industry in the Eighteenth-century Irish Press’ focuses on the anonymous comments and complaints published in eighteenth-century Dublin newspapers. By 1750 Dublin was the ninth largest city in Europe and enjoyed a period of economic stability that was reflected in rising land values and rental incomes. This was the era when much of the city’s celebrated eighteenth-century streetscape was raised on private estates controlled by an aristocratic elite. By letting voices speak that are not normally heard in architectural and urban history, Lucey’s essay brings in a distinct dimension to eighteenth-century architectural discourse. The historical investigation of architectural humour spans the entire itinerary of modernity. Thus, the advent of modernity has often functioned as a catalyst for satire. Processes of urbanization and innovation almost naturally go hand in hand with the rise of humour employed as a weapon to express dissent as well as a form of adaptation to a quickly changing reality. In this framework, humour appears as a mode of critical awareness and engagement of the pubic sphere acting as an alternative instrument of democracy, self-affirmation and empowerment. In the first decades of the nineteenth century, feverish London building activities were to fuel the inventiveness of British caricaturists and illustrators. Among the abundant 12

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

series of etchings published at the time, George Cruikshank’s ‘London Going Out of Town or the March of Bricks and Mortar’ (1829),36 showing regiments of new streets marching ruthlessly out of the British capital into the surrounding country, stands out as a sharp-edged denunciation of the contradictions implicit in early nineteenth-century urbanization. ‘Nashional Taste’, another celebrated cartoon by Cruikshank, is at the centre of Daniela Roberts’s essay ‘The Thorn of Scorn’ on John Nash’s All Souls church in Regent Street. Different layers of meanings, susceptible to various interpretations, are contained in the cartoon: the architect appears here either as a victim of a political campaign against the Regent, or as an opportunist who cleverly adapts himself to the quickly changing political scenarios. Roberts shows some unexpected effects of humour and how this was not only used as an opposition to architectural deformation, or as an outlet for social issues, but also operated as an identifier of the city’s most recognizable features, helping to ensure the image of the architect as author and even enhance his reputation. In this context, the public exposition of caricature as prints for sale attracting viewers also acted as a medium for democratization of opinions, giving the masses a voice, whereby the individual could gain self-affirmation. As shown by Lambert’s ‘“A Joke that Has Gone on Far Too Long”’, it was in France in the years of the Third Republic that public buildings were again at the centre of media attention. Following the works of Napoleon III and Haussmann, the transformation of the French capital often elicited expressions of public mockery. Through the examination of the satirical press, the essay studies the perception of Paris architectural and urban transformations during the last quarter of the nineteenth century. Offering an overall assessment of the satirical aspect of the reception of Julien Guadet’s Hôtel des Postes (1878–1888), the author elucidates the underlying meanings of derision directed to an architectural work and its architect. While it often revealed public reactions of impatience and discontent following delays in construction and the building’s technical flaws, more often verbal satire took on a broader political and professional dimension. Garcia-Fuentes’s ‘Deconstructing Gaudí’ offers new insights into the study of the Catalan architect’s design strategies, as well as of his religious background. Focusing mainly on the eccentricity of the architect’s choices, satirical representations of La Pedrera, Sagrada Familia and Parc Güell not only actively contributed to the ‘artialization’ of Gaudí’s oeuvre but also addressed broader cultural and political conflicts inherent to the late nineteenth-century Catalan society. By providing glimpses into the architect’s – and his clients’ –religious and political ideas, the survey of the humorous reception of Antoni Gaudí’s works within popular media points to the different and competing ideological understandings of his architectural work. The impact of Adolf Loos’s House in the Michaelerplatz on the contemporary Viennese media is a well-known subject. Well before its completion, its restrained and seemingly outrageous elevation began to be known through dozens of caricatures and nicknames in the local press. The building was re-christened in innumerable derogative ways: ‘prison’, ‘factory’, ‘matchbox’, ‘monster’ … By contrast, the humorous character of Loos’s celebrated architectural writings is a less investigated topic. In her 13

Laughing at Architecture

essay ‘Confronting Problems with a Sense of Humour: Adolf Loos’s Architectural Polemics and Viennese Journalism’, Ruth Hanisch shows how humour had been a long-established cultural practice in Loos’s closest circle of friends, which among others included Karl Kraus and Felix Dörmann. The essay’s subtle analysis of Loos’s ironic tale ‘The Poor Little Rich Man’, the story of a rich young man who has his house decorated by an unnamed Secessionist architect, carefully reconstructs the context of the architect’s humorous writing mode. Using glimpses into Loos’s and his friends’ private lives, it throws light onto the various registers, modes and meanings associated with this genre of political communication. One of the striking inventions of modern design was tubular steel furniture. But while Mart Stam’s cantilevered chair, Marcel Breuer’s Wassily chair, and Mies van der Rohe’s Barcelona chair all expressed eloquently the spirit of Neues Bauen, the public found the new metal furniture rather odd – even off-putting – especially in domestic environments. Tubular steel was for most people a material to be used for gas pipes, bicycle frames and airplane seats, rather than as home furniture. The frigidity of the material was an oftenvoiced complaint, which led many cartoonists to caricature chairs in which tubes were connected to radiators’ pipes to impart some warmth to the icy steel. By concentrating on cartoons and jokes about some of the early twentieth-century modernist tenets of deornamentation, flat roofs and structural transparency, Neri’s ‘Irrational Interiors: The Modern Domestic Landscape Seen in Caricatures’ shows how this kind of commentary brilliantly seized the major impact of the new architecture on society, often doing a much better job of documenting it than the professional literature. It may seem odd but the country that invented the Industrial Revolution had trouble expressing its own modernist culture. This is confirmed by voices of the times such as Aldous Huxley, whose disdain for functionalist aesthetics is well known and summed up in the statement that ‘To dine off an operating table, to loll in a dentist’s chair this is not my ideal of domestic bliss’.37 This is also shown by the amusing caricatures of illustrator William Heath Robinson who in 1936 portrayed dismayed ladies and gentlemen living in an inhospitable world of bare reinforced concrete walls and icy-cold chromed steel furnishings. Powers’s insightful essay ‘Osbert Lancaster: Architectural Humour in the Time of Functionalism’, confirms Hélène Lipstadt’s argument that ‘being funny about architecture was a deadly serious business, an indispensable tool of the modernist conspiracy’.38 By showing Lancaster’s ambivalent views on Modern architecture, Powers effectively recreates the literary and artistic milieu in which English architectural writing happily crossed paths with irony and humour. One of the rare examples of post-occupancy evaluation concerning the work of Le Corbusier, the sociological analyses of the transformation undergone by Pessac housing since its completion by Philippe Boudon, has showed that the modern architect’s sense of aesthetics and functionality did not always match up with the needs and feelings of the general public. In his serial and systematic study of popular naming across the post-Second World War history of social housing in Belgium, Vandeweghe’s essay ‘From “Little Russia” (Klein Rusland) to “Planet of the Apes” (De Apenplaneet): Nicknaming Twentieth-century Mass Housing in Belgium’ deals with toponyms 14

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

as forms of individual re-appropriation of social housing. As a mode of bottom-up resistance to institutional power expressing feelings of resentment and social alienation, popular nicknames either criticized the uniformity and repetitiveness of modernist housing estates, or voiced issues of social conflicts and segregation. Here, humour offers identification with the ill-treated and those social categories or individuals traditionally excluded from civic life. In ‘The Modern City Through the Mirror of Humour’, Ratouis employs laughter as a lens to observe ‘the shock of urban modernity’ and its impact on domestic environments following the advent of modern household appliances. By turning to a less investigated set of research materials and sources (movies, advertisements, comics), the author proposes to tackle the subject of post-Second World War modernization from the standpoint of the Americanized user. In this framework, Jacques Tati’s ‘Mon Oncle’ and ‘Playtime’, Modeste and Pompon funnies and Sempé’s albums open perspectives that were not necessarily hostile to modernism but showed a more human face of it. Humour appears here as a form of appropriation of high culture by popular culture, as well as a window on everyday life, encompassing at the same time both a fascination with and a criticism of modernity. Lueder’s ‘Saul Steinberg’s Graph Paper Architecture’ re-situates Steinberg’s celebrated cartoons of New York City and urban spaces within the tools of visual discourse that the artist refined over the course of his education and professional itinerary. Taking as its point of departure the series of graph paper sketches that begin with a caricature of Le Corbusier and extend to a series of collages mocking Miesian façades, Lueder shows how Steinberg’s cartoons gradually reveal layers of meaning that profoundly resonate with modernism, its visual conventions as well as with the popular experience of the modern city. Rather than a hostile attack from without, the essay assesses Steinberg’s work as an articulated and empathic critique from within modernism. Becher’s ‘Splendid?! Preposterous! Chinese Artists Mock the Architectural Spectacle’ analyses four works of contemporary Chinese art focusing on the increasing homogenization of Chinese cityscapes as reflected in the new landmark architecture of Beijing, Shanghai and Guangzhou. The essay highlights how humour can be powerfully employed to address issues of underlying political dissent in a country where the freedom of speech and press are constantly confronted with the official media policies and the severity of censorship. Artworks presented in this essay irreverentially portray China’s built environment as grotesque, anthropomorphized and absurd. As a result, the grand narrative of China’s progress, power and economic ascendency that appears to be inscribed in architectural form is seriously challenged. Conclusion The chapters of this book could appear disparate, their authors coming from different academic backgrounds and disciplines, each one with their own personal understanding of the subject. And yet, it is this very diversity which points to the ubiquity of humour and to the multiplicity of forms in which it is manifest. The result is an eclectic collection of case studies revealing a plurality of voices and authors of architectural and urban 15

Laughing at Architecture

humour. An equally assorted scenario emerges from the variety of techniques deployed by commentators. Authors of tirades, invectives, polemical essays and entertaining cartoons are journalists, people in the street and amateur writers. Among them can be found anonymous commentators, architects and artists, popular cartoonists and professional illustrators. At the same time the modes and expressive tools they use, are inscribable within a wide spectrum of literary and graphic genres, such as puns, jokes, rhymes and little poems (as in Hanisch’s article on Loos’s use of humour), popular nicknaming of buildings (as in Vandeweghe’s essay on social housing in Flanders), drawings (as in Pasquali’s account of eighteenth-century criticism of the baroque), three dimensional artworks and sculptures (as in Becher’s analysis of contemporary Chinese urban expansion), and above all cartoons accompanied by captions or short texts, in which little stories are told (as for Garcia-Fuentes’s investigation on the reception of Gaudì’s buildings, Powers’s text on English modern architectural criticism, Neri’s account of 1920s modernist interiors and furniture, and my essay on Maccari and Longanesi’s satirical criticism of public building works under Fascism). Fieldwork as reported in this collection documents the richness of comic expressions on architecture, the architects and the built environment. It also throws light on the semantic instability, ambiguity and the multiplicity of possible associations and meanings intrinsic in the materials examined. As part of the public discourse about architecture and the built environment, the study of humour bears the strong potential of offering an alternative reading of buildings, their architects’ and patrons’ intentions, to be placed alongside the professional literature and the more consolidated historiographical interpretations. Although laughter is sometimes perceived as a synonym for an escape from reality and the comic mode as a minor art, these essays reveal how humour can be an extremely serious affair and a valuable resource for the architectural and urban historian. By offering the viewer, as Ernst Gombrich wrote, ‘that illusion of life which can do without any illusion of reality’,39 the study of humour can capture reality probably in a more vivid and palpable way than other forms of criticism (Figure I.3). Acknowledgements The preparation of this collection has depended substantially on the help and advice of a series of people and organizations. My debts are to the architecture library and archives of the Politecnico di Torino, Centro Studi Piero Gobetti (Turin), the Yale Center for British Art (New Haven, CT), the RIBA Library (London), the National Art Library (London), the Avery Architectural & Fine Arts Library (New York) and the Canadian Centre for Architecture (Montréal). I am grateful to my doctoral students Andrea Ronzino and Fabio Marino as well as to my colleagues Barry Bergdoll, Cristiana Chiorino, Jorge Correia, Alessandro Demagistris, Adrian Forty, Kenneth Frampton, Mary McLeod, Laura Milan, Sergio Pace, Edoardo Piccoli, Alan Plattus, Daniel Sherer, Eliana Sousa Santos, Marco Trisciuoglio and Stanislaus von Moos for spending their time discussing the results of my ongoing research with me. 16

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian

Figure I.3 Self-portrait caricature by the Danish architect Vilhelm Dahlerup on his return from two years of studying abroad, 1866. The accompanying text in a letter to his teacher Emmerik Høegh-Guldberg reads: ‘Now, I only need something to begin with at home, you get so splendidly full of the idyllic new works of art that eventually it must come to independent production’. Wikimedia Commons.

17

Laughing at Architecture

I would like to thank all the contributors for their hard work, careful thinking and writing from which I have learned hugely. This book is dedicated to my mother, a woman full of humour with whom I shared unforgettable laughs. Notes 1

This description of ‘The Exhibition Stare-Case, Somerset House’ (c. 1800) by the English artist and caricaturist Thomas Rowlandson, chosen to illustrate the cover of this book, is indebted to the two detailed accounts given in the websites of the British Museum and the Yale Center for British Art. Criticism of the architectural features of William Chambers’s staircase is not the only subject of ridicule in Rowlandson’s celebrated work, and probably not the most relevant one. As is typical of visual satire, the work includes other layers of satirical commentary. Notably, by using a pun on the words ‘stare’ and ‘stair’, it pokes fun at the people visiting the Academy. For a more detailed account see Kay Dian Kriz, ‘“Stare Cases”: Engendering the Public’s Two Bodies at the Royal Academy of Arts’, in David H. Solkin (ed.), Art on the Line: The Royal Academy Exhibitions at Somerset House, 1780–1836 (New Haven, CT and London: Paul Mellon Centre for Studies in British Art, Courtauld Institute Gallery, Yale University Press, 2001), pp. 57–63. https://www.bmimages.com/ results.asp?image=00103162001&imagex=7&searchnum=0001, http://collections.britishart. yale.edu/vufind/Record/1670093 (both accessed 8 February 2018).

2

Richard Wittman, Architecture, Print Culture and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-century France (London and New York: Routledge, 2007).

3

Anne Hultzsch and Mari Hvattum (eds), The Printed and the Built. Architecture, Print Culture, and Public Debate in the Nineteenth Century (London and New York: Bloomsbury, 2018); Barry Bergdoll, ‘Architecture Exhibition and the Emergence of Public Debate on Architecture, Cities and the Public Good in the Eighteenth and Early Nineteenth Centuries’, in Kathleen James-Chakraborty (ed.), Proceedings of the Fourth International Conference of the European Architectural History Network (Dublin: UCD School of Art History and Cultural Policy, University College Dublin, 2017), p. 191.

4

Hélène Jannière and Paolo Scrivano (eds), ‘Critique architecturale et débat public’ (Architectural Criticism and Public Debate), CLARA Architecture/Recherche Journal, 5 (forthcoming 2019); Michela Rosso (ed.), Architettura e opinione pubblica, lecture series of the Excellence PhD Course in History of Architecture (Turin: Politecnico di Torino, 30 October 2016–23 February 2017).

5

A picture and description of Fleetwood-Hesketh’s panorama and Lancaster’s work is contained in Alan Powers’s essay ‘Osbert Lancaster, Architectural Humour in the Time of Functionalism’ in this volume.

6

Since 1973 up to the present day, the series ‘Nooks & Corners’ published as the architecture column of the London-based fortnightly satirical magazine Private Eye, founded in 1961, has provided an extensive and illuminating diary of some of the most urgent issues at stake in the public discussion over the state of contemporary architectural practice and the preservation of listed buildings in Britain. Founded by John Betjeman, and originally called ‘Nooks and Corners of New Barbarism’ with clear allusion to the emerging architectural trend of New Brutalism firstly historicized by Reyner Banham’s 1955 article in The Architectural Review, the column was to be carried on by Betjeman’s daughter Candida Lycett Green and until recently by Gavin Stamp who since the early 1980s steadily contributed to the magazine under the ironic pseudonym of ‘Piloti’.

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Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian 7

Louis Hellman, ‘Hellman and Diary. Mansion House Square Scheme: The Trial of the Century’, The Architects’ Journal, 29 (May 1985), p. 27.

8

The cartoon is published as an illustration to Charles Knevitt, ‘Say No to This Museumpiece’, The Times, 29 April 1985.

9

John Summerson had taken part, on the supporters’ side, to the public inquiry held on the project between May and July 1984. A detailed analysis of the Mansion House Square scheme debate is in Michela Rosso, ‘Heritage, Populism and Anti-Modernism in the Controversy of the Mansion House Square Scheme’, in Ákos Moravánszky and Torsten Lange (eds), Re-framing Identities: Architecture’s Turn to History, 1970–1990 (Basel: Birkhäuser, 2016), pp. 227–43.

10 A synopsis of the session is in Michela Rosso, ‘From Distaste to Mockery: The City and its Architectures Ridiculed’, in Sarah Monks (ed.), Association of Art Historians 41st Annual Conference Book of Abstracts (Norwich 9–11 April 2015, Norwich: University of East Anglia, 2015), pp. 83–6. 11 A description of the etching contained in George Augustus Sala, The House that Paxton Built (London: Ironbrace, Woodenhead & Co., 1851) is in Michela Rosso, ‘Cartoon’, in Hvattum and Hultzsch (eds), The Printed and the Built, pp. 159–65. 12 On these aspects see Rosemary Hill, God’s Architect: Pugin and the Building of Romantic Britain (London: Allen Lane, 2007), pp. 153–54; Phoebe Stanton, Pugin (New York: Viking Press, 1972), pp. 25–6, 85–8; Pierre De la Ruffinière Du Prey, ‘Laughter at the Expense of the City: From the Ancient World to A. W. N. Pugin and Léon Krier, Laughter down the Centuries’, in Siegfried Jäkel and Asko Timonen (eds), Laughter down the Centuries (Turku: Turun Yliopisto, 1994), pp. 145–59. 13 Kathryn E. Holliday, ‘Beginnings and Endings: Phoebe Stanton on Pugin’s Contrasts’, Journal of Architectural Education, 66, 1 (2012), pp. 128–37; Rosemary Hill, ‘Reformation to the Millennium. Pugin’s Contrasts in the History of English Thought’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 58, 1 (March 1999), pp. 26–41. 14 Ibid., p. 132. 15 Full descriptions of the plates are in ibid., pp. 129–37. 16 See Marta Sironi, Ridere dell’arte. L’arte moderna nella grafica satirica europea tra Otto e Novecento (Milan: Mimesis, 2012); Barbara Cinelli, Flavio Fergonzi, Maria Grazia Messina, Antonello Negri, L’arte moltiplicata. L’immagine del ‘900 italiano nello specchio dei rotocalchi (Milan: Bruno Mondadori, 2013). 17 A seminal study has been Philippe Boudon, Pessac de Le Corbusier (Paris: Dunod, 1969). Translated in English as: Lived-in Architecture. Le Corbusier’s Pessac Revisited (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1972). See also Monique Eleb, Sabri Bendimérad, Vu de l’intérieur: habiter un immeuble en île-de-France, 1945–2010 (Paris: Archibooks, 2010). In addition, recent accounts of the work of Le Corbusier have shifted the attention from the architect’s design intentions to the public’s reception of his projects. This is the case of the French pavilion at the 14th Venice Architecture Biennale (2014) entitled ‘Modernità. Promessa o minaccia?’ (Modernity. Promise or menace?) curated by JeanLouis Cohen. Further contributions on this topic are the sociological studies Noël Jouenne, Dans l’ombre du Corbusier: ethnologie d’un habitat collectif ordinaire (Paris: Editions L’Harmattan, 2007) and Guy Tapie, Sociologie de l’habitat contemporain: vivre l’architecture (Marseille: Editions Parenthèse, 2014). Recently, Le Corbusier’s Firminy housing scheme has been the focus of the documentary film ‘Le Corbu mode d’emploi. Histoires du site Le Corbusier à Firminy Vert’, directed by Marie Chartron and Diphy Mariani (2011).

19

Laughing at Architecture 18 See Gérard Monnier (ed.), L’architecture, la réception immédiate et la réception différée. L’œuvre jugée, l’édifice habité, le monument célébré (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2006); Richard Klein and Philippe Louguet (eds), ‘La reception de l’architecture’, Cahiers thématiques, architecture, histoire, conception, special issue, 2 (2001), in particular Fabienne Chevallier, ‘La réception, les objectifs et les méthodes de l’histoire de l’architecture’, pp. 47–55; Naomi Stead and Cristina Garduño Freeman (eds), ‘Reception’, Architectural Theory Review, special issue, 18, 3 (2013). 19 An interesting exception to this perspective is represented by the following conferences: ‘L’histoire de l’art aux limites du satirique’, Université du Québec à Montréal, 22–24 April 2014 and ‘L’image railleuse. La satire visuelle du XVIIIe siècle à nos jours’, Institut National d’Histoire de l’Art, Paris, 25–27 June 2015. 20 See https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9MyT-wk0DuI (accessed 15 January 2018). 21 This popular TV gag plays on the Italian word fuffa (crap) and the surname of the Italian contemporary architect, Massimiliano Fuksas. 22 ‘Satire and the City. William Hogarth and Eighteenth-century London’, University of York Virtual Exhibition, http://www.york.ac.uk/history-of-art/virtual-exhibition/satireandthecity. html (accessed 15 November 2015). 23 Associazione culturale Casimiro Teja, La sera a Milano litigavamo per la Galleria: la vera storia del salotto buono dei Milanesi e del suo genio creativo, Giuseppe Mengoni, ricostruita con le riviste di satira di un secolo fa (Seregno: Delfi, 1997); Associazione culturale Casimiro Teja, 150 anni di una nuova piazza: la vera storia di una Milano rinata, di tre concorsi democratici e di un sindaco coraggioso che decide la nuova piazza per il duomo e la galleria per il re, Milano 1856–1863, a project by Massimo Donati (Cesano Maderno: Eventi, 2013). 24 https://eauh2016.net/programme/sessions/#session-content-283 (accessed 1 February 2018). The same conference also hosted the session ‘Cities, Science and Satire: Satirical Representations of Urban Modernity and Scientific and Technological Innovation in the Public Space’ chaired by Markian Prokopovych and Katalin Straner. 25 http://festivaldelhistoiredelart.com/programmes/larchitecte-caricaturiste-caricatureidentite-autoderision-et-confraternite (accessed 1 February 2018). 26 Henri Bergson, Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic (New York: The Macmillan Company, 1914), p. 5. 27 See Olivier Ratouis and Martin Baumeister, ‘Rire en ville. Rire de la ville. L’humour et le comique comme objets pour l’histoire urbaine contemporaine’, Histoire Urbaine, 31, 2 (2011), pp. 5–18. 28 Vladimir J. Propp, On the Comic and Laughter (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), pp. 4–5. 29 Bergson, Laughter, p. 5. 30 See Mark Hallett, Hogarth (London: Phaidon 2000), pp. 21–8. 31 A description of this etching is in Rosso, ‘Cartoon’, in Hvattum and Hultzsch (eds), The Printed and the Built, pp. 159–65. 32 If not otherwise indicated translations are mine. ‘L’onestà degli Artefici pare che debba calcolarsi in ragione dell’importanza della loro arte. Quanto Versaglies importa più d’una parrucca, tanto più di onestà si chiede nell’Architetto che nel Parrucchiere’. Francesco Milizia, Principj di architettura civile, (1st edn, Finale: Jacopo de’ Rossi, 1781), p. 269. On the work of Milizia, see Francesco Milizia e il Neoclassicismo in Europa, conference proceedings (Oria 1998, Bari: Edizioni Giuseppe Laterza, 2000); Mariella Basile and Grazia Distaso (eds), Francesco Milizia e la cultura del Settecento (Galatina: Congedo Editore, 2000). 20

Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian 33 ‘Barocco è il superlativo del bizzarro, l’eccesso del ridicolo’. Francesco Milizia (ed.), Dizionario delle Belle Arti del Disegno, estratto in gran parte dalla Enciclopedia metodica, vol. 1 (Bassano: Cardinali e Frulli, 1797), p. 90. 34 See Helen Hills, ‘The Grit in the Oyster of Art History’, in Helen Hills (ed.), Rethinking the Baroque (Farnham, Surrey and Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2011), pp. 11–38: 14. 35 Cited in Bergdoll, ‘Architecture Exhibition and the Emergence of Public Debate on Architecture’, p. 191. 36 George Cruikshank, ‘London Going Out of Town or the March of Bricks and Mortar’, in George Cruikshank (ed.), Scraps and Sketches. Part the Second (London: published by the artist and sold by James Robins and co., 1829). 37 Aldous Huxley, ‘Notes on Decoration’, Creative Art, 7 (October 1930), pp. 239–42. The quotation is taken from the article’s reprint in Jerome Meckier and Bernfried Nugel (eds), Aldous Huxley Annual. A Journal of Twentieth-Century Thought and Beyond, vol. 3 (Berlin: Lit Verlag, 2003), p. 14. 38 Hélène Lipstadt, ‘Polemic and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, AA Files, 3 (January 1983), pp. 68–76: 74. 39 Ernst H. Gombrich, ‘The Experiment of Caricature’, Art and Illusion. A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation (New York: Bollingen Foundation, Pantheon Books, 1960), pp. 330–58: 336.

Bibliography Baridon, L. and Guédron, M. (2006), L’art et l’histoire de la caricature, Paris: Citadelles & Mazenod. Berger, P. (1997), Redeeming Laughter. The Comic Dimension of Human Experience, New York and Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. Bergson, H. [1900] (1914), Laughter: An Essay on the Meaning of the Comic, trans. Cloudesley Brereton and Fred Rothwell, New York: Macmillan. Betjeman, J. (1933), Ghastly Good Taste. Or a Depressing Story of the Rise and Fall of English Architecture, London: Chapman and Hall. Billig, M. (2005), Laughter and Ridicule: Towards a Social Critique of Humour, London and Thousand Oaks, CA: Sage. Boudon, P. [1969] (1972), Lived-in Architecture. Le Corbusier’s Pessac Revisited, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Bremmer, J. (ed.) (1997), A Cultural History of Humour: From Antiquity to the Present Day, Cambridge: Polity press. Cameron, K. (ed.) (1993), Humour and History, Oxford: Intellect. Cinelli, B., Fergonzi, F., Messina M. G. and Negri, A. (eds) (2013), L’arte moltiplicata. L’immagine del ‘900 italiano nello specchio dei rotocalchi, Milano: Bruno Mondadori. Cruikshank, G. (1829), Scraps and Sketches, London: published by the artist and sold by James Robins and Co. Cruikshank, G. and Mayhew, H. (1851), 1851, or, The Adventures of Mr. and Mrs. Sandboys and Family, Who Came up to London to ‘Enjoy Themselves’, and to See the Great Exhibition, London: Bogue. De la Ruffinière Du Prey, P. (1994), ‘Laughter at the Expense of the City: From the Ancient World to A. W. N. Pugin and Léon Krier’, in S. Jäkel and A. Timonen (eds), Laughter Down the Centuries, Turku: Turun Yliopisto.

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Laughing at Architecture Dunn, A. (1971), Architecture Observed, New York: New Yorker, Architectural Record. Fleetwood-Hesketh, P. (1933), ‘The Street of Taste. Or the March of English Art Down the Ages’, in J. Betjeman, Ghastly Good Taste. Or a Depressing Story of the Rise and Fall of English Architecture, London: Chapman and Hall. Freud, S. [1905] (2003), The Joke and Its Relation to the Unconscious, trans. Joyce Crick, New York: Penguin Books. Gerken, R. (1997), ‘Transformation’ und ‘Embellissement’ von Paris in der Karikatur: zur Umwandlung der französischen Hauptstadt im Zweiten Kaiserreich durch den Baron Haussmann, Hildesheim, Zürich and New York: Olms. Gombrich, E. H. (1960), ‘The Experiment of Caricature’, in Art and Illusion. A Study in the Psychology of Pictorial Representation, New York: Bollingen Foundation, Pantheon Books. Gombrich, E. H. and Kris, E. (1938), ‘The Principles of Caricature’, British Journal of Medical Psychology, 17: 319–42. Habermas, J. (1989), The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Hallett, M. (1999), The Spectacle of Difference: Graphic Satire in the Age of Hogarth, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Hallett, M. (2000), Hogarth, London: Phaidon. Hart, M. (2007), ‘Humour and Social Protest: An Introduction’, International Review of Social History, 52: 1–20. Hellman, L. (2000), Archi-têtes: The Id in the Grid, Chichester: Wiley, Academy. Hellman, L. (2001), Architecture A to Z: A Rough Guide, Chichester: Wiley, Academy. Hill, R. (2007), God’s Architect: Pugin and the Building of Romantic Britain, London: Allen Lane. Hills, H. (ed.) (2011), Rethinking the Baroque, Farnham Surrey and Burlington, VT: Ashgate. Holliday, K. E. (2012), ‘Beginnings and Endings: Phoebe Stanton on Pugin’s Contrasts’, Journal of Architectural Education, 66: 1. Hultszch, A. and Hvattum, M. (eds) (2018), The Printed and the Built. Architecture, Print Culture, and Public Debate in the Nineteenth Century, London: Bloomsbury. Ironimus [Gustav Peichl] (1989), Architekten sind auch nur Künstler. Architects Are Only Artists, Berlin: Ernst & Sohn. Jauss, H. -R. [1972–1975] (1978), Pour une esthétique de la réception, Paris: Gallimard. Kessel, M. and Merziger, P. (2012) (eds), The Politics of Humour: Laughter, Inclusion, and Exclusion in the Twentieth Century, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Klein, R. and Louguet, P. (eds) (2001), ‘La reception de l’architecture’, Cahiers thématiques, architecture, histoire, conception, special issue, 2. Knevitt, C. (1985), Monstrous Carbuncles. A Cartoon Guide to Architecture, London: Faber Castell – Lund Humphries. Knevitt, C. (1990), From Pecksniff to the Prince of Wales. 150 Years of Punch Architecture, Planning and Development 1841–1991, Streatly-on-Thames: Polymath Publishing. Lancaster, O. (1936), Progress at Pelvis Bay, London: Murray. Lancaster, O. (1938), Pillar to Post. The Pocket Lamp of Architecture, London: Murray. Lancaster, O. (1939), Homes Sweet Homes, London: Murray. Le Goff, J. (1997), ‘Le rire. Une enquête sur le rire’, Annales Histoire sciences sociales, 3: 449–55. Lipstadt, H. (1983), ‘Polemic and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, AA Files, 3: 68–76. Minois, G. (2002), Histoire du rire et de la derision, Paris: Fayard. Monnier, G. (ed.) (2006), L’architecture, la réception immédiate et la réception différée. L’œuvre jugée, l’édifice habité, le monument célébré, Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Neri, G. (2015), Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno, Macerata: Quodlibet.

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Humour: A Lens for the Architectural and Urban Historian Petit, E. (2009), ‘The Architect’s Satirical Alter Ego: Caricature as Embodied Critique of Architecture in the Twentieth Century’, in G. Beltramini and H. Burns (eds), L’architetto, ruolo, volto, mito, Venice: Marsilio. Petit, E. (2013), Irony, or, the Self-critical Opacity of Postmodern Architecture, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Propp, V. J. [1976] (2009), On the Comic and Laughter, trans. Jean-Patrick Debbèche and Paul Perron, Toronto: University of Toronto Press. Pugin, A. W. N. (1836), Contrasts or a Parallel between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, London: Published by the author. Ratouis, O. and Baumeister, M. (eds) (2011), ‘Rire en ville’, Histoire Urbaine, 2, 31: 5–18. Rattenbury, K. (ed.) (2002), This Is Not Architecture: Media Constructions, London: Routledge. Robinson, W. H.and Browne, K. R. G (1936), How to Live in a Flat, London: Hutchinson & Co. Rosso, M. (2015), ‘From Distaste to Mockery: The City and its Architectures Ridiculed’, in S. Monks (ed.), Association of Art Historians 41st Annual Conference Book of Abstracts, Norwich: University of East Anglia. Rosso, M. (2016), ‘Between History, Criticism, and Wit: Texts and Images of English Modern Architecture (1933–36)’, Journal of Art Historiography, 14: 1–22. Sala, G. A. (1851), The House that Paxton Built, London: Ironbrace, Woodenhead & Co. Sironi, M. (2012), Ridere dell’arte. L’arte moderna nella grafica satirica europea tra Otto e Novecento, Milan: Mimesis. Stanton, P. (1972), Pugin, New York: Viking Press. Stephens, F. G. and George, M. D. (eds) (1954), Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, London: British Museum Publications. Tigerman, S. (1988), Stanley Tigerman Architoons: die autobiographischen Popveduten eines amerikanischen Architekten, Berlin: W. Ernst. Wittman, R. (2007), Architecture, Print Culture and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-century France, London and New York: Routledge. Wolfe, T. (1981), From Bauhaus to Our House, New York: Farrar Straus Giroux.

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CHAPTER 1 LAUGHING AT THE BAROQUE: A DRAWING AND SOME TEXTS COMPARED Susanna Pasquali

The drawing known as ‘The Artist at the Crossroad’, by the Swiss painter Joseph Anton Koch (1768–1839), is often referred to in art-historical literature despite going missing during the Second World War.1 This sheet, known only from an old black and white photograph (Figure 1.1), is in fact cited and reproduced whenever there is discussion of the figure of the artist and his role in the late eighteenth century. Oskar Bätschmann gave it a detailed analysis in 1997.2 The drawing also registers hits on the Internet and is continuously commented on by users.3 In the present text I aim to address two questions: the relationship of the image with architecture and the derisory tone in which this is represented. In the conclusion I match the drawing against some contemporary architectural literature.

Figure 1.1 Joseph Anton Koch, ‘The Artist at the Crossroad’ , c. 1791, drawing once in the Graphische Sammlung, Staatsgalerie, Stuttgart.

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The drawing is dated 1791, the year the young artist ran away from the Hohe Carlsschule in Stuttgart, a kind of military academy, where he had been placed through the influence of a patron who had offered to help with his education. In that same year Koch undertook of his own accord a series of journeys, which eventually led him to settle in Rome in 1795.4 There he lived until his death as a recognized painter, in the orbit of the Nazarenes. Three figures are presented in the drawing: at the centre stands a young man, wearing the clothes of the period, with two personifications either side of him. The figure in front of him – named in Latin in Roman capitals on the diagonal sash over her robe – is Imitatio, and behind him – named in modern italics on the bottom edge of the cloak – stands the personification of the concept of Composthe, a translation of the French composite,5 a depiction of all that is inconsistent in art theory and practice. As has been noted, the young man’s position between the two figures recalls that of ‘Hercules at the crossroad’. An episode, first recounted by the Greek philosopher Prodicus of Ceos and passed on in Xenophon’s Memorabilia, that finds the hero caught between the personifications of vice and virtue.6 Several paintings, including the famous depiction by Annibale Carracci, have centred on the episode, presenting the three figures in a variety of shapes. Here, in Koch’s drawing, the young man is not Hercules but an artist; thus, the choice between evil and good takes the form of an option between an unmistakably baroque art and a ‘new’ art, which looks to the antique and is hence personified by Imitatio. From this identification of the figures Bätschmann goes on, in reference to the opposition between vice and virtue, to add some general considerations on the nature of artistic freedom from the eighteenth century onwards.7 In the light of what has been said so far, it is evident that this drawing has attracted the attention it still enjoys essentially because what it offers is a didactic image of the artist on the verge of casting off the chains of traditional patronage. If this is the general picture, I believe this shift from ‘Hercules at the crossroad’ to a new subject, namely the ‘artist at the crossroad’, deserves an analysis that takes into account many of the extraordinary details in the drawing. Previous depictions had set Hercules in a variety of postures but always in the attitude of waiting. In Koch’s drawing the artist is instead represented as a wayfarer, wearing high boots and carrying a walking-stick, who has come to a sudden halt, taken aback in amazement, in an attitude perhaps of non dum dignus (not yet deserving), by the apparition of a female figure modelled on a classical statue. This figure, the personification of the concept of Imitatio, is a simplified version of how she appears in the traditional iconography made popular by, for example, the various editions of the book by Cesare Ripa (Figure 1.2).8 In her right hand, instead of a bundle of brushes she holds just one; furthermore, since Imitatio refers on this occasion to the single art of drawing, the monkey and the theatrical mask, elements that represent the ability to mimic human behaviour,9 are, as one might expect, absent. Therefore, it is mainly through the simple but effective artifice of the writing on the maiden’s robe that the concept is determined.

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Figure 1.2 Cesare Ripa, ‘Imitatione’ , from Iconologia overo descrittione dell’imagini universali cavate dall’Antichità et da altri luoghi, 1593.

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The young man has come to a sudden halt in his passage, but he is not free: one of his ankles is shackled by a chain, the other end of which is held by the formidable creature behind him. The artist is thus a captive, shown in the moment of his realization that there is an alternative to his situation. In order to highlight two propositions, I shall focus on the extraordinary figure of the master of his soul. First, the techniques used to represent this figure are altogether different from those adopted in depicting the artist and Imitatio. Here, in fact, are the methods of caricature: a depiction shaped by derision to stir laughter. Portrayal in the form of caricature had been an established artistic practice for centuries; satirical drawings originated in the eighteenth century, in countries where freedom of expression was guaranteed in the periodical press.10 While in the sphere of art there were conventions and constraints on creating an image, the expressive purposes of the new field of the cartoon was relatively free of such limits, offering experimentation with new languages and different technical means. Among the strategies adopted to convey an import, sometimes hinging on entirely abstract concepts, that had to be clearly readable was the insertion of words. The need, in addition, to ensure for the press the reproducibility of a drawing fostered two-dimensional representation without depth. Koch adopts features of the new language that was developing with the freedom of the press for one of its chief purposes: criticism. The Composthe is a mocking evocation of an Ancien Régime patron, by then obsolete but still robust enough to keep the young artist in chains. If what the young man is fleeing is evident it should, however, be noted that the ensemble is an amalgam of elements and concepts deriving from architecture. One could even say – and this is my second proposition – that the right-hand half of Koch’s sheet is one of the best and most effectively derisive representations of the art of architecture and its features that could be remarked on, very critically, in the late eighteenth century. What we see in looking at the Composthe is in fact a phantasmal creature, of apparent male sex, amalgamated, as the name implies, out of many elements. In contrast to the young artist’s untrammeled head of hair, the man’s head boasts an extravagant wig and a plumed hat from which a winged Fame escapes. He has two arms, one holding the end of the chain in marked effeminate fashion while the other brandishes an enticing loaf of bread; he is thus portrayed in the act of offering, with a smile, the reward that enslaves. The rest of his body is worked up out of an equally disparate set of oddments. The open cloak displays a torso which is a rendition of that of the Artemis of Ephesus: an antique model, agreed, but certainly not one from classical Greece. The lower part of the garb consists of two overlapping skirts: the first has clusters of incoherent ornaments waving in the breeze; the second, rigid and, therefore, more linked to the forms of architecture, has a mixed geometric outline. It is the man’s legs, though, that constitute the most recognizably architectural element: they are not human limbs but columns, grounded on a pair of shapely shoes. Their trunks are spirals; the capitals – which here function as knees – are Corinthian. These are the recognizable bronze columns of the canopy erected by Gian Lorenzo Bernini in St Peter’s Basilica. They thus refer to very recognizable artistic forms, as well as to an equally precise milieu: the church of Rome. Moreover, from the entirely skewed positioning of the two legs/columns it is clear that 28

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the man, botched together out of pieces, is tottering. He would immediately collapse to the ground were he not upheld by the pair of large butterfly wings mounted on his back: an element fragile in itself and destined, by its nature, to be short-lived. Finally, it should be noted that – on closer examination – Koch’s drawing has more than three characters. The allegory is in fact completed by a kind of dwarf in the act of holding up the tail of his master’s cloak: he is the artist as slave entire. Whether he be poet – the bays with which he is crowned and the lyre – or painter – given the palette, brushes and mahl stick – he is in any case doomed to an obscure and modest destiny. Another creature, a sort of snake furnished with legs and ruff, paws at the ground, heightening the general sense of unease that emanates from the entire right-hand side of the drawing. Whatever the young Koch’s intentions were in choosing the precise iconographic references for each of the elements making up the odious figure of the Composthe,11 overall he aimed to depict instability preceding collapse. Given the year of its creation, 1791, there is probably reference to the events of the French Revolution, which the young painter was at the time in sympathy with.12 But I want to note here that among the three branches of drawing/painting, sculpture and architecture, the only one capable in a visual representation of suggesting collapse, with immediacy, is architecture: collapse is in fact easily represented through a building that is about to fall down. An edifice thrown up haphazardly or, to adopt the late eighteenth-century term, without a principle that guarantees its solidity is doomed to fall to the ground. In this context, the choices Koch made to use certain specific architectural elements and not others derives from what the young artist may have known (and hated) while in Stuttgart. It is conceivable that through prints and drawings he was acquainted with the major buildings of Christian Rome and hence the churches of Bernini and Francesco Borromini. It is also possible that he knew, following the models of major buildings of Christian Rome, what had been subsequently built in southern Germany. Above all, it is likely that among the books he studied at the Hohe Carlsschule was Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum by the Jesuit father Andrea Pozzo.13 In learning the rules of perspective, Koch would also have been obliged to reproduce – as advanced exercises – the famous plates in which the more fanciful baroque forms of altars are illustrated (Figures. 1.3 and 1.4). The disgust expressed by a young artist in 1790 was not a mere personal outburst, it was quite in tune with the burden of eighteenth-century writings hostile to the architectural practices of the time. The twisted shaft column was the easiest target, because it had been the object of criticism for decades. In 1738 Amédée François Frézier, in his proposal to introduce the concept of solidity, spoke of it as a counter-example in these terms: ‘This form is alien to the concept of solidity that we look for in a support.’14 And at the end of the eighteenth century, when this kind of critical comment had become widespread, even those writing out of Rome formulated a harsh critique: Francesco Milizia in his Roma delle belle arti del disegno (1787) described the adorns of the central altar of St Peter’s basilica as the ‘mad ramblings of those four monsters of twisted spiral columns, bedecked with shrewish bickering, which support a canopy that is an embarrassment to the great crossover’ (Figure 1.5).15 And, more generally, on the form of shafts Milizia insisted: ‘Columns need to be straight and vertical,’ hence: 29

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Figure 1.3 Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum, 1693–1700, unnumbered plate.

Twisted columns, that is, spiral, and twirling, are the very worst. And who does not see that such a form implies a support folding under the burden of the load? It seems impossible that so much nonsense came from the brain of the same Bernini as designed the Vatican piazza […] But such weirdness became popular by its very weirdness.16 One feature links Koch’s portrayal of the hated Composthe to this broader theoretical literature: ironic derision. It is a key element both in the artist’s drawing and in the works of the above-mentioned theoreticians, a derision that by the end of the eighteenth century had become an essential component of public discourse. In his quarrel about 30

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Figure 1.4 Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva pictorum et architectorum, 1693–1700, unnumbered plate. architecture with the Abbé Jean-Louis de Cordemoy, conducted, sometimes in a heated exchange of views, in the pages of the ‘Journal des Trévoux’,17 Frézier had sometimes already used ironic invective. But as the end of the century approached, Milizia intentionally used (in Roma delle belle arti) invective and derision as his main weapons to mock baroque architecture, not only for a connoisseur readership but for all those who might be reached by a text wise-headedly printed in small format and so more cheaply available. And mockery, the strategy of his urge to educate by stirring laughter and to deride the authority of his target, was consciously adopted. Evidence of this is his bitter response to the zeal of the papal censors, who without his consent had slacked the heated tones of an earlier book: ‘Goodbye to liveliness, pace and enjoyment: where the book was witty it will be limp, and in some places lack learning.’18 ‘Liveliness, pace and enjoyment’: the qualities required to inveigle the reader and bring him over to one’s side. Koch’s drawing and Milizia’s writings share a second feature, of no less importance: the derision makes fun of architectural forms, but the irony expresses a more general censure. In the personification of the Composthe the spiral columns which, by acting as legs, have the role of chief support for the figure even before they lose their vertical alignment are, as a result of their design, unfit to sustain a weight. By citing these specific shafts, what the painter intended to suggest was not just a generic collapse: since the collapse is that of a building that has been badly constructed, or according to a mistaken principle, he is attributing blame to the occurrence. 31

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Figure 1.5 Francesco Milizia, Roma delle belle arti del disegno. Parte prima l’architettura civile, 1787, frontispiece.

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Finally, to make a few more general comments on what I have so far identified as a shared concern in Koch’s drawing and the contemporary architectural texts, especially those of Milizia, published in Italy from the mid-1780s and widely known in Europe through their French translations. Both are belated productions, made when the baroque style was no longer the centre of attention for connoisseurs. It was an easy target and for that very reason portrayed by fairly simple means intelligible to a general audience. Both use ironic derision in describing or representing various specific and recognizable forms of architecture, thereby, constructing a series of binary simplifications which identify more general pairs of opposites, of a most varied origin. Among these: the preference for the straight line over the curved; the connotations of male identity against sexual indetermination and hence the effeminate; the coherent against the incoherent; the solid against the fragile; and so on. Not least among the targets of both was the Catholic Church: to attack at the end of the eighteenth century the art forms superseded in much of northern Europe meant wanting to attack the patron most continuously linked to the tradition of the great Roman Seicento. Under a different heading these criticisms might well be added to the lively literature adversus Romam in the age of the Enlightenment.19 In any case, what was negative was identified – to adopt the level of simplification that they themselves used – by the derogatory term baroque. More or less rapid and more or less generalized changes in taste – or to use the French term that Frézier used, in mode (fashion) – had occurred on many other occasions in the world of the arts. At the end of the eighteenth century this happened for the first time under the watchful eyes of a new ‘agent and patient’: public opinion. Cartoons and pamphlets were the primary means of circulation, ironic derision was the sharpest weapon. Translated from the Italian by Michael Sullivan, London Notes 1

The drawing, once in the Graphische Sammlung, Stuttgart Staatsgalerie, went missing during the Second World War; only a black and white photograph survives For the date and title, see Paul Ortwin Rave (ed.), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Gemälde und Zeichnungen, exhibition catalogue (Berlin: National Galerie, 1939), plate 247c; Otto Von Lutterotti, Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Leben und Werke; mit einem vollständigen Werkverzeichnis (WienMünchen: Herold, 1985), pp. 29–30 and 191, plate 71; Christian Von Holst (ed.), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Ansichten der Natur, exhibition catalogue (Stuttgart: Staattsgalerie, 1989), pp. 29–31; the drawing is also compared to a caricature pillorying the Carlsschule teaching methods (Graphische Sammlung, inv. 4168), drawn by Koch in the same years and presenting similarities in some of the figures, ibid., pp. 114–16; Markus Neuwirth, ‘Joseph Anton Koch. Gebaute Landshaft, narrative Serien und die Aggression der Karikatur’, Kunstgeschichte aktuell, 28 (2011), p. 10. For a text by Koch related to the drawing see Heinrich Thomas Musper, ‘Das Reiseskizzenbuch von Jacob Anton Koch aus dem Jahre 1791’, Jahrbuch der Preußichen Kunstsammulungen, 56 (1935), p. 175; Barbara Hofmann, Jacob Anton Koch; das Tagebuch einen Ferienreise an den Bodensee von 1791: eine Studie zu Inhalt und Form des malerischen Reiseberichts im ausgehenden 18. Jahrhundert (Frankfurt am Main: Lang, 2004), pp. 332–33.

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Oskar Bätschmann, The Artist in the Modern World: The Conflict between Market and SelfExpression (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1997), pp. 62–3.

3

See: http://www.artintheblood.typepad.com/art_history_today/joseph-anton-koch/ (accessed 6 December 2011).

4

In reference to the architecture, but without a specific treatment, the drawing was published in Oswald Zoeggler, ‘L’immersione nel passato classico: il viaggio in Italia nella formazione artistica degli architetti tedeschi’, in Augusto Romano Burelli (ed.), Le epifanie di Proteo: la saga nordica del Classicismo in Schinkel e Semper (Fossalto di Piave: Rebellato, 1983), fig. 7, p. 31.

5

‘Composthe’, the word one reads in the drawing, is translated into current French as ‘composite’.

6

Xenophon, Memorabilia, trans. E. C. Merchant (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1923), book 2, chapter 1, row 21–34.

7

Bätschmann, The Artist in the Modern World, pp. 62–3.

8

Cesare Ripa, Iconologia overo descrittione dell’imagini universali cavate dall’Antichità et da altri luoghi (Rome: per gli heredi di Giovanni Gigliotti, 1593), p. 127.

9

The figure, since it is freely drawn from the best-known iconography of the goddess Athena, has a Medusa head on the breastplate.

10 About this kind of artistic production in Great Britain and later in France see: Richard T. Godfrey, English Caricature, 1620 to the Present: Caricaturists and Satirists, their Art, their Purpose and Influence, exhibition catalogue (London: Victoria and Albert Museum, Yale Center for British Art), 1984; Ronald Paulson, Representations of Revolution, 1789–1820 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1983); Todd Porterfield (ed.), The Efflorescence of Caricature, 1759–1838 (London: Ashgate, 2011). 11 Von Holst (ed.), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839, pp. 29–31. 12 Von Lutterotti, Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. 13 Andrea Pozzo, Perspectiva Pictorum et Architectorum, vol. II (Rome: J. J. Komarek, 1693– 1700). A German translation was published in Augsburg in 1709. 14 ‘Cette figures répugne à l’idée de solidité qu’on cherche dans un support’. Amédée François Frézier, Dissertation historique et critique sur les ordres d’architecture (Paris: C. A. Jombert, 1769), p. 31. 15 ‘Delirio di que’ quattro mostri di colonne torse spirali, infrascate di bisbeticherie, che sostengono un baldacchino per imbarazzare la grandiosa crociera.’ Francesco Milizia, Roma delle belle arti del disegno. Parte prima: dell’Architettura civile (Bassano: Remondini, 1787), p. 202. On the Bassano publisher Remondini and his large-circulation editions see Mario Infelise and Paola Marini (eds), Remondini: un editore del Settecento (Milan: Electa, 1990). 16 ‘Le colonne vogliono essere dritte e verticali […] Pessime sono le colonne torse, cioè spirali, ed attorcigliate. E chi non vede che una tal forma rappresenta un sostegno piegante sotto la gravezza del carico? Pare impossibile che tanta assurdità sia uscita dall’intelletto di quello stesso Bernini che architettò la piazza vaticana […] Però sì fatta stranezza ha avuto voga per la stranezza stessa.’ Francesco Milizia, Principij di architettura civile (1st edn, Finale: Jacopo de’ Rossi, 1781). Here cited from: Opere complete di Francesco Milizia riguardanti le belle arti, vol. 6 (Bologna: Stamperia Cardinali e Frulli, 1827), p. 66. 17 Robin Middleton, ‘The Abbé Cordemoy and the Greco-Gothic ideal: A Prelude to Romantic Classicism’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 25 (1962), pp. 278–320. 18 ‘Addio vivezza, energia e piacere: sarà un libro floscio dove era spiritoso, ed in alcuni luoghi mancante d’istruzione.’ From a letter sent to the architect Tommaso Temanza (25 July 1767), in Francesco Milizia, Lettere a Tommaso Temanza pubblicate per la prima volta nelle nozze (Venice: Dalla Tipografia di Alvisopoli, 1823), p. 8. 34

Laughing at the Baroque 19 Louis Hautecoeur, Rome et la renaissance de l’antiquité à la fin du XVIIIème siècle (Paris: Fontemoing, 1912).

Bibliography Bätschmann, O. (1997), The Artist in the Modern World: The Conflict between Market and SelfExpression, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Frézier, A. F. (1769), Dissertation historique et critique sur les ordres d’architecture, Paris: C. A. Jombert. Godfrey, R. T. (1984), English Caricature, 1620 to the Present: Caricaturists and Satirists, their Art, their Purpose and Influence, exhibition catalogue, London: Victoria and Albert Museum, Yale Center for British Art. Hautecoeur, L. (1912), Rome et la renaissance de l’antiquité à la fin du XVIIIème siècle, Paris: Fontemoing. Hofmann B. (2004), Jacob Anton Koch; das Tagebuch einen Ferienreise an den Bodensee von 1791: eine Studie zu Inhalt und Form des malerischen Reiseberichts im ausgehenden 18. Jahrhundert, Frankfurt am Main: Lang. Infelise, M. and Marini, P. (eds) (1990), Remondini: un editore del Settecento, Milan: Electa. Middleton, R. (1962), ‘The Abbé Cordemoy and the Greco-Gothic Ideal: A Prelude to Romantic Classicism’, Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes, 25: 278–320. Milizia, F. (1767), ‘Letter Sent to the Architect Tommaso Temanza, (25 July 1767)’, in F. Milizia ed., Lettere a Tommaso Temanza pubblicate per la prima volta nelle nozze, Venice: Dalla Tipografia di Alvisopoli, 1823, 8. Milizia, F. (1781), Principij di architettura civile, first edition, Finale: Jacopo de’ Rossi. Milizia, F. (1787), Roma delle belle arti del disegno. Parte prima: dell’Architettura civile, Bassano: Remondini. [Milizia, F.] (1827), Opere complete di Francesco Milizia riguardanti le belle arti, vol. 6, Bologna: Stamperia Cardinali e Frulli. Musper, H. T. (1935), ‘Das Reiseskizzenbuch von Jacob Anton Koch aus dem Jahre 1791’, Jahrbuch der Preußichen Kunstsammulungen, 56. Neuwirth, M. (2011), ‘Joseph Anton Koch. Gebaute Landshaft, narrative Serien und die Aggression der Karikatur’, Kunstgeschichte aktuell, 28: 10. Ortwin Rave, P. (ed.) (1939), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Gemälde und Zeichnungen, exhibition catalogue, Berlin: National Galerie. Paulson, R. (1983), Representations of Revolution, 1789–1820, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Porterfield, T. (ed.) (2011), The Efflorescence of Caricature, 1759–1838, London: Ashgate. Pozzo, A. (1693–1700), Perspectiva Pictorum et Architectorum, vol. 2, Rome: J. J. Komarek. Ripa, C. (1593), Iconologia overo descrittione dell’imagini universali cavate dall’Antichità et da altri luoghi, Rome: per gli heredi di Giovanni Gigliotti. Von Holst, C. (ed.) (1989), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Ansichten der Natur, exhibition catalogue, Stuttgart: Staattsgalerie. Von Lutterotti, O. (1985), Jacob Anton Koch, 1768–1839. Leben und Werke; mit einem vollständigen Werkverzeichnis, Wien-München: Herold. Zoeggler, O. (1983), ‘L’immersione nel passato classico: il viaggio in Italia nella formazione artistica degli architetti tedeschi’, in A. R. Burelli (ed.), Le epifanie di Proteo: la saga nordica del Classicismo in Schinkel e Semper, Fossalto di Piave: Rebellato.

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CHAPTER 2 FROM REPORTAGE TO RIDICULE: SATIRIZING THE BUILDING INDUSTRY IN THE EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY IRISH PRESS Conor Lucey In mid-eighteenth-century Dublin, the public press increasingly represented a critical platform for voicing concerns about the city’s expansion. Largely aimed at the building industry and the terraced town house, this censure took the form of editorials, letters and ‘cards’ designed to simultaneously inform, provoke and entertain. While individual editors and correspondents focused on different aspects of design, standards of construction and qualities of materials, the overriding concern was with issues of public health and safety. Against a backdrop of escalating urban development, the tensions that emerged between public and private interests soon found humorous literary expression in Dublin’s burgeoning news media.1 That much of this satirical commentary originated in the pages of the Freeman’s Journal is not surprising: established in 1763 as a biweekly publication it soon became the city’s most popular newspaper – its mix of ‘reformist political opinion, original news and philosophical commentary’ giving voice to what David Dickson has identified as ‘the new prominence of politics in the public life of the city’.2 Indeed, given the volume of ‘insulting references’ expressed in column inches generally, Martyn Powell has suggested that eighteenth-century Irish newspapers ‘were remarkably open in waging war against their enemies’.3 Focusing on a series of witty reproaches and pointed tirades published during the course of the 1760s and early 1770s, this chapter explores how Dublin’s press used humour to reprimand the various actors and institutions responsible for shaping the city’s built environment.

Dublin’s eighteenth-century expansion: A context for satire Long established as the capital of the Kingdom of Ireland, Dublin enjoyed unprecedented urban expansion in the decades following the Restoration of Charles II: by 1800 it was the sixth largest city in Europe and, after London, the second largest city in the Englishspeaking world (Figure 2.1).4 Despite its scale and importance, however, Dublin has been consistently overlooked in histories of the British Atlantic world and its architectures of what Jürgen Habermas termed ‘representative publicness’.5 But its status during the long eighteenth century was reflected in a programme of modern civic architecture and the prodigious growth of grandly scaled residential streets and squares that have long defined the popular image of ‘Georgian Dublin’. Christine Casey’s account of the city’s

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Figure 2.1 Samuel John Neele, ‘A Plan of the City of Dublin’ , 1797. Wikimedia Commons. improvement, drawing on the research of economic historian Louis Cullen, equates this rapid development with vigorous economic growth during the late 1740s and early 1750s: in the period between 1745 and 1750, for example, there was a dramatic rise in foreign trade; more broadly, the period between 1730 and 1815 witnessed a fivefold increase in the national economy. This urban growth also responded to a swell in the city’s population: from 50,000 in 1700, to 130,000 in 1771, and approximately 200,000 by 1800.6 Private estate ownership had a profound influence on metropolitan development in cities across Britain and Ireland throughout the Georgian era; in Dublin by midcentury, the Fitzwilliam and Gardiner families were the foremost protagonists. But while the landed estate represented the introduction of genteel classical manners into the designed landscape, these building programmes were often inspired by, or responded to, fortuitous moments in the economic landscape.7 The private correspondence concerning the formation of Merrion Square, for example, conceived in 1752 as the focal point of the aristocratic Fitzwilliam Estate, indicates that its design was revised over time as its financial potential was continuously reviewed and assessed (Figure 2.2). A letter of 28 September 1752, from William Fitzwilliam in Dublin to his brother Richard, 6th Viscount Fitzwilliam in St James’s, London, proposed how they might take advantage of a ‘building madness’ unfolding across the city: We have other bargains in View, and we are endeavouring to raise our price. […] What a fine rise yr Estate will have. Tis the luckiest thing in the world for you that I am here to catch at and conclude bargains while People are in the Mind, & not give

38

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Figure 2.2 Jonathan Barker, ‘A Plan of Merrion Street and the adjacent neighbourhood’ , 1762. National Archives of Ireland.

them time to cool or reflect. I think the present building madness can never hold; but however to keep it up for our own sakes as long as possible, I think I have hit on what will be an Inducement; I’ll mention it to you, and desire your directions. My proposal is; that you will lower the fines on the Brickmakers.8 Of course, enlightened designs remained on paper without capitalist enterprise: as historians of early modern urbanism have shown, the ‘polite’ world of garden square architecture largely depended on the ‘vulgar’ world of speculative building. Private interests, on both sides, remained paramount. Writing to Viscount Fitzwilliam in 1765, builder James Wilson, one of the original leaseholders of ground lots in the nascent Merrion Square, described how Mr. Thos Theating & I were the first who took ground from yr Lordsp In Merrion Square … Our Spirited (not languid) Improvements soon made some show & excited spec[ula]t[o]rs to form some Idea of this Intended square of wch to be better Inform’d they constantly apply’d to me who was on the spot superintending Theating’s building & my own, who never fail’d, to explin yr Ldsp’s plan, & to persuade them it must be the grandest & greatest Square in Europe, & wth the advantage of a Quarry, & bricks on your Ldsps estate, which was to be had at an

39

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easy rate, I influenced my friends to believe, they could build cheaper, & to more advantage, than any other part of Dublin, so that the first 10 lotts were taken by my friends and I so far we have gone on very well I have built 12 houses on that ground & … no part of Dublin Improv’d so well for a time.9 How well ‘improved’ Dublin was at the middle of the century is difficult to assess. In 1753, an editorial in the Dublin Journal claimed that 4,000 houses had been built since 1711, and by 1769, one author estimated that ‘one-fourth at least, of the whole [of the city] […] has been built within these 40 years’.10 An early travel guide to the city was more specific, enumerating 12,857 houses in 1754, a figure that had risen to 13,194 in 1760 and ‘above 13,500’ by 1779.11 The scale of the ‘building madness’ notwithstanding, it is clear that the growth of the city was fully understood in both political and economic terms. In 1760, a call for parliamentary reform by a ‘furious writer’ in the Dublin Journal prompted one pamphleteer to claim that, alongside a buoyant trade and manufacturing economy, the extent and quality of new building unequivocally signified both a positive state of affairs and the importance of maintaining the status quo: ‘walk around this Capital and behold. See the difference between the old and new houses. Examine the increase’.12

Architecture and the public press Notwithstanding the fact that the literature on architectural discourse in eighteenthcentury Ireland has focused on connoisseurship among the politer classes, the public press has been recognized as a key organ of its critical dissemination. The competition for the design of the Royal Exchange in 1768, for example, occasioned the publication of a series of ‘Observations on Architecture’ that inaugurated a pivotal turn in architectural taste in Ireland.13 And although the identity of the author of this and similar articles remains a matter for conjecture – having been published anonymously – a concern with the beauty of architecture in its civic milieu was its didactic purpose.14 But aside from polite architectural connoisseurship, complaints about the qualities of building materials and building construction loomed large. At the root of the problem was the terraced town house, the province of builders not architects: although a staple of urban design in Britain and Ireland since the mid-seventeenth century, the speculative nature of domestic architecture was widely associated, however unfairly, with jerry-building. Writing in 1747, Robert Campbell had suggested that ‘there go but few Rules to the building of a City-House’, and architectural critics like John Gwynn railed against ‘the depraved tastes of builders’.15 Indeed, as the brick house and the bricklayer became increasingly synonymous, criticism increasingly focused on the builder’s professional acumen and deficient aesthetic sensibilities: an editorial of 27 December 1768 in the Freeman’s Journal remarked that in London and Bath ‘scarce an upholder that don’t take upon him to be Architect, Builder, Mason, Carpenter, all together in himself ’, and satirical prints mocked the artisan’s aspiration towards professional mobility and social refinement (Figure 2.3).16 Such views also expressed a prevailing concern with the effects 40

From Reportage to Ridicule

Figure 2.3 Matthew Darly, ‘The Macaroni Bricklayer’, 1772. Author’s collection. of building speculation on building decorum: the progressively uniform appearance of town houses in even the grandest streets and squares posed a problem of dissimulation and design legibility; specifically, the inability of the typical brick elevation to convey the appropriate visual association between social rank and architectural magnificence.17 41

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Often hyperbolic in tone, the editorials and letters published by the Dublin press were evidently predicated on the building boom that emerged during the 1750s and 1760s. Nuala Burke’s pioneering study of the city’s morphology notes that Dublin Corporation’s control of urban development was already superseded by private enterprise at the opening of the eighteenth century;18 by the late 1740s, the Corporation’s lack of investment in public infrastructure had, in the more recent words of Anthony Malcomson, contributed to an emerging ‘resentment among the citizenry at the increasing dominance by the landed and parliamentary class of the economic, institutional and social life of the capital’.19 And as Dublin emerged as the second largest centre of print production in the English-speaking world by the 1720s, so its news media became a vehicle for a critical appraisal of its thriving building industry.20 This finds accord with studies of the relationship between print culture and architectural culture across Europe. In a recent essay concerning attempts to engineer a social consensus of taste in eighteenth-century London, Matthew Craske posits James Ralph’s A critical review of the public buildings, statues and ornaments in and around London and Westminster (1734), and the articles and diatribes published in response to it, as pivotal to the development of a form of literary criticism concerned with evaluating the quality of architecture in the public realm. Although described as ‘a hack with a commercial imperative to represent polite opinion’, Ralph’s efforts elevated architecture in its civic milieu as ‘a matter of public concern and its history and standards a matter of public debate’.21 Richard Wittman’s account of architecture and its critical reception in eighteenthcentury France, following Jürgen Habermas, describes the public sphere as a network of ‘overlapping spaces, signs, and discourses’, and print media as its ‘most vital component’. For Wittman, this network was primarily concerned with ‘the circulation of information, ideas, and opinion about any aspect of experience that is, or seems, to be of general interest’.22 With this in mind, it is significant that the published notices and complaints in Dublin’s newspapers often drew attention to the corresponding lack of guidelines and regulations that might have monitored the progress of the city’s ‘building madness’. Although a statute ‘to prevent abuses in making bricks and tiles’ had been passed into law in Ireland in 1730,23 the numerous building regulations enacted in London between 1667 and 1774 – all of which were concerned with sound construction and the quality of building materials – had no counterparts in Dublin.24 A lengthy catalogue of errors composed by ‘Publicola’ and published in the Freeman’s Journal on 24 May 1766 provides an elegant précis of the concerns fuelling these civicminded reproaches. That ‘Publicola’ gave his address as ‘Merion-Square’ was likely part of an elaborate conceit; the author drawing attention to the recent collapse of two houses in that elite quarter which had caused the deaths of several building tradesmen – described as ‘a ruinous Monument, for no less than eight Artificers and Labourers, crushed to Death in the fraudulent and destructive work’ (discussed below). Opening with the bald remark that ‘we have the most remarkably bad Buildings of any City in Europe’, the author’s principal grievances concern the quality of bricks and mortar (‘being generally made up of Rubbish’), the effect of poor materials on sound construction (‘the Badness of the Walls of our Houses’), and the particularly noisome practice of burning bricks 42

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within the city lights (‘destroys the Health and Lives of the Inhabitants’).25 While clearly exaggerating for effect, this was a topic of considerable public interest: a year earlier, in 1765, the heads of a bill ‘For the better regulating of buildings in the city of Dublin’ had been successfully tabled in the Irish House of Commons. Approved by the Privy Councils in both Dublin and London its implementation, according to ‘Publicola’, then hung in the balance having being virulently opposed by certain factions within the Common Council whose members included representatives from all of the city’s building guilds, and ‘whose Tenants, and consequently their Estates, are to be unfavourably affected by this Law’. Although ‘calculated for the public Good’, the bill was not enacted.26 Related to the qualities of building construction and building materials was the detritus left behind by builders and their contractors. Arguably less serious, if no less vexing, several complaints published during the mid-1760s refer to the problems encountered by the encroachment of the building site into the common streets and ways.27 An editorial of 16 June 1764 drew particular attention to the ‘Rebuilders of Houses’ who disposed of ‘Bricks, Stones, and Rubbish in the open Street’ and ‘spread out Brickbats, Stones, and old Mortar, to be ground by Carriages into the Dust’. Noting the prejudice to pedestrians and traffic alike, the author continued: ‘In all well-regulated Cities, the Undertakers of Buildings, are obliged to pale in a sufficient Quantity of Pavement before their Houses, to receive all Rubbish, as well as all Materials for Building; so that the Neighbourhood feels but little, and Passengers less Inconvenience from the building and rebuilding of Houses’.28 In an unrelated incident reported on 16 September 1766, and predicated on ‘the Number of Buildings at present carrying on in this City’, a resident of Temple Bar Happened to be coming through Anglesea-street last Night, about ten o’Clock, upon the plain Path, when on a sudden I stept into a Hole, full of Lime or Mortar, almost up to the Knee, which, when it dried, made me as white as a Miller. It seems to me as if the Labourers, or People employed at the Building, laid it there on Purpose to deceive the unwary Passenger. I am persuaded it would be as convenient for them, and more for the Safety of the Publick, if they would make their Mortar somewhere behind the Building; or, if they must needs make it in the Street, I think it would be no more than humane and good-natured in them to place a Lanthorn upon it, to warn People of the Danger.29 It should of course be noted that such enlightened measures were not as widely common as these Dublin correspondents suggest, and similar problems existed in other urban centres.30 In London, the danger posed by houses ‘in so ruinous a condition that passengers thereby are in danger of their lives or limbs from the falling thereof of the bricks or timber therefrom’, was long acknowledged, but it was only with a building Act of 1774 that a directive was introduced for erecting hoardings to alert the unsuspecting civilian.31 While many of these Dublin letters and editorials understandably drew attention to the inconvenience of building sites and building practices generally, others raised 43

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concerns about the behaviour of dishonest tradesmen and sub-standard workmanship. Although the city’s guilds had long instituted specific benchmarks with respect to building theory and practice – and both reprimanded and expelled members who failed to uphold their standards – these published complaints confirm how criticism through the print medium could constitute a threat to an individual’s livelihood.32 In the 23 November 1769 edition of the Freeman’s Journal, a letter from ‘A Citizen’ drew attention to the ‘shamefully and fraudulently executed’ paintwork on the exterior of his house in College Green; claiming ineffectual resolution from the accused party, the offender was threatened with ‘his Name being made public in your next paper, to encourage others, who are precluded from legal Satisfaction, to hold like Offenders forth to public Censure’.33 (This action occasioned ‘satisfactory consequences’ for the petitioner, who in a later edition thanked the ‘Committee for conducting the FreePress’ for their ‘truly useful and spirited Paper’.34) On 6 April 1784, Richard Grattan of Drummin, county Kildare used the medium of a ‘notice’ in the Dublin Journal to publicly rebuke carpenter James Nevin who had apparently behaved ‘in the most dishonest, drunken, and insolent Manner possible’: having ‘quitted his Work without any previous Settlement’, Grattan felt it ‘incumbent on me in this open Manner to make his Conduct known to the Public, and to Master Carpenters in particular, that in future they may not be imposed on by him’.35

From reportage to ridicule As we have seen, in concert with a prodigious growth of the urban density was a corresponding rise in published grievances from concerned citizens about the quality of architectural stock and building materials, and of the practices (or malpractices) of building tradesmen. Such concerns were no doubt often justified. But serious-minded journalism occasionally took a satirical turn. The eighteenth century has, of course, been characterized as ‘an age of satire’ generally, when criticism and its corrective intent was often expressed with a sophisticated and humorous literary flourish.36 For Jonathan Swift, the ‘noble’ purpose of satire was to generate a ‘public spirit, prompting Men of Genius and Virtue, to mend the World as far as they are able’,37 and the Freeman’s Journal was ideologically sympathetic to reformist views, including exposure of corruption within the city corporation and the constitutional position of the Irish parliament.38 A case in point concerns the collapse of a pair of houses in Merrion Square in the spring of 1766 (noted above). Erected on ground leased to the builder/speculator Murtagh Lacy, the buildings were in an advanced stage of construction when one of the chimneystacks foundered, killing seven and injuring five of the labourers employed on site: opinion was divided as to whether Lacy had employed inferior materials or if inclement weather conditions had interfered with the proper setting of the mortar.39 An editorial in the Freeman’s Journal of 1–5 April 1766 begins with a serious, factual summary of events informed by the professional opinions of the bricklayers’ guild and a number of the city’s ‘eminent builders’: 44

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Notwithstanding the Report made by the Corporation of Bricklayers in this City, that a considerable Part of the Walls, now standing, of the two new Houses in Merrion-square, lately erected by Murtha Lacy, Bricklayer, should be pulled down, the Rere of which Houses having fallen and killed many Persons; and notwithstanding the Opinion of many eminent Builders, that the Foundations of said Houses are insufficient to bear the Weight of building thereon, and that the whole should be taken down, yet the said Lacy persisted in building a new Rere to said Houses, and patching the same to the Walls lately standing; and, having made some Progress therein, on Wednesday Morning last, a great Part of the Flank Wall of one said Houses fell down, and destroyed a Part of the new Work which was carrying on, and broke the Scaffolding to Pieces; fortunately the Workmen were then absent, or many more Lives would have been lost. – Ought not some legal Inquiry be made into this Matter?40 The collapse of houses, and the corresponding risk to building contractors was not in fact a particularly rare occurrence during the Georgian era, and accidents of this nature were habitually reported in newspapers on both sides of the Irish Sea, as well as being lamented by architectural writers and critics from Richard Neve (1703) to Isaac Ware (1756) and James Peacock (1785).41 An editorial published in The London Chronicle on 2 June 1764, for example, lamented ‘the number of half-built houses that tumble down before they can be finished’, and laid the blame squarely on ‘the present method of making bricks’.42 But what distinguishes the report of the Merrion Square debacle is that having established the facts, and having then named and shamed the apparently unscrupulous Lacy, the author concludes with a clever parody. With reference to the voluminous literature on design and building produced by and for the building trades – bearing titles such as The Modern Builder’s Assistant (1757) or The Builder’s Companion (1758)43 – the editorial closes with an announcement: ‘We hear that the said Lacy intends shortly to publish a Treatise, to be intitled, The Compleat Builder; or, an Essay on Architecture; to demonstrate, that Houses will not fall before their Time comes, be they built of what Materials they may.’44 With Lacy’s professional competence already under public scrutiny, this inspired lampoon hardly represented an act of written defamation. Indeed, the falling of substandard houses remained a perennial cause for public concern. Writing in 1810, James Peller Malcolm reflected on a century of newspaper reports concerning ‘the horrid effects’ engendered by ‘frail buildings’ across London and calculated that ‘not less than one hundred lives have been lost in this way between 1700 and 1807; and that at least three times as many persons were maimed’.45 The unpopular and unwholesome job of brickmaking also generated sarcastic letters and comments in the Dublin press. Although distinctly humorous in tone, these dispatches were no less pointed in their condemnation of the detrimental impact of private interests on the public realm. In a ‘Card’ published in the 4 August 1770 edition of the Freeman’s Journal, the ‘inhabitants of Sackville Street’, one of the foremost residential enclaves in the city (Figure 2.4), offered their ‘most respectful Compliments’ 45

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Figure 2.4 Oliver Grace, ‘A perspective view of Sackville Street and Gardiner’s Mall in Dublin’ , c. 1760. Irish Architectural Archive.

to their ‘neighbouring Brickburners, who take so much Pains to oblige us by burning their Bricks within View of our Bedchambers, contrary to a Law which was some Time ago unluckily in Force against them, but is now happily null and void’.46 Although no such law in fact existed at this time, the claim may not have been so far-fetched. The North Lotts area, southeast of Sackville Street (now O’Connell Street Upper), certainly hosted a commercial brickfield (described below), and John Rocque’s celebrated map of the city published in 1756 shows an ‘old brick field’ at the rear of Sackville Street that may well have been re-opened in response to the demand for bricks by the agents of the Gardiner estate, then commencing a period of astonishing growth that continued into the early nineteenth century (Figure 2.5).47 Given the expense of transporting building materials, the location of brickfields was a commercial imperative in speculative development: the closer to the vicinity of the building site, the better. ‘Lord Merrion’s Brickfields’ in the Sandymount area of modern day South Dublin, visible on maps prepared by the surveyor Jonathan Barker in the early 1760s, supplied the builders on the Fitzwilliam Estate at an ‘easy rate’. Nor, indeed, was this peculiar to Dublin: in 1736, the Duke of Chandos wrote that from his house in London’s fashionable Cavendish Square he was ‘poisoned with the brick kilns and other abominate smells which infect these parts’.48 In the same edition of the paper, however, another lengthier ‘Card’ on the same topic was addressed to the Lord Mayor specifically, as well as to ‘any other such Minister of Health possessed of Power to relieve the Afflicted’. Opening with a similarly ironic 46

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Figure 2.5 Detail from John Rocque, ‘An exact survey of the city and suburbs of Dublin’ , 1756. Harvard University, Pusey Library, Harvard Map Collection.

message of ‘Thanks’ to the ‘humane Brick-burners’ of the North Lotts, this notice drew specific attention to the various unsavoury aspects of that industry and its operatives. According to the author, such characters Put themselves to the Expence of employing Floats and People to drudge the River for Mud, which is afterwards landed on the North-wall, collected in Heaps, and then wheeled in Barrows into the adjacent Lotts; and with the Addition of a little Sea-sand, immediately moulded and there burned into Bricks, at a considerable Expence to themselves, and all for the Good of the Public. – The pleasing Sensations derived from the forceable Operations of the odoriferous Vapours to the Nostrils are thence conveyed to the Lungs, and deemed very salubrious to those who may be affected with the Asthma, Hectic, &c. The derisive tone continues unabashed, with an invitation to access the ‘Means of Health administered every Week during the Season’, offered by ‘The Inhabitants of the Parishes of St. Mary and St. Thomas’ to those living in a different part of the city but seeking a similar restorative: ‘And as many of his Majesty’s good Subjects have been effectually relieved by this Nostrum, by plentifully imbibing it two or three successive Days and Nights in 47

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each Week; such as are unfortunately more remote may stand in Need of an effectual and expeditious Cure, are invited to take Lodgings while [the] Season continues’. Effectively making the same points as ‘Publicola’ some four years earlier, the sardonic humour employed here arguably carries more rhetorical bite. This is underlined by the closing remarks, which represent a pointed reprimand of one of the city’s foremost civic offices: in a parody of the language of consumer advertising, the reader is advised of a quantity of mud bricks ‘now ready for Burning’, unless the Lord Mayor, ‘who we hear, has been lately in treaty for Bricks made there, does not cause them to be removed and burned elsewhere’. This is evidently a reference to Sir Thomas Blackhall, Lord Mayor of Dublin from 1769 to 1770 and a figure of some standing in the building community with considerable experience of both project management and on-site superintendence.49 Representing on the one hand an accusation of pernicious, corporate corruption – the Lord Mayor was of course expected to protect the concerns of the wider citizenry and not privilege his own interests – this ‘Card’ also displays a sophisticated understanding of eighteenth-century libel laws. Although avoiding the more obvious loophole of innuendo – that is, using an ambiguous pronoun to conceal the object of ridicule – in legal terms these closing remarks constituted a statement of ‘just cause’: a ruling of 1713 had stressed that a case of libel would not hold if the defendant could argue ‘reasonable provocation, such as might move an honest and good man’.50 As the coda to a call for better regulating the brickmaking industry for the good of all the city’s inhabitants, the specific identification of the Lord Mayor was, it could be argued, as much a plea for mindful, responsible action (in Swiftian terms) as it was a stinging personal denunciation. And while it is difficult to determine the effectiveness of this type of political lobbying, it is significant that an Act ‘To prevent the pernicious practice of burning bricks within the city of Dublin’ was given royal assent in May 1771.51 This was followed by an Act ‘For preventing the erecting of lime kilns in the city of Dublin and the suburbs thereof ’ in June 1772.52 Of course, such mockery was not reserved solely for the serious implications arising from an unregulated construction industry, and the quality of urban services in the form of roadworks, paving and public lighting frequently elicited sarcastic comments. In the Freeman’s Journal of 16 June 1764, for example, the diminutive size of posts ‘to guard the Foot Passengers from Carriages’ were denounced as ‘Stumbling-Blocks, by which Carriages and Foot-Passengers have in the Dark suffered many irksome Disasters’.53 (At this time, foot pavements were customarily separated from the roadway by a line of posts or bollards rather than a raised kerb.) Nor were private houses above reproach. On 14 July 1764, in response to a litany of ‘intolerable Nusances’ exposed by one of the city’s night watchmen – principally concerning the dangerous projection of windows into narrow streets – an exasperated denizen, styled ‘A. B.’, described how he had ‘within these few Years, done myself more Mischief in one Mile, than formerly I suffered in traversing the whole City’. He continued: How could you overlook, or rather overleap the Mountains of STEPS that lye directly in your Way, as you take your Evening Walks of Meditation? For my Part, my Shins were so battered and bruised, that I am determined for the future to 48

From Reportage to Ridicule

keep the common Carr-Road, or go in a Chair, as I am confident the Difference in Expence will be very small, between a Surgeon’s Fees, and the Hire of a Carriage.54 Noting a general trend towards the private encroachment of public pavements throughout the city, and calling for a watchman who ‘instead of crying the Hours’ might alert pedestrians to ‘the Danger that lies in wait for them’, the author uses innuendo to refer to one particularly prominent example: in a postscript he adds, ‘there is, near Stephen’s-Green, an Instance of the whole Foot-way, being monopolized by a great Man’, before closing with the mischievous question, ‘Pray how many Foot of the Street is a Nobleman allowed, more than a Commoner?’

Conclusion Given impetus by an emerging public sphere, and facilitated by a flourishing newspaper industry, the ‘building madness’ that swept Dublin from the 1750s onwards engendered a critical response that proposed its evolving form as a topic for general public consideration. The catalyst for this was the apparent failure by the city corporation to regulate the progress of the city’s building industry and, by extension, the quality of urban life for all of its inhabitants. Indeed, new initiatives introduced during the course of the 1770s, following the period under review, suggest a pivotal role for the press in generating and circulating a public consensus for ordinance: in 1774, an Act of Parliament instituted the founding of the Commissioners for Paving the Streets of Dublin (commonly referred to as the Dublin Paving Board), with the express intention of addressing the city’s urban infrastructure under one central and independent authority;55 and the Wide Streets Commissioners, the city’s planning authority originally established in 1757, was also reconstituted at this time, inaugurating ‘a rational and consistent approach’ to municipal design thereafter.56 In an age of satire, reportage begat ridicule. But the humorous turn appears to have amplified genuine concerns about standards of building construction particularly and issues of public health and safety generally. Reflecting on Benedict Anderson’s theory concerning the relationship between print circulation and socially constructed community, Richard Wittman has described how as ‘educated readers were drawn into contact with the center, they became more conscious of how many others shared their position’.57 The humorous letters and editorials described here reveal how Dublin’s eighteenth-century news media facilitated the dissenting voice in an emerging critical discourse on the built environment.

Notes 1

Robert Munter’s history of the Irish newspaper industry notes that no less than seventy new publications appeared in Dublin between 1725 and 1760, although not all were successful.

49

Laughing at Architecture Robert Munter, The History of the Irish Newspaper, 1685–1760 (London: Cambridge University Press, 1967), p. 62. 2

David Dickson, Dublin: The Making of a Capital City (London: Profile Books, 2014), p. 176. See also Felix M. Larkin, ‘“A Great Daily Organ”: The Freeman’s Journal, 1763–1924’, History Ireland, 14, 3 (2006), pp. 44–9.

3

Martyn J. Powell, The Politics of Consumption in Eighteenth-Century Ireland (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005), p. 96. Powell also notes that ‘The print runs of Ireland’s radical papers were impressively large,’ ibid., p. 97.

4

J. Bradford De Long and Andrei Shleifer, ‘Princes and Merchants: European City Growth Before the Industrial Revolution’, Journal of Law and Economics, 36, 2 (1993), p. 678.

5

Jürgen Habermas, The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society (Cambridge MA: MIT Press, 1989), pp. 1–14.

6

Christine Casey, Dublin, The Buildings of Ireland 3 (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2005), pp. 43–4. See also David Dickson, ‘The Demographic Implications of Dublin’s Growth, 1650–1850’, in Richard Lawton and Robert Lee (eds), Urban Population Development in Western Europe from the Late Eighteenth Century to Early Twentieth Century (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, 1989), pp. 178–89; Kevin H. O’Rourke and Ben Polak, ‘Property Transactions in Ireland, 1708–1988: An Introduction’, UCD Centre for Economic Research Working Paper Series, WP92/12 (1991), http://hdl.handle. net/10197/1683 (accessed 21 July 2017).

7

See Edel Sheridan, ‘Designing the Capital City: Dublin, c. 1600–1810’, in Joseph Brady and Angret Simms (eds), Dublin Through Space and Time (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2001), pp. 66–135; David Dickson, ‘Large-scale Developers and the Growth of Eighteenth-century Irish Cities’, in Paul Butel and Louis M. Cullen (eds), Cities and Merchants: French and Irish Perspectives on Urban Development, 1500–1900 (Dublin: Trinity College Dublin, 1986), pp. 109–23.

8

National Archives of Ireland (hereafter NAI), Pembroke Estate papers Mss 97/46/1/2/7/3: ‘William Fitzwilliam, Dublin to the Rt. Hon. Viscount Fitzwilliam, Jermyn St., St James, 28 September 1752’. Quoted in Finola O’Kane, ‘“Bargains in View”: The Fitzwilliam Family’s Development of Merrion Square’, in Christine Casey (ed.), The Eighteenth-Century Dublin Town House (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2010), pp. 98–9.

9

NAI, Pembroke Estate papers Mss 97/46/1/2/6/71: ‘James Wilson, Merrion St to the Rt Hon Viscount Fitzwilliam, Jermyn St, St James’s, 26 January 1765’. Quoted ibid., p. 99.

10 Dublin Journal, 2775 (24–27 November 1753), p. 1; John Bush, Hibernia Curiosa (London: Printed for W. Flexney, 1769), p. 10, cited in Brendan Twomey, ‘Financing Speculative Property Development in Early Eighteenth-century Dublin’, in Casey (ed.), The EighteenthCentury Dublin Town House, p. 29. 11 Philip Luckombe, A Tour Through Ireland in 1779 (Dublin: J. and R. Byrne, 1780), p. 26. 12 [Sir Richard Cox], Previous Promises Inconsistent with a Free Parliament: And an Ample Vindication of the Last Parliament (Dublin: P. Wilson, 1760), pp. 30–1. 13 These were published in the Freeman’s Journal between December 1768 and February 1769. Edward McParland, ‘James Gandon and the Royal Exchange Competition, 1768–69’, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 102, 1 (1972), pp. 58–72. 14 Ibid. McParland notes that the articles in question are signed ‘L – ’ and suggests Andrew Caldwell (1733–1808), a barrister and connoisseur of architecture, as a likely author. 15 Robert Campbell, The London Tradesman (London: T. Gardner, 1747), p. 158; John Gwynn, London and Westminster Improved (London: printed for the author, 1766), p. 10. 50

From Reportage to Ridicule 16 L –, ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 6, 35 (27–31 December 1768), p. 137. 17 On this topic see Rachel Stewart, The Town House in Georgian London (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2009), pp. 129–31. 18 Nuala T. Burke, ‘Dublin 1600–1800: A Study in Urban Morphogenesis’ (unpublished PhD diss., University of Dublin, 1972), p. 220. 19 A. P. W. Malcomson, Nathaniel Clements 1705–77: Politics, Fashion and Architecture in MidEighteenth-Century Ireland (Dublin: Four Courts Press, 2015), p. 22. 20 Dickson, Dublin, p. 148. 21 Matthew Craske, ‘From Burlington Gate to Billingsgate: James Ralph’s Attempt to Impose Burlingtonian Classicism as a Canon of Public Taste’, in Barbara Arciszewska and Elizabeth McKellar (eds), Articulating British Classicism: New Approaches to Eighteenth-Century Architecture (Aldershot, Hampshire and Burlington VT: Ashgate, 2004), p. 115. 22 Richard Wittman, Architecture, Print Culture, and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century France (New York and London: Routledge, 2007), p. 6. 23 Acts of Parliament of the United Kingdom (hereafter APUK), 3 George II c. 14. See Susan Roundtree, ‘Brick in the Eighteenth-century Dublin Town House’, in Casey (ed.), The Eighteenth-Century Dublin Town House, pp. 76–7. 24 In Ireland, the English building Acts were ‘influential but not obligatory’. Niall McCullough, Dublin: An Urban History (Dublin: Ann Street Press, 1989), p. 31. In London and Westminster, building Acts were introduced in 1667, 1704, 1709 and 1774, and clauses to these in 1724, 1760, 1765 and 1770. Clifford Cyril Knowles and Peter Hubert Pitt, The History of Building Regulation in London 1189–1972 (London: Architectural Press, 1972). See also Peter Guillery, The Small House in Eighteenth-Century London (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2004), pp. 282–84. Despite the lack of building regulations per se, the Dublin Society for Improving Husbandry, Manufactures and other Useful Arts (founded 1731) offered premiums to raise standards in brickmaking from as early as 1755. Royal Dublin Society, Minute Books IV (1750–1757), 15 May 1755, p. 256. 25 Publicola, ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 3, 76 (24–27 May 1766), pp. 302–3. A month earlier, in the 29 March–1 April issue, the editorial had noted that the bill ‘hath passed an August Assembly’. 26 Irish Legislation Database online at www.qub.ac.uk/ild/?func=display_bill&id=1524 (accessed 11 February 2015). A second attempt in 1767 was also unsuccessful. 27 The encroachment of building works had been among the topics addressed in an earlier Act of Parliament in 1717, which was particularly concerned with the ‘better amendment of the pavement, and more effectually cleansing of the streets of the city of Dublin’. APUK, 4 George I c. 11. 28 Freeman’s Journal, 1, 82 (16–19 June 1764), p. 327. 29 A. B., ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 4, 5 (16–20 September 1766), p. 19. 30 The Westminster Paving Act was introduced only in 1762 to systematically control paving, lighting and street cleaning across the city. 31 Knowles and Pitt, The History of Building Regulation in London 1189–1972, p. 52. 32 For examples of the guild regulation of building standards see: National Library of Ireland, ‘Minute Book of the Limerick Guild of Masons, Bricklayers, Slaters, Plasterers, Painters, Pavours, Lime-Burners, etc.’, June 1747–March 1757 (microfilm copy n. 5395, p. 5526).

51

Laughing at Architecture 33 A Citizen, ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 7, 31 (23–25 November 1769), p. 121. Author’s emphasis. It is interesting to note that the author claims that he was advised not to pursue the problem with the relevant guild: ‘if I applied to the Corporation (the common Mode of adjusting such Differences) it would involve me in an Expence greater than the Imposition, and in the End, as they were prejudiced and interested, it was more than probable, the Fraud would be established and forced upon me’. 34 A Citizen, ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 7, 37 (7–9 December 1769), p. 147. Significantly, the author claimed satisfaction from the ‘Master, Wardens, and Corporation of Painters’, and apologized that he had expressed ‘the least Doubt of the Integrity and Disinterestedness of so respectable a Body’. 35 Richard Grattan, ‘A Notice’, Dublin Journal, 6777 (6–8 April 1784), p. 3. Author’s emphasis. 36 Mark Hallett, The Spectacle of Difference: Graphic Satire in the Age of Hogarth (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1999), p. 5. 37 Jonathan Swift, ‘A Vindication of Mr. Gay, and The Beggars Opera’, The Intelligencer, 3 (1728), p. 21. 38 The editorial committee of the Freeman’s Journal was strongly in support of the political views of radical parliamentarian Charles Lucas (1713–1771), himself a publisher of satirical pamphlets. Dickson, Dublin, p. 176. 39 The houses have been identified as the present numbers 21 and 22. See Casey, Dublin, The Buildings of Ireland 3, pp. 582–83. 40 ‘Dublin’, Freeman’s Journal, 3, 61 (1–5 April 1766), pp. 242–43. 41 Richard Neve, The City and Country Purchaser, and Builder’s Dictionary: or, The Compleat Builder’s Guide (London: J. Sprint at the Bell, G. Conyers at the Ring, and T. Ballard at the Rising Sun in Little Brittain, 1703); Isaac Ware, A Complete Body of Architecture (London: T. Osborne & J. Shipton, 1756); Jose Mac Packe [James Peacock], Oikidia, or Nutshells: Being Ichnographic Distributions for Small Villas; Chiefly Upon Oeconomic Principles (London: Charles Dilly, 1785). In 1770, the collapse of the extension to Lady Bangor’s house in Stephen’s Green was attributed to ‘the building of the Stack of Chimnies very high, and very large Bow-front to the North, which was too heavy for the Foundation’. ‘Dublin’, Freeman’s Journal, 8, 1 (30 August–1 September 1770), p. 3. 42 Cited in James Peller Malcolm, Anecdotes of the Manners and Customs of London, vol. 2 (London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster Row, 1810), pp. 390–91. 43 William Halfpenny, The Modern Builder’s Assistant; or, a Concise Epitome of the Whole System of Architecture (London: James Rivington and J. Fletcher in Pater-noster Row, and Robert Sayer opposite Fetter-Lane, Fleet Street, 1757); William Pain, The Builder’s Companion, and Workman’s General Assistant (London: printed for the author and Robert Sayer, Fleet Street, 1758). An early Dublin title was F. P. Builder, The Builder’s Guide, Shewing, the Qualities, Quantities, Proportions, and Rates or Value of all Materials Relating to Building (Dublin: James Hoey, Sen. and James Hoey, Jun. at the Mercury in Skinner-Row, 1758). 44 The entry on the otherwise unknown Lacy in the online Dictionary of Irish Architects 1720–1940 (www.dia.ie) makes the mistake of taking this publication announcement at face value. The date of the announcement of the publication on 1 April – April Fools’ Day (or All Fools’ Day) – is perhaps significant. 45 Malcolm, Anecdotes of the Manners and Customs of London, p. 388. Malcolm later notes that ‘The Legislature has provided for our safety against the roguery of the Builders; but, unless the materials of which the bricks are made shall be taken into consideration, London may shortly resemble the City of Lisbon, without the intervention of an Earthquake,’ ibid., p. 391.

52

From Reportage to Ridicule 46 ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 7, 140 (4–7 August, 1770), p. 551, and ‘Dublin’, Dublin Journal, 4643 (7 August 1770), p. 1. Brickburners were not the only offenders: the proprietors of ‘the sugar house in Greg-lane’ provided the residents of Sackville Street with ‘the late odoriferous effluvia which so generously extended itself to the most distant parts of the neighbourhood’; an easterly wind allowed them to ‘regale their noses with the cephalic fumes of the glass-houses’. 47 Eamon Walsh, ‘Sackville Mall’, in David Dickson (ed.), The Gorgeous Mask, Dublin 1700–1850 (Dublin: Trinity College Dublin), pp. 36–7. This particular brickfield was certainly in use in 1749. See Roundtree, ‘Brick in the Eighteenth-century Dublin Town House’, p. 77. 48 James Ayres, Building the Georgian City (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1998), p. 101. See also Elizabeth McKellar, The Birth of Modern London: The Development and Design of the City 1660–1720 (Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press, 1999), p. 73. 49 See ‘Lord Mayors of Dublin 1665–2014’ at www.dublincity.ie/… / LordMayorofDublin1665–2014.pdf (accessed 10 August 2016). Blackhall was later chairman of the building committee for building new premises for the Blue Coat School between 1772 and 1773, to designs by architect Thomas Ivory, during which time he ‘employed the tradesmen directly’ and personally superintended the construction process. Sir Frederick Richard Falkiner, The Foundation of the Hospital and Free School of King Charles II, Oxmantown, Dublin (Dublin: Sealy, Bryers and Walker, 1906), pp. 210–1. 50 C. R. Kropf, ‘Libel and Satire in the Eighteenth Century’, Eighteenth-Century Studies, 8, 2 (1974–5), pp. 153–68. 51 APUK, 11 George III c.6. The demise of brickfields on the Fitzwilliam estate began in the mid-1760s. See Roundtree, ‘Brick in the Eighteenth-century Dublin Town House’, p. 79. 52 APUK, 11 & 12 George III c.28. 53 Publicola, ‘Dublin’, Freeman’s Journal, 1, 82 (16–19 June 1764), p. 327. Raised kerbs were not common until the second half of the eighteenth century. See Ayres, Building the Georgian City, p. 95. 54 A. B., ‘To the Watchman’, Freeman’s Journal, 1, 90 (14–17 July 1764), p. 358. 55 ‘To the Committee for Conducting the Free Press’, Freeman’s Journal, 11, 137 (9 July 1774), p. 545. The provision of paving, lighting and cleaning services had long been the responsibility of the city’s parish authorities rather than the City Corporation. For the history of the Dublin Paving Board see: Finnian Ó Cionnaith, Exercise of Authority: Surveyor Thomas Owen and the Paving, Cleansing and Lighting of Georgian Dublin (Dublin: Dublin City Council, 2015). 56 Casey, Dublin, The Buildings of Ireland 3, p. 45. Although established in 1757, and responsible for public works thereafter, the full momentum of the Wide Streets Commissioners began only in 1782, with an Act of Parliament granting legislative independence and the proceeds of a coal tax. See Edward McParland, ‘ The Wide Streets Commissioners: Their Importance for Dublin Architecture in the Late 18th–Early 19th century’, Bulletin of the Irish Georgian Society, 15, 1 (1972), pp. 1–31. See also Sheridan, ‘Designing the Capital City’, pp. 108–35, and Niall McCullough (ed.), A Vision of the City: Dublin and the Wide Streets Commissioners (Dublin: Dublin Corporation, 1991). 57 Wittman, Architecture, Print Culture, and the Public Sphere, p. 10, citing Benedict Anderson, Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (London and New York: Verso, 1991), pp. 22–36.

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Bibliography Ayres, J. (1998), Building the Georgian City, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Burke, N. T. (1972), ‘Dublin 1600–1800: A Study in Urban Morphogenesis’ (unpublished PhD diss., University of Dublin). Campbell, R. (1747), The London Tradesman, London: T. Gardner. Casey, C. (2005), Dublin, The Buildings of Ireland 3, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. [Cox, R.] (1760), Previous Promises Inconsistent with a Free Parliament: And an Ample Vindication of the Last Parliament, Dublin: P. Wilson. Craske, M. (2004), ‘From Burlington Gate to Billingsgate: James Ralph’s Attempt to Impose Burlingtonian Classicism as a Canon of Public Taste’, in B. Arciszewska and E. McKellar (eds), Articulating British Classicism: New Approaches to Eighteenth-Century Architecture, Aldershot, Hampshire and Burlington VT: Ashgate. De Long, J. B. and Shleifer, A. (1993), ‘Princes and Merchants: European City Growth Before the Industrial Revolution’, Journal of Law and Economics, 36, 2: 671–702. Dickson, D. (1986), ‘Large-scale Developers and the Growth of Eighteenth-century Irish Cities’, in P. Butel and L. M. Cullen (eds), Cities and Merchants: French and Irish Perspectives on Urban Development, 1500–1900, Dublin: Trinity College Dublin. Dickson, D. (1989), ‘The Demographic Implications of Dublin’s Growth, 1650–1850’, in R. Lawton and R. Lee (eds), Urban Population Development in Western Europe from the Late Eighteenth Century to Early Twentieth Century, Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Dickson, D. (2014), Dublin: The Making of a Capital City, London: Profile Books. F. P. (1758), The Builder’s Guide, Shewing, the Qualities, Quantities, Proportions, and Rates or Value of all Materials Relating to Building, Dublin: James Hoey, Sen. and James Hoey, Jun. at the Mercury in Skinner-Row. Falkiner, F. R. (1906), The Foundation of the Hospital and Free School of King Charles II, Oxmantown, Dublin, Dublin: Sealy, Bryers and Walker. Guillery, P. (2004), The Small House in Eighteenth-Century London, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Gwynn, J. (1766), London and Westminster Improved, London: printed for the author. Habermas, J. (1989), The Structural Transformation of the Public Sphere: An Inquiry into a Category of Bourgeois Society, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Halfpenny, W. (1757), The Modern Builder’s Assistant; or, A Concise Epitome of the Whole System of Architecture, London: James Rivington and J. Fletcher in Pater-noster Row, and Robert Sayer opposite Fetter-Lane, Fleet Street. Hallett, M. (1999), The Spectacle of Difference: Graphic Satire in the Age of Hogarth, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Knowles, C.C. and Pitt, P. H. (1972), The History of Building Regulation in London 1189–1972, London: Architectural Press. Kropf, C. R. (1974–1975), ‘Libel and Satire in the Eighteenth Century’, Eighteenth-Century Studies, 8, 2: 153–68. Larkin, F. M. (2006), ‘“A Great Daily Organ”: The Freeman’s Journal, 1763–1924’, History Ireland, 14, 3: 44–9. Luckombe, P. (1780), A Tour Through Ireland in 1779, Dublin: J. and R. Byrne. McCullough, N. (1989), Dublin: An Urban History, Dublin: Ann Street Press. McCullough, N. (1991), A Vision of the City: Dublin and the Wide Streets Commissioners, Dublin: Dublin Corporation. McKellar, E. (1999), The Birth of Modern London: The Development and Design of the City 1660–1720, Manchester and New York: Manchester University Press.

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From Reportage to Ridicule McParland, E. (1972), ‘James Gandon and the Royal Exchange Competition, 1768–69’, Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 102, 1: 58–72. McParland, E. (1972), ‘The Wide Streets Commissioners: Their Importance for Dublin Architecture in the Late 18th–Early 19th Century’, Bulletin of the Irish Georgian Society, 15, 1: 1–31. Mac Packe, J. [James Peacock] (1785), Oikidia, or Nutshells: Being Ichnographic Distributions for Small Villas; Chiefly Upon Oeconomic Principles, London: Charles Dilly. Malcolm, J. P. (1810), Anecdotes of the Manners and Customs of London, 2 vols, London: Longman, Hurst, Rees, and Orme, Paternoster Row. Malcomson, A. P. W. (2015), Nathaniel Clements 1705–77: Politics, Fashion and Architecture in Mid-Eighteenth-Century Ireland, Dublin: Four Courts Press. Munter, R. (1967), The History of the Irish Newspaper, 1685–1760, London: Cambridge University Press. Neve, R. (1703), The City and Countrey Purchaser, and Builder’s Dictionary: or, The Compleat Builder’s Guide, London: J. Sprint at the Bell, G. Conyers at the Ring, and T. Ballard at the Rising Sun in Little Brittain. Ó Cionnaith, F. (2015), Exercise of Authority: Surveyor Thomas Owen and the Paving, Cleansing and Lighting of Georgian Dublin, Dublin: Dublin City Council. O’Kane, F. (2010), ‘“Bargains in View”: The Fitzwilliam Family’s Development of Merrion Square’, in C. Casey (ed.), The Eighteenth-Century Dublin Town House, Dublin: Four Courts Press. Pain, W. (1758), The Builder’s Companion, and Workman’s General Assistant, London: printed for the author and Robert Sayer, Fleet Street. Powell, M. J. (2005), The Politics of Consumption in Eighteenth-Century Ireland, Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan. Roundtree, S. (2010), ‘Brick in the Eighteenth-century Dublin Town House’, in C. Casey (ed.), The Eighteenth-Century Dublin Town House, Dublin: Four Courts Press. Sheridan, E. (1991), ‘Designing the Capital City’, in N. McCullough (ed.), A Vision of the City: Dublin and the Wide Streets Commissioners, Dublin: Dublin Corporation. Stewart, R. (2009), The Town House in Georgian London, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Twomey, B. (2010), ‘Financing Speculative Property Development in Early Eighteenth-century Dublin’, in C. Casey (ed.), The Eighteenth-Century Dublin Town House, Dublin: Four Courts Press. Walsh, E. (1987), ‘Sackville Mall’, in D. Dickson (ed.), The Gorgeous Mask, Dublin 1700–1850, Dublin: Trinity College Dublin. Ware, I. (1756), A Complete Body of Architecture, London: T. Osborne & J. Shipton. Wittman, R. (2007), Architecture, Print Culture, and the Public Sphere in Eighteenth-Century France, New York and London: Routledge.

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CHAPTER 3 THE THORN OF SCORN: JOHN NASH AND HIS ALL SOULS CHURCH FOR A TRANSFORMED REGENCY LONDON Daniela Roberts During the 1810s and 1820s the north of London was transformed into a modern city. John Nash, as the Regent’s (later George IV) favoured architect, contributed largely to urban planning. The development of Marylebone was his first royal commission, including the design of Regent Street, Regent’s Park and St James’s Park. Being also engaged by the Church Commission to build All Souls at Langham Place (Figure 3.1), the church became an important feature of the newly emerging Regent Street, stretching from Piccadilly Circus (Regent’s House) to Regent’s Park by passing through Oxford Circus. When in 1823 All Souls at Langham Place was finished it wasn’t long before its design and its architect both suffered ridicule and insult. Inspired by a parliamentary debate concerning the newly erected church, George Cruikshank made a print, which was published by George Humphry on 7 April 1824 (Figure 3.2).1 Titled ‘Nashional Taste!!!’ the caricature shows the upper part of All Souls steeple with John Nash being placed most uncomfortably on its pinnacle. Below, it is ‘Dedicated without permission, to the Church Commissioners’ with the verses: ‘Providence sends meat, the Devil sends cooks – Parliament sends funds. But, who sends the architects?’ In focusing on the conical spire the image singles out the most prominent feature of All Souls church and also its main offending object, as the long history of scorn and ridicule in criticism will show. To get to the bottom of what is so peculiar about the spire, we need to study its architectural context. The spire is the top of a semi-attached church entrance. It is composed of a cylindrical vestibule, a portico ringed by ionic columns and topped by cherubic capitals. Above the balustrade rotunda there is a Corinthian peristyle, which provides the base for the fluted cone. Viewed from the south, the main body of the church – the rectangular hall – is invisible. Large rounded windows over a lower row of rectangular windows light up the wide nave inside, which has galleries on three sides. The overall concept of the building is that of a classical temple, therefore the peristyle was expected to be covered by a dome. Instead John Nash chose a very sharp pointed spire, which together with the slenderness of the steeple, rising out of a wide circular portico, forms the outstanding feature of the church. By giving prominence to the spire the cartoon unfolds its polemic, but it also suggests that the parliamentary debate about the church was not motivated by a well-founded criticism concerning architectural matters. Although the title ‘Nashional Taste’ suggests a dispute on aesthetic ideas, the caricature and inscription are commenting on a political controversy. On 30 March 1824, in the House of Commons Member of Parliament

Laughing at Architecture

Figure 3.1 John Nash, ‘All Souls, Langham Place’. Author’s collection.

58

The Thorn of Scorn

Figure 3.2 George Cruikshank, ‘Nashional Taste!!!’ , 1824. Victoria and Albert Museum.

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Henry Grey Bennett demanded the name of the architect of the church.2 ‘Among the many deplorable objects of the kind in the metropolis and its neighbourhoods, this was the most melancholy departure from the rules of taste’ that he had yet seen. To him ‘the spire was only to be compared to an extinguisher on a flat candlestick’.3 He also wanted to know what the ‘mass of deformity had cost’4 and professed his willingness to subscribe towards the cost of demolition. Under pressure Charles Arbuthnot, the Minister of the Department of Woods and Forest, admitted that the architect was John Nash. Finding it likewise hard to defend the building, he admitted that ‘The church in question certainly would be better away, but it might not be easy to remove it.’5 But he also remarked that there were many others in its neighbourhood which were also ‘not very creditable to that gentleman’s taste’.6 Here Arbuthnot denounces Bennett’s attack on the church as a pretext and contradiction to his own statement that he is acting as an advocate for architectural improvement of the metropolis. What can’t be denied is that expenses had been an issue during the erection of the church. When Nash’s lackadaisical business methods were exposed he had to come up with an estimate in detail. This amounted to £20,931, which would have exceeded the Boards’ maximum, while his tender came in at only £15,994.7 The aversion to the church derived presumably from associating the building with the royal backing to the improvement to the new street (later Regent Street). This presumption is supported by an article in the John Bull Magazine from 1824, where Nash is defended and the attack on the church stigmatized as political: When Regent-street was first building, [James] Perry attacked the plan and execution of it most bitterly, in the Morning Chronicle. Nash casually met him, and complained of this. ‘If ’, said the architect, ‘you would point out any defects in the street, I should, most willingly, correct them, and adopt your views, if I thought them well founded’. ‘Why, Sir’, replied Perry, ‘I am no architect, and, therefore, cannot enter into details; – but I dislike the street from one end to the other’. – ‘I do not doubt it’, said Nash, nettled, ‘for one end is the Regent’s house – the other, his park’.8 Bennett likewise did not name concretely the defects of All Souls church in the parliamentary debate; he rejected the building completely as ‘a deplorable and horrible thing’.9 Nevertheless, he created a humorous image of the steeple referring to it as a ‘flat candlestick with an extinguisher on [top]’.10 Cruikshank didn’t take up the candlestick characterization but he developed Bennett’s demand further to reveal the offending architect’s name. Cruikshank depicts Nash undergoing a sore trial, impaled on the corpus delicti of his offence. The inscription states clearly the political denouncement of Nash. The proverb ‘Providence [God] sends meat, the Devil sends cooks,’ originally written by the seventeenth-century writer John Taylor, has been completed with two modern lines saying that the money granted by Parliament has been wasted by the architect’s work. But the true responsibility for the whole scheme is allegedly in question. Judging from the dedication of the cartoon, which is without permission and therefore a criticism, it seems that it is the church commissioners themselves who are being referred to. 60

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Nash belonged to the ‘consulting’, ‘attached’ or ‘Crown’ architect employed by the Church Building Commission in two capacities, as consultant and as executive architect – as such he contributed two designs.11 But Nash’s most prominent advocate, the Prince Regent himself, might be the influential unknown to whom the inscription alluded. By 1812 Nash was not only the favoured architect but also occupied the position of a servant of the Prince.12 In fact he became the Prince Regent’s and later George IV’s instrument, enabling his extravagances and as a vehicle to implement his ambitions.13 Nash seems to be exposed as a submissive instrument in Cruikshank’s cartoon. He is suspended like a scarecrow, his arms extended horizontally from the shoulders and hanging limply from the elbow. But Nash is not fulfilling the task of discouraging crows and sparrows from newly planted seeds. He seems to be attacked by the birds flying around, which on closer inspection are carrion birds. Apparently, the image alludes to the situation when Nash was becoming prominent as the architect of the new street and Regent’s Park, and subject to all kinds of ignorant and prejudiced abuse – the Whigs developed a strategy to defame everything in connection with the Prince and his society around him.14 It might be under such premises that rumour spread abroad as to whether Nash’s wife, Mary Anne, was one of the Regent’s mistresses.15 Various cartoons – among them a print by Charles Williams, ‘The Beauties of the Isle of Wight’ (1819), and a cartoon by J. Lewis Marks, ‘The Royal George Afloat’ (1820) – allude to this alleged relationship.16 In this context Nash appears as a victim of a political campaign against the Regent, which Cruikshank’s cartoon confirms with the scarecrow image. But his print is also susceptible to different interpretations. Taking a seat on his spire at the place which is commonly reserved for a weathervane, the allusion both to the architect’s opportunistic attitude or his subjection to the fast-changing political atmosphere seems plausible. Apart from the political reading, the print frames an essential question about architecture and its role and raison d’être. The title ‘Nashional Taste’ touches upon the subject of the existence of a national architectural style and the way individual style contributes to or contradicts it. In the eighteenth century, Palladian style was prevailing as a symbol of aristocratic power. The concurrent adaptation of classical antiquity was a statement for an aesthetic preference and identification with cultural values. With the emergence of Gothic revival, first for landscape gardens, later for country houses, the diversity of styles around 1800 increased. Aesthetic concepts were competing with each other and architectural features became interchangeable. But in the 1820s in the context of the raising awareness of architectural principles, more integrity in style was required.17 Nash could work within the loosely Palladian idiom or in the pictorial style, designing Gothic or ‘castellar’ country houses and rustic villas modelled on medieval England or on Italian rural vernacular.18 For his works he adapted the concept of the picturesque, which stimulated him also to a considerable use of a new stylistic eclecticism including Chinese and Indian vernacular.19 Therefore, it comes as no surprise that Nash’s stylistic fusion like the stylistic mixture of other prolific contemporaries became controversial at the first quarter of the nineteenth century. Regarding All Souls, the experts complained about Nash’s use of blithely confused architectural styles.20 The architect Charles Robert Cockerell criticized 61

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Figure 3.3 ‘All Souls, Langham Place and St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol’ , from A. W. N. Pugin, Contrasts: Or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, 1836.

not only Nash’s ‘hasty’ and sketchy way of working but also the building as ‘flimsy & deficient in principle’.21 The writer E. F. G. Carrington lamented in his Memoirs about the sacral building of his time: ‘There are no neat simple Churches now: you see Christian edifices stuck all over with the sacrificial emblems of paganism, bullock’s heads, and rams’ horns: in quarters you see great sprawling uncouth Caryatides – in another an extinguisher by the way of spire, hoisted on the top of a Greek balcony.’22 When A. W. N. Pugin in his polemic Contrasts also commented on All Souls, confronting it with a picture of the Gothic Redcliffe church in Bristol (Figure 3.3) and saying that some churches ‘have porticos of Greek temples, surmounted by steeples of miserable outline and worse detail’, he refused not only the stylistic crossover but ‘neoclassicism’ as generally inappropriate for church buildings.23 On the first title page classicism is condemned as a manifestation of modern capitalist culture, and All Souls is shown as an example of its stylistic profanity.24 In consequence in the second half of the nineteenth century, where sacral architecture was identified with Gothic, All Souls would have found hardly any positive reviews. But was it Nash’s aim to mix a traditional (Gothic) church spire with a classical formula? He might have been inspired by medieval churches, like the spire of St Patricks in Patrington, regarding the shape and the structure of its base but Nash seems to develop 62

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a rather abstract conical body which serves as an alternative to the dome as the top of the building. In his satirical comparison of the All Souls spire and an extinguisher, Bennett unconsciously pointed out the innovation of Nash’s design. One of Nash’s model churches, suggested to the commissioners, also proves that the architect meant to use that type of spire, including the base with a ring of columns, as an exchangeable module.25 Also this church design illustrates that the same spire on top of a rectangular building with portico and two flanking towers appears less noticeable and would have probably not aroused so much criticism. A fact which becomes even more obvious when one views Christopher Wren’s steeple for Saint Mary-le-Bow, at London Cheapside (1671–1680), or the semicircular portico of Thomas Archer’s Saint Paul in Deptford (1712), which might have also inspired Nash. By these examples it becomes clear that the prominence of the conic top of the spire rather depends on the proportion of the individual parts. The lack of proportion criticized by architects and the periodical press seems often to be as a result of the undersized dimensions. Pugin had pointed out the problem of small dimensions for all Commissioners Churches, but also a majority of criticism followed Cockerell’s remark that the spire ‘had an inapposite association, reminding one of a village church & not such as befits a metropolis; for this purpose it is too homely’.26 The Mirror of Literature and Amusement of 1828 complained about the ‘starved proportion’, which separates All Souls from ‘the impressive character of a church exterior’, and also criticized that ‘the whole style of the tower and steeple appears peculiarly ill-adapted for a small scale’.27 It is likely that for his steeple of All Souls, Nash, as an architect of picturesque designs, adapted the landscape concept of eye catchers that often took the form of rotunda or monopteros. The design for the church was primarily based on the demand to serve as a terminal feature for Regent Street, covering the ‘kink’. Nash had explained his intention to the Church Building Commissioner in May 1820 as following: From the nature of the bend of the street, the portico and the spire will together form an object terminating the vista from the circus in Oxford Street – the spire (I submit) is the most beautiful form and is peculiarly calculated for the termination of the vista and particularly suitable to a church. The portico I have made circular as taking up less of the passage of the street at the same time that it is most consonant to the shape of the spire.28 An anecdote passed down by Nash’s grandson links his invention to a highly ornamented saltcellar (maybe in the shape of a tempietto), which in placing it on a table can be compared with viewing All Souls from Oxford Circle, a vista which would ‘look curiously right’.29 In fact Nash’s major concern was to distract the attention from the broken vista of upper Regent Street by placing at the break a building ‘in a new order of architecture’30 which should be harmonious but not similar to Doric, Corinthian, Byzantine or any other known architectural style. Nash has succeeded in implementing his intention. Nobody complained about the ‘kink’ of the street, everyone was focusing on the extraordinary ‘attention getter’, which appeared on the scene more like a monument than a church. As a consequence, The Gentleman Magazine (1828) (Figure 3.4), although 63

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Figure 3.4 ‘All Souls Church, Marylebone’ , frontispiece of The Gentleman’s Magazine, July 1826.

endeavouring a nuanced review and approving the ‘very pleasing interior’ of the church, remarked that instead of finishing the cone with metal it ‘would have produced a better effect if the spire had terminated in the usual way with a cross’ and ‘if it had been assimilated more closely to the other style of church spires of the school of Sir. C. Wren’.31 In short: the spire’s ‘novelty surprises, but does not produce delight’.32 The missing element of the spire regarding traditional churches gives Cruikshank the opportunity to fill the vacancy with the architect himself, whereby being too large in proportion to the building he discredits the building’s dimensions. And so Nash becomes involuntarily part of his own ‘brilliantly placed feature, a temple, a folly’33 and a point de vue himself. Cruikshank’s powerful image with its various associations of style, features, proportions of the church and use as a political instrument had a greater effect on the public reception in the long term than individual written reviews. Throughout the twentieth century his caricature was frequently published and strongly linked with Nash’s reputation. At the time of the caricature there had also been a circulation of a satirical epigram stigmatizing Nash’s excessive use of plaster or stucco ornamentations: ‘Augustus in Rome was for building renown’d, For of marble he left what of brick he had found. But is not our Nash, too, a very great master? He finds us all brick, and he leaves us all plaster.’34 The rejection of composition was later reinforced by campaigns for structural honesty and truth of materials, of which Pugin had been a leading figure. But All Souls had been built for the most parts of Bath stone; only the ionic capitals 64

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were made from Coade stone, a popular artificial stoneware, which Nash used also for Brighton Pavilion and Buckingham Palace.35 But material was not Cruikshank’s target; he addressed urban planning and development and the question of responsibility by referencing the particularly sharp pointed conical spire of All Souls. But how can we define his audience and understand the object and role of his denigration and humour? The print was published by George Humphry, which means that it was displayed in the publisher’s shop window and was also for sale. Caricature was a form of public spectacle, therefore, already in the 1790s the number of print shops of this type numbered about seventy and large crowds gathered (usually from all social classes) in front of the shop windows, causing nuisance and obstruction on the street.36 A depiction of Humphry’s print shop with a campaign against Queen Caroline shows a rather wealthy audience but the publisher was generally known as conservative. Inside the shop the more refined spectator was able to buy, borrow and circulate such images. In this way Cruikshank’s Nash caricature could ensure large attention and reception through its public display. The subject and inscription of the print seems more likely to address the educated middle classes. It is one of the few caricatures which also relates to an architectural issue, while all the other cartoons concerned with John Nash are principally political, thematising his position as the Prince Regent’s favoured architect and his involvement in the dissipation of money. The print ‘John Bull & the arch-itect wot build’s the arches – &c – &c – &c – &c’37 (1829) (Figure 3.5) reflects on two different

Figure 3.5 William Heath Robinson, ‘John Bull & the arch-itect wot build’s the arches – &c – &c – &c – &c’, 1829. British Museum.

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debates about the doubling of expenses for Buckingham Palace, and the print ‘The Toad under a harrow’38 (1829) comments on the charge of fraudulent manipulation of Crown leases and on the excessive costs of imported marble.39 A year later, on the occasion of the finished Buckingham Palace and the birthday of the king, the print ‘Mother Shipton’s prophecy’ presented a summary of current attacks on the palace on grounds of the king’s taste and extravagance and the unsuitability of the site, also including an image of Nash spiked on the steeple of All Souls with the inscription below: ‘This is the man that pulls up and pulls down, That by novel erections has spangled the town, That designed the house that George built.’40 These examples show that the caricature as a communicator was a medium for democratization of opinions, giving the masses a voice and offering identification with ill-treated and affected individuals. The caricature compensated for the impotence of individuals to participate in politics and society through collective criticism, whereby the individual could gain self-affirmation. Cruikshank’s Nash caricature deals with the fears of a rapid urban transformation and its reputed architectural excesses, which found a voice in a satirical poem about All Souls published by The Mirror (1828): ‘Whoever walks through London streets’, Said Momus to the son Saturn, ‘Each day new edifices meets, Of queer proportions, queerer pattern: If thou, O cloudcompelling god, Wilt aid me with thy special grace, I, too, will wield my motley hod, And build a church in Langham-place’. ‘Agreed’, the Thunderer cries; ‘go plant Thine edifice, I care not how ill; Take notice, earth, I herby grant Carte blanche of mortar, stone, and trowel. Go Hermes, Hercules, and Mars, Fraught with these bills on Henry Hase, Drop with yon jester from the stars, And build a church in Langham-place.’41 In ridiculing All Souls’ provoking novelty the caricature mitigates and neutralizes apprehensions. By associating the church with its architect the caricature represents a counterpart of Pugin’s later evoked nightmare of the modern city, characterized by alienation and social fragmentation. The neutralization of what seems offensive about the church allowed the appreciation of the architectural value because of its recognizable features, which characterized the city and a particular district. It was becoming a standard that London guides were pointing out All Souls’ spire as a distinguishing feature of Regent Street.42 James Elmes in his Metropolitan Improvements (1827) acknowledges the ‘agreeable contrast’ between the church and the other buildings on Regent Street and the ‘circular tower as a productive beauty in form and proportion’.43 Being aware of Bennett’s mockery of the spire as a candlestick with an extinguisher on the top of the candle, he argued that after his ‘eye had become somewhat used to the daring novelty’ that he does not object to ‘the gothic innovation of the impaling spire […] placed as a finial on the Daedalian beauty of the campanile’.44 In John Britton’s Illustrations of Public Buildings in London (1828) the criticism of the church by the press and members of Parliament is marked as ‘unfair’, 66

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‘wantonly’, ‘injudiciously’, which sports mercilessly with the feeling and reputation of the architect.45 At the same time the review demands one to ‘consider the church as [… ] [a] portion of a great design’ of Regent Street to ‘estimate its character, than by taking it as a single, insulated edifice’, the way ‘the architect evidently meant it to be so regarded’ and finally to understand ‘its external arrangement’ as ‘suggested by the peculiarity of the situation’, the ‘obtuse angle formed by Regent Street and Langham Place’.46 Also the travelling foreigner Prince Pückler-Muskau pleaded to let criticism of detail take second place and to appreciate that ‘London is, […] extremely improved in the direction of Regent Street, Portland Place and the Regent’s Park’ (all Nash’s commissions).47 Since the 1820s All Souls, as an intrinsic member of the architectural overall concept, is often featured in popular views of Regent Street. Charles Dickens in his first novel Pickwick Club (posthumously published in 1867), set in the years 1827 to 1828, refers to the known outlines of the All Souls spire.48 Also in the second half of the century All Souls spire kept its significance as an urban reference point. For Mark Twain the steeple ‘the old semi-detached tooth-pick [which] stand just as sharp & ugly as ever’ arouses in us a sensation of familiarity and sense of home.49 Nowadays All Souls is overpowered by its surrounding buildings and the vista from Oxford Circle is much obstructed. For the general public the awareness of Nash’s daring and singular design is only tangible through Cruikshank’s caricature. Throughout the nineteenth century, owing to the advantage of its visual immediacy and free availability, the print assisted to keep the church’s prominence (as one of the 600 Commissioner Churches) alive. Apart from the medium and Cruikshank’s capability of capturing the essence of a social and political event, the entertaining capacity of caricature contributed to the church and to the architect becoming part of the collective memory. An adequate revaluation of John Nash’s achievements and architectural innovations did not begin until the 1930s. When he died in 1835 it was the dawn of the Victorian age with new aesthetic principles and cultural orientation and, therefore, he seems not to have been missed much by the architectural fraternity.50 Ironically All Souls became the only remaining building of Nash’s designs in Regent Street. At the very spot of Nash’s ultimate mockery is a memorial, a portrait bust (originally by William Behnes) revealed in honour of the architect in 1956.51 And so Nash’s reputed ironic comment on the Cruikshank’s print, ‘See gentlemen, how criticism has exalted me’,52 became true in a more dignified tribute.

Notes 1

The hand-coloured etching was published by Humphrey, 24 St James’s Street, London.

2

The Parliamentary Debates, New Series, vol. XI (London: T C. Hansard, Pater-noster Row Press, 1825), p. 35.

3

Ibid.

4

‘For one, he [Bennett] was resolved not to pay willingly a farthing towards its erection; on the contrary, he should be glad to see it referred to a committee to inquire into the propriety of pulling it down, and for that object, thought he was not rich, he was not unwilling

67

Laughing at Architecture to subscribe a fair proportion of the expense. Although he was not rich, he would give something to have it pulled down.’ Ibid. 5

Ibid., p. 36.

6

Ibid.

7

Michael H. Port, 600 New Churches. The Church Building Commission 1818–1856 (Reading: Spire Books Ltd, 2006), p. 80.

8

‘Prospectus and Specimen of a New Joe Miller’, The John Bull Magazine, 1, 4 (October 1824), p. 124.

9

The Parliamentary Debates, p. 35.

10 Ibid. 11 Port, 600 New Churches, pp. 59, 70. 12 John Summerson, The Life and Work of John Nash, Architect (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1980), p. 90; Terence Davis, John Nash. The Prince Regent’s Architect (London: Country Life limited, 1966), pp. 82, 88. 13 Jerry White, London in the Nineteenth Century: A Human Awful Wonder of God (London: Vintage Books, 2008), p. 23. 14 Summerson, The Life and Work of John Nash, p. 100. 15 Davis, John Nash, p. 56. 16 Frederick G. Stephens and M. Dorothy George (eds), Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, vol. 9 (London: British Museum Publication, 1954), nos. 13261, 13854. 17 Kenneth Allinson, Architects and Architecture of London (Oxford: Architectural Press, 2008), p. 176. 18 Geoffrey Tyack (ed.), John Nash. Architect of the Picturesque (Swindon: English Heritage, 2013), p. XI. 19 Michael Mansbridge (ed.), John Nash. A Complete Catalogue (Oxford: Phaidon Press Limited, 1991), p. 14. 20 Nikolaus Pevsner and Bridget Cherry, The Buildings of England, London 3: North West (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2002), p. 593. 21 David Watkin, The Life and Work of C. R. Cockerell (London: A. Zwemmer LTD, 1974), p. 68. 22 Edmund Frederick J. Carrington, Confession of an Old Bachelor (London: Henry Colburn, 1827), p. 17. 23 A. W. N. Pugin, Contrasts: Or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day (London: Moyes, 1836), p. 17. 24 The Mirror of Literature Amusement, and Instruction in 1828 already blamed All Souls for his resemblance with a ‘manufactory or warehouse’ caused also by its ‘starved proportions’. ‘All-Souls’ Church, Langham Place’, The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, 12, 325 (2 August 1828), p. 66. 25 John Nash, Office of Work Model Church, ‘Classical with Spire’. Specimen design for churches presented to the Church Commissioners in 1818, PB471/1(1–20), The Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) Archive (Victorian & Albert Museum), hereafter RIBA Archive (V&A). Also in: Port, John Nash, fig. 28. 26 Watkin, The Life and Work of C. R. Cockerell, p. 68; E. I. C., ‘New Churches – No. VIII’, The Gentleman’s Magazine, 96, part 2 (1826), p. 9. 68

The Thorn of Scorn 27 ‘All-Souls’ Church, Langham Place’, p. 66. 28 Timothy Dudley-Smith, John Stott. The Making of a Leader. A Biography. The Early Years (Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press, 1999), p. 30. 29 Sir John Summerson: papers relating to ‘John Nash, Architect to King George IV’ (first published in 1935), record of the anecdote, 1933–90 & undated, 5 boxes, RIBA Archive (V&A). 30 Ibid. 31 E. I. C., ‘New Churches – No. VIII’, p. 9. 32 Ibid. 33 Davis, John Nash, p. 73. 34 Anonymous, ‘Architectural Improvements in London’, Quarterly Review, 34, 67 (June 1826), p. 193; [Baldwin Bardwell], ‘Temples, Ancient and Modern; or, Notes on Church Architecture’, The Metropolitan Magazine, 20 (September 1837), p. 6. 35 Mark Meynell, An Historical Guide to All Souls Church, Langham Place (London: All Souls, 2009), p. 11. 36 Dorothee Gerkens, Arena des Spotts. Englische Karikaturen 1780–1830 (Hamburg: Hamburger Kunsthalle, 2009), p. 13; Brian Maidment, Comedy, Caricature and the Social Order, 1820–50 (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2013), p. 114. 37 Publication line: ‘Pub June 5 1829 by T McLean 26 Haymarket Sole Pub. of P Prys Caricatues [sic] None are orilinal [sic] without Mc Lean’s Name’. John Nash stands between the two wings of the reconstructed Buckingham House, which is realistic but on a tiny scale compared with himself and John Bull who confronts him. ‘Here is a charge for building Wings’. [Nash]: ‘Yes – that ere’s all right’. [J. B.]: ‘Here also a charge for pulling down Wings’. [N.]: ‘Yes – them ere was all wrong’. [J. B.]: ‘Then there’s a charge for building them up again’. [N.]: ‘Yes that ere’s all right’. [J. B.]: ‘But the Bill is more than double the Estimate’. [N.]: ‘Yes that eres always wrong – we never minds no Estimates’. Below the design: ‘The Architect. Glory consists in the designment and Idea of the work; his ambition should be to make the form triumph over the Matter-’. 38 John Nash, misery personified, sits on the ground, in profile to the left, hands on knees, chin close to his hands; a harrow with huge spikes rests on his shoulders, and is thus tilted up, while a horse, its head cut off by the left margin, drags it along. 39 Stephens and Dorothy George (eds), Catalogue, no. 15794, no. 15813. 40 Satirical print ‘Mother Shipton’s prophecy’, verse inscription below the upper left image, where Nash sits on the steeple of All Souls. Hand-coloured etching 1830, print made by Charles Wiliams [?]. 41 ‘All-Souls’ Church, Langham Place’, p. 66. 42 John H. Brady, A New Pocket Guide to London and its Environs: Containing Descriptions, from Personal Knowledge (…) Enlivened with Biographical and other Anecdotes Connected, by History or Tradition, with the Places Described (London: J. W. Parker 1838), p. 62; Woldemar Seyffarth, Führer durch London und Umgegend (Leipzig: Brockhaus, 1851), p. 136. 43 James Elmes, Metropolitan Improvements, or, London in the Nineteenth Century (London: Jones, 1827), p. 97. 44 Ibid. 45 John Britton and Augustus Pugin, Illustrations of the Public Buildings of London: With Historical and Descriptive Accounts of each Edifice, vol. II (London: J. Taylor, 1825–28), p. 99. ‘We cannot sufficiently deplore, nor too pointedly reprobate, the conduct of those members of Parliament who, having the privilege of speech, exercise it wantonly and 69

Laughing at Architecture injudiciously, who sport with the feelings and professional reputation of architects and other artists, without fully investigating all the facta and features of the works they venture to criticise. The practice is too general, and the effects are too lamentable. The opinions, or rather strictures, of those merciless critics, are disseminated through the reading world more extensively and authoritatively than any other species of literature; whereby prejudice is excided, and an artist is consigned to obloquy or derision, which no talent can counteract, and which few minds can bear up against’. 46 Ibid., p. 100. 47 Letter to his wife, 1826, in Eliza M. Butler (ed.), A Regency Visitor: The Letters of Prince Pückler-Muskau (London: Collins, 1957), p. 38. 48 ‘A decidedly indelicate young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was depicted as superintending the cooking; a representation of the spire of the church in Langham Place, London, appeared in the distance’. Charles Dickens, The Posthumous Papers of Pickwick Club, with an Introduction and Notes by Andrew Lang (Maine, MT: Kellscraft Studio Skowhegan, 2017), p. 342. 49 Letter to Olivia L. Clemens, 20 November 1873, in Lin Salamo and Harriet E. Smith (eds), Mark Twain’s Letters, vol. 5, 1872–1873 (London: University of California Press, 1997), p. 478. 50 The Annual Register of that year commented sourly: ‘As a speculative builder, this gentleman has amassed a great fortune, but as an architect, he did not achieve anything that will confer upon him lasting reputation’, in Davis, John Nash, p. 102. 51 Arthur Byron, London Statues. A Guide to London’s Outdoor Statues and Sculpture (London: Constable, 1981), p. 169. 52 Stephens and Dorothy George (eds), Catalogue, vol. 10, no. 14644.

Bibliography Allinson, K. (2008), Architects and Architecture of London, Oxford: Architectural Press. Anon. (1824), ‘Prospectus and Specimen of a New Joe Miller’, The John Bull Magazine, 1, 4 (October): 121–4. Anon. (1825), The Parliamentary Debates, New Series, vol. XI, London: T C. Hansard, Paternoster Row Press. Anon. (1826), ‘New Churches – No. VIII’, The Gentleman’s Magazine, 96, part 2: 9–10. Anon. (1826), ‘Architectural Improvements in London’, Quarterly Review, 34, 67 (June): 180–96. Anon. (1828), ‘All-Souls’ Church, Langham Place’, The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction, 12, 325 (2 August): 66. [Bardwell, B.] (1837), ‘Temples, Ancient and Modern; or, Notes on Church Architecture’, The Metropolitan Magazine, 20 (September): 4–7. Brady, J. H. (1838), A New Pocket Guide to London and its Environs: Containing Descriptions, from Personal Knowledge […] Enlivened with Biographical and other Anecdotes Connected, by History or Tradition, with the Places Described, London: J. W. Parker. Britton, J. and Pugin, A. W. N. (1825–1828), Illustrations of the Public Buildings of London: With Historical and Descriptive Accounts of each Edifice, London: J. Taylor. Butler, E. M. (ed.) (1957), A Regency Visitor: The Letters of Prince Pückler-Muskau, London: Collins. Byron, A. (1981), London Statues. A Guide to London’s Outdoor Statues and Sculpture, London: Constable.

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The Thorn of Scorn Carrington, E. F. J. (1827), Confession of an Old Bachelor, London: Henry Colburn. Davis, T. (1966), John Nash. The Prince Regent’s Architect, London: Country Life Limited. Dickens, C. (2017), The Posthumous Papers of Pickwick Club, with an Introduction and Notes by Andrew Lang, Maine, MT: Kellscraft Studio Skowhegan. Dudley-Smith, T. (1999), John Stott. The Making of a Leader. A Biography. The Early Years, Downers Grove, IL: InterVarsity Press. Elmes, J. (1827), Metropolitan Improvements, or, London in the Nineteenth Century, London: Jones. Gerkens, D. (2009), Arena des Spotts. Englische Karikaturen 1780–1830, Hamburg: Hamburger Kunsthalle. Maidment, B. (2013), Comedy, Caricature and the Social Order, 1820–50, Manchester: Manchester University Press. Mansbridge, M. (ed.) (1991), John Nash. A Complete Catalogue, Oxford: Phaidon Press Limited. Meynell, M. (2009), An Historical Guide to All Souls Church, Langham Place, London: All Souls. Pevsner, N. and Cherry, B. (2002), The Buildings of England, London 3: North West, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Port, M. H. (2006), 600 New Churches. The Church Building Commission 1818–1856, Reading: Spire Books Ltd. Pugin, A. W. N. (1836), Contrasts: Or, A Parallel Between the Noble Edifices of the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Centuries, and Similar Buildings of the Present Day, London: Moyes. Salamo, L. and Smith, H. E. (eds) (1997), Mark Twain’s Letters, London: University of California Press. Seyffarth, W. (1851), Führer durch London und Umgegend, Leipzig: Brockhaus. Stephens, F. G. and George, M. D. (eds) (1954), Catalogue of Political and Personal Satires Preserved in the Department of Prints and Drawings in the British Museum, London: British Museum Publication. Summerson, J. (1980), The Life and Work of John Nash, Architect, London: George Allen & Unwin. Tyack, G. (ed.) (2013), John Nash. Architect of the Picturesque, Swindon: English Heritage. Watkin, D. (1974), The Life and Work of C. R. Cockerell, London: A. Zwemmer LTD. White, J. (2008), London in the Nineteenth Century: A Human Awful Wonder of God, London: Vintage Books.

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CHAPTER 4 ‘A JOKE THAT HAS GONE ON FAR TOO LONG’: MOCKING THE COMPLETION OF THE NEW HÔTEL DES POSTES DE PARIS (1886–1888) Guy Lambert ‘Throughout this century, it is our architects who will have cost us the most money and given us the least honour in return, second only to our politicians.’1 It was with such biting humour that Jean Lahor’s [Henri Cazalis] remark in 1901 echoed the perception of the French capital’s architectural and urban transformations during the second half of the nineteenth century. Following on from the works of Emperor Napoleon III and Baron Georges-Eugène Hausmann,2 the public buildings of the Third Republic rapidly attracted media coverage and mockery. Even such fame as this can sometimes go hand in hand with controversy, as can be seen from the reconstruction of the Opéra Comique (1887–1898) or of the Cour des Comptes (1888–1912). Construction of these two buildings led to media ‘soap operas’, and as they unfolded, each new unfortunate episode tended to smother appreciation of the architecture. They were also, and above all, marred by lampooning and criticism published in the media at every stage, from the initial design contests to their realization. The reconstruction of the Hôtel des Postes de Paris by Julien Guadet, prior to these two examples, is emblematic of such a process, which in this case took place belatedly when the works had almost been completed. Postponement of the inauguration caused a media outburst which escalated as the wait grew ever longer. Widely advertised in the press in July 1886, the inauguration was postponed on several occasions due to problems with the drive engines and, especially, the service lifts to such an extent that the Hôtel des Postes did not become operational until July 1888. Between these two dates, official communiqués were issued for each successive postponement relating to one issue after another, from serial problems such as timelines for technical studies and public contract constraints, to the decision to abandon service lift repairs and instead replace them. The press, in their coverage of the Hôtel des Postes, focused almost exclusively on these delays. In contrast to the relative neutrality of the ‘moderate press’, which avoided inadvertently offending its readers by not taking a stand, other categories of newspaper expressed explicit impatience and discontent. In 1887, the fact that this affair was considered to be ‘a joke that has gone on far too long’3 and that it was reaching a level of ‘extraordinarily comical intensity’4 conveyed both exasperation and an awareness of the involuntarily farcical nature of the never-ending plot twists and communiqués. However, the satirical press were not the only ones to make use of the comedic register; more broadly, it was to be found in the political, or at least the ideologically bent, broadsheets as well as in the postal workers’ professional press. It was usually textual rather than visual humour running through an entire article or slipped into a column. Such mockery made use of a whole range of satire, ‘from smiles to laughter […] from

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drollery to affront’.5 What link might be found between the adoption of a jocular tone in the service of falsely detached derision and the expression of a far more insidious verve that is sometimes taken to the point of calumny, which targets ‘the incompetents who for two years have been making a laughing stock of French administration’?6 Whilst the starting point for this sarcastic media-based outburst was of an accidental and technical nature, the political and media context of the Third Republic had a lot to do with the way in which the Hôtel des Postes was treated in the press. Going beyond the functional and formal implications of architecture, the verbal satire took on a political and social dimension, one moment implicit the next clearly stated. This observation is even more important because the Hôtel des Postes was both a public building and a utilitarian programme, ‘a factory and a monument’7 as its architect Guadet put it. In order to grasp the underlying significances, in a climate of governmental instability, political protest and politico-financial scandals, one needs to compare the subversive nature of the media coverage with the political uses of caricature during this period.8 Whilst it is possible to identify the different categories of actors hostile to the new Hôtel des Postes and to attribute humorous themes specific to each one, the aim of this article is not so much to provide details of the existence of any ‘community of laughter’9 of this type as to make an overall assessment of the satirical aspect of the building’s reception. A comparison of the jokes published in the press would lead one to examine the redundancy of subjects of mockery, perhaps analysing newspaper circulations to find a ripple effect or even a taste for one-upmanship. Without prejudging the true impact of these jokes and jibes on the building’s image in public opinion in this manner, it is nevertheless possible to imagine the reciprocity of this influence and to consider that ‘opinion influences the cartoonist and the latter attempts to persuade the opinion that influences it’.10 If we are to study the production of a satirical discourse, we must therefore pay attention to the underlying banalities and, more broadly, the way in which the architect’s status and work were perceived. In the ‘Poste du Louvre affair’, whilst the account of the completion of the works and people’s opinions of the building were conditioned by technical dysfunctions and work delays, to what extent did they more broadly reflect a subversive form of acceptance for public architecture?

A media construction of subjects of mockery The technical problems which delayed the opening of the Hôtel des Postes in 1886 suddenly and profoundly modified its media status. Whilst it had not been exempt from criticism or jokes prior to this date, its construction had been generally regarded with detachment or even benevolence by the press, particularly in illustrated magazines such as Le Monde illustré, L’Ilustration and L’Univers illustré, who explained the project and monitored the main stages of construction (Figure 4.1). This can undoubtedly be put down to the utility of this public building and the longstanding needs it had been designed to meet. Indeed, installed since 1747 within a former private mansion, the Hôtel d’Armenonville in the centre of Paris near Les Halles, the Hôtel des Postes became 74

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Figure 4.1 Charles Fichot, ‘Paris, le nouvel Hôtel des Postes d’après le projet officiel de M. Guadet’ (Paris, the new Hotel des Postes according to Mr. Guadet’s official plan), L’Illustration, 8 May 1880.

increasingly unfit for its purpose. Its displacement or replacement, which had been examined on several occasions since the beginning of the nineteenth century, did not materialize until the advent of the Third Republic. In 1878, the government looked at the possibility of rebuilding the Hôtel des Postes on the same site, taking advantage of the urbanization being carried out by the Ville de Paris, which was putting Haussmann’s programme into effect with the extension of the Rue du Louvre and the Rue aux Ours (the future Rue Etienne Marcel). The project was entrusted to Guadet, winner of the Grand Prix de Rome, architect and professor at the École des Beaux-Arts. Although there were reservations about the project, these had less to do with the architecture of the building than with the decisions made prior to its construction, such as that of keeping the post office in the centre of Paris, which seemed incompatible with the process of expanding the capital. This choice precisely determined the surface area required in the new building and the need to superimpose departments in order ‘to achieve a veritable increase in surface area’,11 as Guadet declared at a conference to present the project. Dictated by the high price of real estate in the district, this decision thus meant that service lifts were an essential requirement. Yet during the first few years of construction, which began in 1880, the new Hôtel des Postes was to a large extent spared by the press, who directed their attacks towards the temporary wooden buildings that housed the postal services on the Place du Carrousel, near the Louvre. Opinion was unanimous regarding this ‘muddle of huts, utterly worthy of a fairground’,12 which notably inspired the magazine Le Charivari. One of the latter cartoons depicted the architect receiving a visit from a 75

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client wishing to have built ‘a puppet show in Ménilmontant’.13 Furthermore, considering the installation to be regressive, seemingly eradicating several decades of planning for this ‘square’, several of the paper’s jokes said they recognized ‘Louis-Philippe’s’ Louvre14 (Figure 4.2), or the time ‘when there were picture sellers and parrot sellers here’.15

Figure 4.2 Draner [Jules Renard], ‘Les baraques de la poste, place du Carrousel – Vô disez que c’était le restauraichone du Louvre? – Oui, milord, le Louvre à l’époque de Louis-Philippe’ (The post office huts, Place du Carrousel – It was a restoration of the Louvre, you say? – Yes my Lord, the Louvre in Louis-Philippe’s time), Le Charivari, 20 July 1880.

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In 1886, postponement of the Hôtel des Postes inauguration was met with exasperation, exacerbated by the fact that it occurred after a whole series of additional delays that had extended the duration of the construction work. As Le Gaulois pointed out, ‘this inauguration, which was initially set on 14 July 1885, then on the following 1 January, then again on 14 July 1886, and finally on 4 September of this year, will once more fail to take place’.16 As the press articles reveal, perception of the facts was not due to any lack of communication on the part of the administration but due to the reiteration of official communiqués, which whilst postponing the inauguration from one date to the next also provided the technical reasons for these additional delays. ‘First it was delayed by the installation of the service lifts. Then it was the machines. Now it is the steel tooth gears for the service lifts; everything has once again been pushed back to who knows when.’17 This accumulation of delays exasperated local residents and tried the public’s patience, its mediation helped give it a comical aspect that was accentuated by the inventiveness of the press. Whilst all of the facts mentioned here have been proven,18 this series of technical problems would appear less as an unfortunate combination of real incidents, than an illustration of constant trial and error that simply demonstrated the incompetence of the actors. Such an interpretation clearly determined the verve shown by the newspapers, the proliferation of which was summed up by Paul Planat in La Construction Moderne in December 1886: There is still no inauguration; and newspapers of all ilks, from Le National to Le Figaro and Le Gaulois – the whole range! – have begun a concert of lamentations. Grim revelations have come to light: the building will fall into ruins said some, before they can witness the solemnity – ever hoped for, never seen – of this inauguration. Others added: all hope of seeing the post office operate on these premises has vanished forever; the building is now abandoned: Madame Boucicault has just purchased it in order to convert it into a branch of the Bon Marché.19 From the end of 1886 the themes around which the Hôtel des Postes was to be ridiculed over the coming months were already in place. The banalization of the jokes and their propagation from one newspaper to another in fact covered a variety of actors and forms of hostility towards the building. Thus in January 1887, an editor at Le Temps newspaper referring to articles on the building wrote that he believed he could identify ‘three categories of malcontent. […] When it comes to attacking [the building], it is enough for just one to begin, for the file firing to follow’.20 He went on to list the district’s shopkeepers, keen to make the most of the customers coming to the new post office; the postal workers, whose opposition to their line ministry stemmed from the choices made with regard to the fitting-out of the premises, characterized just as much by the floor plates on the different floors as by the absence of counters in the room open to the public; and finally the political adversaries of the young republican regime, starting with the monarchists. Whilst we must be careful not to attribute any explanatory value to these comments, they serve at least to reproduce the cultural climate of the time. 77

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‘This monument that threatens to never become public’ As one inauguration postponement succeeded another and as each new date was announced, newspapers made no attempt to hide their incredulity. As Le Charivari declared very early in 1886: ‘We bet that the Hôtel des Postes would not be completed by 14 July. We were right. Who would now like to bet that it will not be completed by 14 July 1887?’21 Another joke about these incessant extensions was soon to become widespread. It concerned an old man saying to a child: ‘You are young; maybe one day you will get to see the inauguration of the Hôtel des Postes.’22 In the form of a cartoon or penned by journalists, the joke appeared in newspapers right up until the works were completed, but it was also to be found onstage in Parisian theatres. Thus, in Les joyeusetés de l’année, a show in three acts by Albert de Saint-Albin, performed at the Palais-Royal theatre in 1888, the end of each scene saw the actor Pellerin ‘walking, in evening dress, to the ever-postponed inauguration of the new central post office, growing older and with more wrinkles and white hairs at every unsuccessful attempt, ending up bald and doddering, collapsing into senility and more than 100 year-old’.23After several months of immobilized service lifts, the repeated communiqués from the postal administration were also readily lampooned: ‘my newspaper announces the forthcoming inauguration of the Hôtel des Postes. But it is dated 1 April, that is why!’24 The apparent standstill, so publicly denounced, was in fact due to a combination of far more complex facts interposed, in particular, with a series of enquiries. The first, a matter of technical expertise, was designed to resolve the disfunctions. The second, of an administrative nature, examined the responsibilities of the various actors involved. The findings of this enquiry, made known in the summer of 1887, gave rise to another series of verbal attacks that reflected a new level of exasperation. Although the architect and the Service des Bâtiments civils (Department of Civil Buildings) were the primary suspects, rather than the Ministry of Posts and Telegraphs, the fact that all of these actors were exonerated led to a more insidious form of denunciation in the press. As Ernest Blum ironically declared in the radical newspaper Le Rappel: ‘It would seem that no-one is responsible for building the new Hôtel des Postes. […] Indeed, the truth is that the new Hôtel is simply being built through the intervention of the Holy Ghost.’25 Suspicion was a common practice in the press, particularly when it came to fanning the flames of the political-financial scandals that marked the first few decades of the Third Republic. If the author chose to adopt the rhetoric of revelation, used by so many of his colleagues, it was to parody it in an outrageous fashion by resorting to a familiar and popular joke. The jokes gradually and more readily targeted the very image of the building, ‘this monument which threatens to never become public’.26 Taking advantage of the lack of activity within its walls, a large portion of these taunts were designed to convince people that the building had been abandoned, playing on the metaphorical register of the text and resorting to simple stereotypes. ‘We cannot help but wonder what the rats who roam this mournful palace might find to devour therein’ declared La Croix in June 1887, before adding, ‘they must certainly believe it was built for them’.27 The use of funereal vocabulary maliciously accentuated the desired notion of desolation and was extended 78

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to the expressions used to describe the building itself. To evoke this ‘ghost mansion’ or this ‘stillborn monument’, to use Le Charivari’s terms,28 articles happily adopted a ‘Gothic novel’ style or a theatrical lyricism that verged on the grotesque. ‘When one is forced to take that path, one quickens one’s stride, one puts on a face, an attitude, as when one is walking a cemetery alley. Some make the sign of the cross. You never hear of anyone whistling or singing in such parts.’29 Incredible by its very nature, the disproportionate character of the newspaper’s anecdote makes one smile. Yet if we are to measure the force of this exaggeration, we must compare the implausibility of this account with the equally unreal image of the building in operation that was published by L’Illustration a few weeks later. Observing that the ‘unfortunate service lifts, the immediate cause of all the problems, […] have yet to be described’,30 in August 1887 the newspaper decided to devote an article to them in order to explain how they worked and their defects. The text was illustrated by a small explanatory diagram (Figure 4.3) drawn in the style of ‘technology for laymen’ and was accompanied by a full-page print, which showed the service lifts in operation in a documentary fiction mode.31 Although it was very much a traditional press procedure to use illustrations to predict future reality (for example, to draw a building already in operation when in fact it was still under construction, as numerous illustrated newspapers had done in July 1886), circumstances here rendered the contrast between image and reality even more glaring and possibly even unbearable to the eyes of the more critical observers. To what extent did the divergence of these representations reflect ideological and political differences? The descriptions published in the opposition press left no doubt on this matter. Falsely factual, they intentionally slipped into an emphasis designed to discredit the building, as Le Courrier français illustrates: Behind the railings, we see dreadful things. Rooms empty of members of the public, courtyards, stairs leading to basements filled with shadows, […] Scrap metal lying everywhere, taking on horrible shapes. The Inquisition springs to mind. A walk through this building, at night, in a north wind, must be a real nightmare, full of nocturnal terrors; an apocalypse to unhinge the human mind. We might wonder what Jehovah has cast an eternal curse on this heap of stone, whose condemned pigeonholes and sterile boxes will never see the slightest letter.32 The lugubrious and sinister tone of these texts might be compared to the allusions to physical degradation observed by Bertrand Tillier in the cartoons of politicians, designed to portray the regime as ‘a diseased and diminished body […] so as to better denigrate it’.33 Whilst mentions of the Hôtel des Postes are evidence of an analogous stratagem to denigrate the government, in this case the stratagem is transposed to a building.

From criticism of the programme to denigration of the architecture The realization that mechanical issues sufficed to totally paralyse the Hôtel des Postes soon led to the provisions of the project contract imposed by the project sponsor being 79

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Figure 4.3 Louis Poyet, ‘Pourquoi l’Hôtel des Postes ne fonctionne pas. Les monte-charges’ (Why the Hôtel des Postes doesn’t work. The service lifts), L’Illustration, 13 August 1887.

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subject to ridicule. As we have seen, the fact that the departments were spread over various floors meant that service lifts were required, but it was the newspaper and letter sorting department being set up on the second floor that caused the greatest mirth. ‘They will take them right up to the top of the building and then bring them down again, instead of simply setting the whole thing up on the ground floor. […] This is what they call Progress!’34 declared Le Charivari sarcastically. The argument was initially put forward in the postmen’s newspapers to express their irritation because the service lifts were to be used solely for transporting letters and printed materials, while the personnel had to use the stairs,35 but it soon became a subject of mockery in the satirical press. To convince people that the building was unfit for purpose or ‘a failure’, as several newspapers were quick to point out, rumours as early as December 1886 mentioned its possible transformation into a department store and by 1887 these were joined by more fanciful suggestions inspired by current Parisian affairs. For example, following the fire at the Opéra-Comique in May 1887, and given that decisions seemed to be delayed as to its relocation, several columnists suggested it be moved to the Hôtel des Postes.36 More inventive, Le Charivari declared that various projects had been examined to find a new use for the building, transforming it into ‘a church, a railway station, or a night shelter’, or offering it to ‘a gaming club, a circus, Turkish baths, a bank or an exhibition of vermin’.37 The accumulation is even funnier as none of them came to fruition, because ‘when the time came to implement these projects, we realised that there was always a faulty window, lock, stairway, floor or service lift’.38 The sarcasm of the press took the form of a more diffuse disparagement, shifting towards an aesthetic evaluation of the building. Whatever the spirit of the articles, from the most envenomed to the most ironic, the adjectives and metaphors used to describe the building were unflattering. The Hôtel des Postes was an ‘ugly and sterile caravanserai’ for the Journal des Postes et Télégraphes;39 a ‘huge, ugly building’ for radical newspaper Petit national;40 and ‘shapeless’ for the Bonapartist Petit Caporal.41 The geometry of the land on which the building was set, an entire island resulting from existing roads, was just as great a pretext for criticizing the architecture as Le Courrier français illustrated with humour in August 1887: It was a mistake to have this building constructed by a marine engineer. As an ironclad ship, it is a great success. It is a ram, aimed at Rue Montmartre, though no destroyer there awaits it, of an aspect to cause a flotilla of frigates to retreat. In short, it is a naval giant impermeable to criticism. But as premises for the post office, it must be said that it is abysmal. It is nothing but angles. Those which are not acute are obtuse. Not a single one is a right angle.42 Based in this instance on direct observation of the building and its effectively irregular geometry (Figure 4.4), architectural evaluation of the Hôtel des Postes, however slanderous it may have been, would appear to echo the thoughts of Guadet himself, as reported in the illustrated and specialist press. The architect’s interpretation of the programme from a utilitarian standpoint led him to argue in favour of a conceptual approach that 81

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Figure 4.4 The new Hôtel des Postes, on the corner of the Rue Etienne Marcel and the Rue Jean-Jacques Rousseau. Conservatoire National des Art et Metiers, Service Intérmenisteriel des Archives de France, Cité de l’architecture et du patrimoine, Archives d’architecture du XXe siècle, Fonds Julien Guadet.

involved adapting the project to suit the functional needs of the departments concerned, thus supposing ‘the elimination of any profusion or unnecessary luxury’.43 However, the atmosphere of defiance nurtured by the technical setbacks affecting the Hôtel des Postes did not help the public’s comprehension of any such principles. In asserting that the 82

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project’s practical and functional aspects were far more significant than its artistic and monumental character, the architect’s discourse unintentionally gave greater hold to the jokes that mocked it. Discussing these precepts in January 1887, even a newspaper as moderate as Le Temps wrote sarcastically: ‘The architect of the Hôtel des Postes stated during a conference […] that he had accorded no fantasy or artistic taste to the facades. That is clear; he has been overly successful, and the best that we can say is that they are ordinary.’44 Yet whilst this article recognized that ‘Mr. Guadet has concentrated on utility, […] the interior being marvellously fit for purpose,’45 other more hostile newspapers distorted the architect’s doctrinal intentions in order to better ridicule them. In his above-mentioned article in Le Rappel in July 1887, Ernest Blum made the most of this to totally denigrate the building: Given that the new building had every right to be ugly on the outside, as long as it was practical on the inside, the Holy Ghost has given it a ghastly exterior. Yet on the inside he has created a sort of shambles where, with the best will in the world, post office employees will manage to sort just two letters a year.46

Media disqualification of public architecture After reading about the ridicule heaped upon the Hôtel des Postes, one must more closely examine the processes that the media developed for the reception of public architecture. The opinions of the press and the public are determined by factors that differ significantly from the values held by architects. By applying these criteria to the elementary expression of the Vitruvian triad – usefulness, solidity, beauty – the first two categories undoubtedly and implicitly take precedence over the third.47 In the present case, the Hôtel des Postes’ technical problems were an even greater driving force for the sarcastic fervour in as much as they strongly contrast with perceptions of technological modernity. At the very moment that the latter was being brought to the fore during preparations for the 1889 Universal Exhibition, the Hôtel des Postes appeared to offer a dismal spectacle of trial, error and failure. Indeed, the press were quick to humorously establish such connections: At long last the supreme idea was put forward to transplant the new Hôtel in such a manner that the Eiffel Tower would occupy its centre, the ingenious intention being to use the many visitors to this monument as a service lift; however, Mr. Eiffel was personally opposed to this system, through fear that he might be attacked by tourists furious to have been transformed in this unexpected manner into common postmen.48 In this context of technical valorization however, such a confrontation did not so much shake confidence in the technology49 as challenge the competence and culture of 83

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those wielding it. Marked by the climate of suspicion and political contestation of the times, these observations were readily used to shore up the discourses which opposed the private and public sectors, and which were designed to harm the latter. Le Charivari had a particular fondness for this method: ‘The new Saint-Lazare railway station, begun six months ago, will be delivered to the public in a few weeks’ time. The Hôtel des Postes, which should have been inaugurated one year ago, remains alone and unlit. Might not the Government’s engineers ask the Company’s engineers to reveal their secret?’50At the same time as helping to disseminate an unflattering image of public architecture, these comparisons did not spare the government’s architects. Without being an exact parallel of the polemic between engineers and architects these conflicts, nevertheless, tended to disqualify the latter more than any other actors in the construction world, as illustrated in the Journal des Postes et Télégraphes. Referring to the service offering sent by two civil engineers regarding the replacement of the Hôtel des Postes service lifts, and regretting that no action had been taken on this matter, the newspaper deplored the fact that ‘the holy administrative routine has refused to allow the private sector to make good the mistakes of Messrs. the official architects’.51 Brimming with stereotypes of the architectural profession this opinion helped to maintain them. At a time when the hegemony of architectural institutions, such as the civil building department and the École des Beaux-Arts, was the subject of increasing criticism from within, to what extent did the sarcasm that the construction of public buildings incurred from the press echo these professional disputes? The comical side of the Hôtel des Postes’ reception also leads to an examination of the scope and persistence of the jokes, and of the subjects of mockery. Whether they related to the construction work or to the building itself, whether they indiscriminately targeted all actors or just the architect, they obviously affected the latter on a personal level. Wishing to respond to the first such attack in 1887, Guadet published a brochure designed to put a stop to the rumours and calumnies aimed at him and to once again defend his project. In a timely manner, he began his text with a flash of wit: ‘If it is a crime, then I confess: it is I who built the Hôtel des Postes.’52 Most certainly accustomed to the fraternal forms of humour that existed within the framework of his education and the architectural institution, he was apparently less comfortable when facing his lampooning at the hand of the press, the impact and consequences of which escaped him. Among these subjects of derision, the theme of delays was among the most tenacious. Whilst the opening of the Hôtel des Postes in July 1888 put an end to the long waiting period, it did not dispel the representations that had been built up by the months of invective over the repair and replacement of its service lifts. Over time, its constantly postponed inauguration had become emblematic to such an extent that after it was put into service Le Charivari was able to write ironically of the ‘rightful stupefaction of the statue on the Place de Victoires upon seeing that the Hôtel des Postes was finally operational’ (Figure 4.5).53 But the architect’s reputation was also marked deeply by this matter, as can be seen in an article in L’Éclair which appeared in 1913, a quarter of a century later. Discussing the inauguration of a monument built at the École des Beaux-Arts in homage to Guadet, the text ends with the following ambiguous evaluation: 84

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Figure 4.5 Henriot [Henri Maigrot], ‘Actualités. Légitime stupéfaction de la statue de la Place de Victoires en voyant enfin fonctionner l’Hôtel des Postes’ (Legitimate stupefaction of the statue on Place de Victoires Square on seeing the Hotel des Postes finally running), Le Charivari, 24 July 1888.

We do not owe the dead the whole truth, especially on the day of apotheosis: noone wished to remember the long wait, criss-crossed by the hesitation, trial and

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error that led to the completion of this Hôtel des Postes, which nevertheless finally did honour to he who created it.54

Notes 1

‘Les architects auront été en tout ce siècle ceux qui, après les politiciens, nous auront couté le plus d’argent en nous rapportant le moins d’honneur’: Jean Lahor [Henri Cazalis], L’Art nouveau (Paris: Lemerre, 1901), p. 17.

2

Rosemarie Gerken, ‘Transformation’ und ‘Embellissement’ von Paris in der Karikatur. Zur Umwandlung der französischen Hauptstadt im Zweiten Kaiserreich durch den Baron Haussmann (Hildesheim, Zürich and New York: Georg Olms Verlag, 1997); Nathalie Montel, ‘L’agrandissement de Paris en 1860: un projet controversé’, in Annie Fourcaut and Florence Bourillon (eds), Agrandir Paris (1860–1970) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2012), pp. 99–111; Gabriele Neri, Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno (Macerata: Quodlibet, 2015), pp. 215–22.

3

‘Une plaisanterie qui se prolonge infiniment trop’: Ranc, ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, Le Petit national, 18, 6176 (26 July 1887), n.p.

4

Ranc, ‘Encore l’Hôtel des Postes’, Le Petit national, 18, 6179 (29 July 1887), n.p.

5

Ségolène Le Men, ‘La recherche sur la caricature du XIXe siècle: état des lieux’, Perspective. La revue de l’INHA, 3 (2009), p. 427.

6

Ranc, ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, n.p.

7

Julien Guadet, ‘Conférence sur le nouvel Hôtel des Postes’, Mémoires et compte rendu des travaux de la Société des ingénieurs civils, 45 (1886), p. 547.

8

Bertrand Tillier, La républiCature. La caricature politique en France. 1870–1914 (Paris: CNRS Éditions, 1997); Annie Duprat, ‘Iconologie historique de la caricature politique en France (du XVIe au XXe siècle)’, Hermès, 29 (2001), pp. 23–32; Laurent Baridon and Martial Guédron, L’art et l’histoire de la caricature (Paris: Citadelles & Mazenod, [2006] 2015), pp. 177–227; Jean Ruhlmann, ‘Rire en Chambre: le comique parlementaire au début de la IIIe République’, in Alain Vaillant and Roselyne De Villeneuve (eds), Le rire moderne (Nanterre: Presses universitaires de Paris Ouest, 2013), pp. 111–28.

9

Olivier Ratouis and Martin Baumeister, ‘Rire en ville. Rire de la ville. L’humour et le comique comme objets pour l’histoire urbaine contemporaine’, Histoire urbaine, 31 (September, 2011), p. 10.

10 Pierre-Olivier Perl, ‘Caricature et opinion: une influence réciproque’, in Michel Denis, Michel Lagrée and Jean-Yvesn Veillard (eds), L’Affaire Dreyfus et l’opinion publique en France et à l’étranger (Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 1995), p. 52. 11 Guadet, ‘Conférence sur le nouvel Hôtel des Postes’, p. 521. 12 Scaramouche, ‘Les semaines de Paris’, Le Charivari, 49 (19 March 1880), n.p. 13 Paf [Jules Renard], ‘Croquis – par Paf ’, Le Charivari, 49 (22 August 1880), n.p. 14 Draner [Jules Renard], ‘Actualités. Les baraques de la poste, place du Carrousel’, Le Charivari, 49 (20 July 1880), n.p. 15 Un boulevardier, ‘Paris-Tablettes. Notes d’un boulevardier’, Le Charivari, 53 (11 October 1884), n.p.

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Mocking Completion of New Hôtel des Postes de Paris 16 Will-Furet [Jules Margat], ‘Nouvelles diverses’, Le Gaulois, 30, 1467 (4 September 1886), n.p. 17 Le Sphinx, ‘Échos de Paris’, L’Événement, 15, 5343 (9 November 1886), n.p. 18 Guy Lambert, ‘Promises and Disappointments in the Representations of Innovation in Architecture. The Goods Lifts in the Hôtel des Postes of Paris (1878–1888)’, in Karl-Eugen Kurrer, Werner Lorenz and Volker Wetzk (eds), Proceedings of the Third International Congress on Construction History (Cottbus: Brandenburg University of Technology), 2009, vol. 2, pp. 927–34. 19 ‘On n’inaugure toujours pas: et les journaux de toutes nuances, depuis le National jusqu’au Figaro, en passant par le Gaulois – toute la lyre ! – ont commencé un concert de lamentations. De sombres révélations se sont fait jour: l’édifice tombera en ruines, ont dit les uns, avant d’avoir vu la solennité, toujours espérée et jamais arrivée, de cette inauguration. D’autres ont ajouté: tout espoir de voir les Postes s’installer en ces lieux est perdu sans retour; aussi le monument est-il désaffecté dès à présent: Mme Boucicault vient d’en faire l’acquisition pour y créer une succursale du Bon marché,’ Paul Planat, ‘L’inauguration de l’Hôtel des Postes’, La Construction moderne, 2, 9 (December 1886), p. 97. 20 ‘Au jour le jour. Le nouvel Hôtel des postes’, Le Temps, 27, 9391 (20 January 1887), n.p. 21 Jean Ralph, ‘Chroniques du jour’, Le Charivari, 55 (28 June 1886), n.p. 22 Paf [Jules Renard], ‘Croquis – par Paf ’, Le Charivari, 55 (26 September 1886), n.p. 23 Hector Pessard, ‘Premières. Théâtre du Palais-Royal: Les joyeusetés de l’année, revue en trois actes et sept tableaux, de M. Albert de Saint-Albin’, Le Gaulois, 52, 2202 (8 September 1888), p. 3. 24 Trock [Gabriel Liquier], ‘La semaine comique, par Trock’, La Caricature, 379 (2 April 1887), p. 106. 25 Ernest Blum, ‘Zigzags dans Paris’, Le Rappel, 6351 (31 July 1887), n.p. 26 Maschera, ‘Trois Sous … !’, Le Courrier français, 4, 31 (7 August 1887), p. 4. 27 Le Moine, ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, La Croix, 6, 1241 (25 June 1887), n.p. 28 Jules Hoche, ‘L’hôtel-fantôme’, Le Charivari, 56 (9 July 1887), n.p. 29 Ibid. 30 ‘Les monte-charge de l’Hôtel des Postes’, L’Illustration, 2320 (13 August 1887), p. 112. 31 Guy Lambert, ‘Le retard, un événement? L’ouverture différée de l’Hôtel des Postes de Paris (1886–1888)’, Cahiers thématiques, special issue ‘L’architecture et l’événement’, 8 (2009), pp. 219–28. 32 ‘Derrière les grilles, on voit des choses lamentables. Des salles sans public, des cours, des escaliers donnant accès à des souterrains pleins de ténèbres, […] Des ferrailles gisent, revêtant des apparences horribles. On songe à l’Inquisition. Une promenade dans cet immeuble, la nuit, par le vent du nord, doit être un vrai cauchemar, rempli de terreurs nocturnes; une apocalypse à dérouter la raison humaine. Et l’on se demande quel est le Jéhovah qui a frappé d’une éternelle malédiction cet amas de pierres dont les casiers réprouvés et les boîtes stériles ne verront jamais la moindre lettre,’ Maschera, ‘Trois Sous … !’, p. 4. 33 Tillier, La républiCature, p. 10. 34 Paul Girard [Pierre Véron], ‘Chroniques du jour’, Le Charivari, 56 (17 June 1887), n.p. 35 Guy Lambert, ‘Les monte-charge à la Poste dans la deuxième moitié du XIXe siècle: débats sur la mécanisation de l’espace de travail’, Revue d’histoire du XIXe siècle, 45 (2012), pp. 143–58. 36 Franc-Luron, ‘Une destination au nouvel Hôtel des Postes’, Le Gaulois, 21, 1810 (13 August 1887), p. 1.

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Laughing at Architecture 37 Hoche, ‘L’hôtel-fantôme’, n.p. 38 Ibid. 39 Verax, ‘Hôtel des Postes’, Journal des Postes et télégraphes administratif, littéraire et politique, 10, 464 (7 September 1887), n.p. 40 Ranc, ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, n.p. 41 Commandant Blanc, ‘Le scandale du jour’, Petit Caporal, 12, 3835 (6 August 1887), [p. 1]. 42 ‘On a eu tort de faire bâtir cet immeuble par un ingénieur de la marine. Comme vaisseau cuirassé, c’est fort réussi. Il y a un éperon dirigé vers la rue Montmartre, où pourtant aucun torpilleur ne le menace, qui est d’un aspect à faire reculer plusieurs frégates. Bref, c’est d’un gabarit naval qui ne saurait donner prise à la critique. Mais en tant que local destiné aux Postes, c’est exécrable, paraît-il. Il n’y a en dedans que des angles. Ceux qui ne sont pas aigus sont obtus, aucun n’est droit,’ Maschera, ‘Trois Sous … !’, p. 4. 43 Guadet, ‘Conférence sur le nouvel Hôtel des Postes’, p. 547. 44 ‘Au jour le jour. Le nouvel Hôtel des Postes’, n.p. 45 Ibid. 46 ‘Étant donné que le nouveau bâtiment avait le droit d’être laid à l’extérieur, pourvu qu’il fut commode à l’intérieur, le Saint-Esprit l’a fait horrible à la surface. Seulement à l’intérieur, il en a fait une sorte de capharnaüm où, avec toute la bonne volonté du monde, les employés des Postes arriveront à trier deux lettres par an,’ Blum [Ernest], ‘Zigzags dans Paris’, n.p. 47 Stefan Muthesius and Miles Glendinning, ‘Les ambiguïtés de la réception des tours d’habitation en Angleterre et en Écosse’, in Gérard Monnier (ed.), L’architecture, la réception immédiate et la réception différée. L’oeuvre jugée, l’édifice habité, le monument célébré (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2006), p. 53–79; Fabienne Chevallier, ‘La réception, les objectifs et les méthodes de l’histoire de l’architecture’, Cahiers thématiques, special issue ‘La réception de l’architecture’, 2 (2002), pp. 47–55. 48 ‘On a eu enfin l’idée suprême de transplanter le nouvel Hôtel de telle façon que la tour Eiffel en occupât le centre, et cela avec l’intention astucieuse d’utiliser comme montecharges les nombreux visiteurs de ce monument; mais M. Eiffel s’est personnellement opposé à ce système, de peur de se voir faire un mauvais parti par les touristes furieux d’être ainsi transformés à l’improviste en facteurs communs,’ Hoche, ‘L’hôtel-fantôme’, n.p. 49 François Jarrige, Techno-critiques. Du refus des machines à la contestation des technosciences (Paris: La Découverte, 2014). 50 Henriot [Henri Maigrot], ‘Chronique du jour’, Le Charivari, 56 (5 March 1887), n.p. 51 Jean Denis, ‘Informations’, Journal des Postes et télégraphes, administratif, littéraire et politique, 10, 469 (22 October 1887), n.p. 52 Julien Guadet, À propos du nouvel Hôtel des Postes (Paris: Librairie générale de l’architecture et des travaux public, 1887), p. 5. 53 Henriot [Henri Maigrot], ‘Actualités’, Le Charivari, 57 (24 July 1888), n.p. 54 ‘On ne doit pas toute la vérité aux morts surtout le jour de l’apothéose: personne n’a voulu se souvenir de la longue attente, traverse d’hésitation et de tâtonnements, qui a cependant fini par faire honeur à celui qui l’avait conçu,’ Henri Poincaré, ‘Échos. Hommage à l’architecte Guadet’, L’Éclair, 26, 8981 (29 June 1913), n.p.

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Bibliography Baridon, L. and Guédron, M. (2015), L’art et l’histoire de la caricature, Paris: Citadelles & Mazenod. Blum, E. (1887), ‘Zigzags dans Paris’, Le Rappel, 6351 (31 July): 3. Chevallier, F. (2002), ‘La réception, les objectifs et les méthodes de l’histoire de l’architecture’, Cahiers thématiques, special issue ‘La réception de l’architecture’, 2: 47–55. Commandant Blanc (1887), ‘Le scandale du jour’, Petit Caporal, 3835 (6 August): 1. Draner [Renard, J.] (1880), ‘Actualités. Les baraques de la poste, place du Carrousel’, Le Charivari, 49 (20 July): 3. Denis, J. (1887), ‘Informations’, Journal des Postes et télégraphes, administratif, littéraire et politique, 10, 469 (22 October): 2. Duprat, A. (2001), ‘Iconologie historique de la caricature politique en France (du XVIe au XXe siècle)’, Hermès, 29: 23–32. Gerken, R. (1997), ‘Transformation’ und ‘Embellissement’ von Paris in der Karikatur. Zur Umwandlung der französischen Hauptstadt im Zweiten Kaiserreich durch den Baron Haussmann, Hildesheim, Zürich and New York: Georg Olms Verlag. Girard, P. [Véron, P.] (1887), ‘Chroniques du jour’, Le Charivari, 56 (17 June): 2 Guadet, J. (1886), ‘Conférence sur le nouvel Hôtel des Postes par M. Guadet, architecte du Gouvernement’, Mémoires et compte rendu des travaux de la Société des ingénieurs civils, 45: 515–52. Guadet, J. (1887), À propos du nouvel Hôtel des Postes, Paris: Librairie générale de l’architecture et des travaux public. Henriot, H. [Maigrot, H.] (1887), ‘Chronique du jour’, Le Charivari, 56 (5 March): 2. Hoche, J. (1887), ‘L’hôtel-fantôme’, Le Charivari, LVI (9 July):1. Jarrige, F. (2014), Techno-critiques. Du refus des machines à la contestation des technosciences, Paris: La Découverte. Lahor, J. [Cazalis, H.] (1901), L’Art nouveau, Paris: Lemerre. Lambert, G. (2009), ‘Le retard, un événement? L’ouverture différée de l’Hôtel des Postes de Paris (1886–1888)’, Cahiers thématiques, special issue ‘L’architecture et l’événement’, 8: 219–28. Lambert, G. (2009), ‘Promises and Disappointments in the Representations of Innovation in Architecture. The Goods Lifts in the Hôtel des Postes of Paris (1878–1888)’, in K.-E. Kurrer, W. Lorenz and V. Wetzk (eds), Proceedings of the Third International Congress on Construction History, vol. 2, Cottbus: Brandenburg University of Technology. Lambert, G. (2012), ‘Les monte-charge à la Poste dans la deuxième moitié du XIXe siècle: débats sur la mécanisation de l’espace de travail’, Revue d’histoire du XIXe siècle, 45: 143–58. Le Men, S. (2009), ‘La recherche sur la caricature du XIXe siècle: état des lieux’, Perspective. La revue de l’INHA, 3: 426–60. Le Moine (1887), ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, La Croix, 66, 1241 (25 June): 1. Le Sphinx (1886), ‘Échos de Paris’, L’Événement, 15, 5343 (9 November): 1–2. Maschera (1887), ‘Trois Sous … !’, Le Courrier français (7 August): 4. Montel, N. (2012), ‘L’agrandissement de Paris en 1860: un projet controversé’, in A. Fourcaut and F. Bourillon (eds), Agrandir Paris (1860–1970), Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Muthesius, S. and Glendinning M. (2006), ‘Les ambiguïtés de la réception des tours d’habitation en Angleterre et en Écosse’, in G. Monnier (ed.), L’architecture, la réception immédiate et la réception différée. L’oeuvre jugée, l’édifice habité, le monument célébré, Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne. Neri, G. (2015), Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno, Macerata: Quodlibet.

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Laughing at Architecture Paf [Renard, J.] (1880), ‘Croquis – par Paf ’, Le Charivari, 49 (22 August): 3. Paf [Renard. J.] (1886), ‘Croquis – par Paf ’, Le Charivari, 55 (26 September): 3. Perl, P.-O. (1995), ‘Caricature et opinion: une influence réciproque’, in M. Denis, M. Lagrée and J. Y. Veillard (eds), L’Affaire Dreyfus et l’opinion publique en France et à l’étranger, Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes. Pessard, H. (1888), ‘Premières. Théâtre du Palais-Royal: Les joyeusetés de l’année, revue en trois actes et sept tableaux, de M. Albert de Saint-Albin’, Le Gaulois, 52, 2202 (8 September): 3. Planat, P. (1886), ‘L’inauguration de l’Hôtel des Postes’, La Construction moderne, 2, 9 (11 December): 97–100. Poincaré, H. (1913), ‘Échos. Hommage à l’architecte Guadet’, L’Éclair, 26, 8981 (29 June): 1. Ralph, J. (1886), ‘Chroniques du jour’, Le Charivari, 55 (28 June): 2. Ranc (1887), ‘L’Hôtel des Postes’, Le Petit national, 18, 6176 (26 July): 1. Ranc (1887), ‘Encore l’Hôtel des Postes’, Le Petit national, 18, 6179 (29 July): 1 Ratouis, O. and Baumeister, M. (2011), ‘Rire en ville. Rire de la ville. L’humour et le comique comme objets pour l’histoire urbaine contemporaine’, Histoire urbaine, 31 (September): 5–18. Ruhlmann, J. (2013), ‘Rire en Chambre: le comique parlementaire au début de la IIIe République’, in A. Vaillant and R. De Villeneuve (eds), Le rire moderne, Nanterre: Presses universitaires de Paris Ouest. Scaramouche (1880), ‘Les semaines de Paris’, Le Charivari, 49 (19 March): 3. Tillier, B. (1997), La républiCature. La caricature politique en France. 1870–1914, Paris: CNRS Éditions. Trock [Liquier, G.] (1887), ‘La semaine comique, par Trock’, La Caricature, 379 (2 April):106. Un boulevardier (1884), ‘Paris-Tablettes. Notes d’un boulevardier’, Le Charivari, 53 (11 October): 3. Verax (1887), ‘Hôtel des Postes’, Journal des Postes et télégraphes administratif, littéraire et politique, 10, 464 (17 September): 2. Will-Furet [Margat, J.] (1886), ‘Nouvelles Diverses’, Le Gaulois, 30, 1467 (4 September): 3.

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CHAPTER 5 DECONSTRUCTING GAUDÍ: ENTANGLED RELATIONSHIPS BETWEEN SATIRE AND ARCHITECTURAL CRITICISM Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes Probably no other architectural work has been more heavily caricatured over the course of the twentieth century than that of Gaudí. From early cartoons, to more recent commentaries, the Catalan architect and his works have often been subject to intense satirical critique. At the same time, popular awareness of Gaudí and his work has run parallel to more sophisticated readings by artists, architects and scholars which have all succeeded in reinterpreting Gaudí’s architectural imagery from visions of bold national and religious postulates to lighter interpretations of his architecture.1 Analysis of the humorous reception of Gaudí’s architecture within popular media – comics, newspapers and the satirical press – during the time of its construction reveals the changing appreciation of Gaudí’s work over the course of the twentieth century. It also offers a privileged viewpoint to better understand the essence of the architect’s concerns when he conceived his works. Satirical representations of Gaudí and his works became widely popular mostly after 1908, with the emergence of Noucentisme and its associated style inspired by neoclassical and Mediterranean models. This was, indeed, a moment of heightened criticism of Gaudí’s work, and satirical representations highlighted the way in which the architect and his architectures came to be perceived by the public at large as well as within the academic and professional circles of Catalonia. By the early twentieth century the satirical press in Barcelona was booming, with a huge number of publications competing fiercely with each other. Satirical newspapers addressed specific social and political groups and, therefore, their contents were tailored to the ideological stances of their particular audiences. This generated a fruitful rivalry between newspapers to employ the best journalists and illustrators – who often contributed to several publications – and some healthy competition that greatly improved the quality of these periodicals within a wider international context. The impact of these publications on society was significant in early twentieth-century Catalonia. At that time, the illiteracy rate was around 40 per cent. Popular newspapers were read out loud and became a vehicle for socialization and the shaping and diffusion of popular opinion. Cartoons, due to their visual formats and ability to exaggerate what they represented, were easily accessible to everyone, regardless of education. Between 1910 and 1936 – when the local population in Barcelona approached one million inhabitants just before the onset of the Spanish Civil War – their potential audiences varied, with the least known satirical daily newspapers printing a few hundred copies and the most popular ones with a print run of up to 25,000 or even 150,000 copies.2 Satirical media focused on any controversial aspect of political, cultural and social news in Catalonia and especially in Barcelona. Within this context, Gaudí became the

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focus of popular mockery, beginning with the early cartoons of La Pedrera – or Casa Milà – and the Sagrada Família; later, cartoons of Park Güell and Palau Güell started to appear frequently in the local satirical press. Despite the apparently superficial commentaries that they contained, the analysis of these materials is key to understanding and comparing popular and scholarly interpretations of the architect and his work during his lifetime and beyond. Satire and the quest for a modern architecture La Pedrera is probably the first and best known of Gaudí’s buildings to become the focus of satire, with numerous cartoons appearing at the time of its construction. A number of studies made on Gaudí across the twentieth century, have seen clear evidence in these materials of the difficulties that a contemporary popular audience encountered in fully appreciating the Catalan architect’s work.3 Probably the best-known cartoon is the one in which La Pedrera is depicted as a garage for zeppelins, with the ‘Garage’ inscription placed in the most privileged position of the building’s façade – the top part of its cornice – along with a secondary inscription referring to the Milà family as the owners of the construction (Figure 5.1).4 The image was entitled as ‘Barcelona Futura. El veritable destí del Casal d’en Milà y Pi’ (Future Barcelona. The real fate of Casa Milà

Figure 5.1 Casa Milà as a garage for zeppelins, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 4 January 1912. 92

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y Pi), and the cartoon was drawn by Picarol, nom de plume of Josep Costa Ferrer, one of the most prolific illustrators of the time, working for a number of different satirical publications. The drawing was first published in the magazine L’Esquella de la Torratxa, of which Costa was one of the principal cartoonists throughout his professional life. With a print run of over 35,000 copies,5 L’Esquella de la Torratxa was supportive of republican, Catalan and antireligious ideals, often directing its criticism against bourgeois values and rituals. The particular interest of Costa’s sketch lies in the contrast it establishes with the real function and origin of the project: the construction was in fact supposed to be a luxurious and innovative building with apartments for rent located in one of the most expensive areas of the contemporary city, reflecting the status of those who commissioned it – the Milà family, who occupied its first floor, as was common in most of Barcelona upper-middle-class residential blocks. Costa’s criticism was aligned with the magazine’s ideology and directly attacked the extraordinary façade of Casa Milà. Probably inspired by the unusual image of Gaudí’s structure, Costa imagined an alternative function to the building which contradicted its real purpose. In his drawing, he carefully emphasized the visual contrast between the bright white rocky material of the construction and the surrounding, more traditional buildings that were pictured in the background as a black shadow representative of the city’s skyline. Indeed, Costa’s sketch was only one of the numerous humorous representations of Casa Milà focussing on its extravagant rocky appearance. In Papitu, another nationalist and anti-Catholic magazine, a cartoon drawn by the artist Feliu Elias – signed with the pseudonym ‘Apa’ – shows the building site with a sign in front of it reading ‘No’s permet entrar’ (No entry). Two men are looking at the building work and clearly thinking that the big construction is a sort of cave. The man wearing a local peasant dress says: ‘Què vol que li digui … m’agraden més les d’Artà’ (You know what? I prefer the ones [caves] in Artà [the famous caves in the island of Mallorca]).6 It was thanks to the spreading of mockeries such as these ones that Casa Milà eventually came to be known as La Pedrera, the Catalan word for quarry. The cartoon by Feliu Elias, when examined closely, unexpectedly – and most probably unintentionally – reveals one aspect of Gaudí’s design intentions: the essential poetical image of Casa Milà as a quarry in which apartments are caves excavated from the rocky mass. At that time, the Catalan architect was interested in exploring designs that might help define a new geometric and structural interpretation of mountains: he viewed mountains as a possible formal model for a new ‘modern’ architecture.7 This search was evident in the Sagrada Família, discussed below. His architectural research also seems to find an antecedent in Viollet-le-Duc’s sketches of mountain structures that were well known within the School of Architecture of Barcelona and which, together with Viollet’s Dictionnarie, served as an essential text of architectural education until well into the twentieth century. Nevertheless, the majority of cartoons and satirical comments about La Pedrera centred on the unexpected rocky image of the building’s exterior but paid no attention to its novel plan and construction. As a matter of fact, the apartment block is not a traditional structure of load-bearing masonry walls but a structural grid 93

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of columns and beams placed strategically to support the rocky mass of the façade. Probably without being aware of it, the 1910 cartoonist had pointed out one of the main intellectual concerns of the architect, the key importance of Casa Milà’s façade within the whole conception of the building. It is useful to analyse further satirical representations of La Pedrera in order to understand how Gaudí’s architecture was received by his contemporaries – beyond the seeming strangeness of its forms – with respect to its complex cultural, religious and political meanings. For instance, on 23 March 1920, when the building was still under construction, the magazine Cu-cut!, a pro-Catalan publication inspired by federalist and pacifist ideals, published a sketch of the construction surrounded by people looking at it, including an adult with a child.8 The caption reads: ‘Papà, papà, jo vuy una mona grossa com aquesta’ (Dad! Dad! I want a mona as big as this one). Mona is the name of the traditional Catalan chocolate cake given to children on Easter Monday, usually topped with chocolate eggs and little toys or figurines. Thus, the metaphor underpinning the key idea in the cartoon, drawn by Joan Garcia Junceda, establishes a relationship between the appearance of the building and the Easter cake unique to the traditional Catalan Catholic culture. This subtle religious reference might seem awkward but it was quite appropriate to the building and the struggle that was to take place between the architect and his clients during its construction. Reviewing a cartoon that appeared in an anticlerical magazine helps to deepen our understanding of the religious resonances of La Pedrera and, in general, of Gaudí’s works. In March 1911, L’Esquella de la Torratxa published a picture depicting the architect in the act of presenting the Bishop of Barcelona with a huge sculpture of the Madonna (Figure 5.2).9 The image’s caption10 explains that Gaudí was offering the bishop the statue since it had been rejected by the Milà family.11 Originally the architect had planned to crown Casa Milà’s top cornice with a sculpture of the Madonna – precisely in the same position where Costa would put the label ‘Garage’ a year later. The religious sculpture, with a clear reference to Gaudí’s deep Catholic faith, represented the Madonna of the Rosary (Roser in Catalan), thereby directly alluding to the name of his client – Roser Segimon, Pere Milà’s wife. Public discussion around the Madonna – as well as the other Catholic inscriptions that were to be incorporated into the building – show the extent of the architect’s and his client’s concerns to openly display their Catholic faith on the façade of the building.12 We might even think of the Madonna planned by Gaudí to top the Casa Milà as a sort of decoration of an enormous, weird mona, but beyond this possible meaning, what these cartoons reveal with different degrees of explicitness is the clear spiritual intentions of Gaudí’s building and his desire to embed religious elements within the design narratives of his architecture. Religion provided a powerful subject for the cartoons and the satirical comments appeared in magazines that were overtly and vehemently antireligious, and often incorporated fierce attacks on the Catholic Church and its followers. The satirical approach to the religious contents of Gaudí’s work is reiterated in a cartoon published on 5 March 1910 in the illustrated supplement to El Diluvio, a magazine with a pro-Spain, Republican and anticlerical slant, and sales over 150,000 94

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Figure 5.2 Antoni Gaudí crowning the city’s cathedral with a sculpture of the Madonna, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 17 March 1911.

copies.13 Drawn by the illustrator Llorenç Brunet i Torroll, the sketch occupied the whole front cover of the supplement. Here, the façade of Casa Milà is populated by animals placed in each of the building’s openings while the roof is crowned by two piles of skulls resembling an ossuary. The building is a sort of Noah’s ark, a joke on the magazine’s name El Diluvio – The Flood (Figure 5.3).14 However, the reader might be led to think that the religious beliefs of the architect were not the only target of the cartoon’s satire. This one in fact was also playing with an evaluation of the casa Milà as ‘dead architecture’, as opposed to the newer architectural explorations carried out by the avant-garde, or even those of the emerging Noucentista movement. Gaudí and his architecture, just like Modernisme itself, were seen at the time not as something from a recent past, but as already dead and buried.

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Figure 5.3 El Diluvio, Suplemento Ilustrado, 5 March 1910, cover.

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All the cartoons about Casa Milà that have been mentioned focus either on criticizing Gaudí’s architecture for its eccentric forms and the functional challenges associated with them, or on the architect’s and his client’s political and religious beliefs. The derision directed against the architect and his client even engendered a number of widely popular anecdotes. Probably the most popular of them is the one recalling Roser Segimon complaining about the lack of straight walls in their apartment resulting in the impossibility of positioning her Steinway upright piano. To which the architect replied simply: ‘So play the violin’. The joke is echoed by other cartoons on the difficulty of placing hanging damask on the building’s elaborate wrought iron balconies – thereby alluding to a typical ritual carried out by the Catalan bourgeoisie on specific religious festivities. Despite their differences, we could consider these cartoons as a popular counterpart to the emerging contemporary specialist appreciation of Gaudí as an ‘eccentric’ architect, the creator of an ‘outdated’ and ‘ugly’ architecture which did not fit with the Noucentista values, in what was a general disapproval not just of Gaudí but also of Modernista architecture. At the time when Casa Milà was constructed Noucentisme was gaining increasing popularity among the cultural elites of Catalonia. The fierce popular derision directed at the building, therefore, can be conceptualized not only as a reflection of this change in taste but also as a vehicle for wider ideological struggles within the layered complexity of the contemporary Catalan society. Furthermore, the debates in the satirical media also reflected contemporary local scholarly debates. The reference to L’Esquella in the dialogues on architecture written by the architect and scholar Nicolau Rubió i Tudurí, published in 1927, are revealing in this respect.15 It could be argued that the cartoons about Gaudí, drawn by learned, wellinformed illustrators who were well connected with the Barcelona cultural elite, echo these debates and reflect the on-going professional and academic discussions of the time. This intertwined relationship between popular and intellectual criticism was to become even more intense in the subsequent debates on the Sagrada Família.

The cartoons of the Sagrada Família and the mountain of Montserrat The contemporary satire about Casa Milà confirms Gaudí’s attempt to define a new modern architecture within contemporary architectural debates. An endeavour that was often misunderstood, as the cartoons analysed in the previous section show us, despite the fact that the cartoons manage to identify some of the key elements of Gaudí’s architectural thinking, which were also the most extravagant formal elements in the architect’s quest for a modern architecture. Furthermore, the cartoons about La Pedrera also provide a glimpse into the architect’s – and his clients’ – religious beliefs and political leanings. These aspects are revealed even more clearly through the cartoons regarding the Sagrada Família. Indeed, after La Pedrera, the second most satirized of Gaudí’s buildings during the second decade of the twentieth century was the famous expiatory temple 97

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in Barcelona. In this case, satirical cartoons were published until well into the middle of the Spanish Civil War, in contrast to those of Casa Milà. The reason for this longlasting satirical debate about the Sagrada Família was a campaign led by intellectuals to symbolically reappropriate the construction and its architect to suit the aims of the Catalan Catholic nationalist movement, well beyond the purpose of the original project as an expiatory temple. To this end, between 1905 and 1907, the Catalan poet Joan Maragall and the architect and art critic Josep Pijoan published a number of articles that inaugurated a series of symbolical reappropriations by the Lliga Catalanista of Gaudí and his work. The Lliga was a right-wing nationalist party, whose political positions coincided with wide sections of the Catholic Church, their ideological campaign about Gaudí and the then under construction Sagrada Família is significant, since the politicians and intellectuals inspiring their agenda had previously paid them no attention whatsoever. Furthermore, with the rise of the Noucentista movement they tended to consider Gaudí as an ‘outsider’ and his architecture as rather unappealing. Nevertheless, the popularity of the architect and his works was considerable, and the new role they both were expected to play within the Lliga’s new political agenda functioned as a vehicle to spread an ideology in a key moment of the political struggle between Catalonia and Spain. The aim of the Lliga and its intellectuals was to make both the architect and the Sagrada Família symbols shared by all Catalans regardless of their ideology and beyond the original meaning of the project. The texts by Maragall and Pijoan included poetic descriptions of Antoni Gaudí as ‘the genius of Catalonia’ and claimed the Sagrada Família as ‘our work’, ‘the work of all Catalans’, who had to collaborate ‘efficiently and without hesitation’ to finance its construction. It is precisely at this moment that the Expiatory Temple of the Holy Family, the Catholic dream of Josep Maria Bocabella – the first instigator and driver of the project – known popularly as ‘The Poor People’s Cathedral’, came to be known as ‘The New Cathedral’.16 In this sense, it is revealing that the only image showing the future temple when it was completed was published in the newspaper La Veu de Catalunya, which had close links with the Lliga Catalanista, and not in the El Propagador, the official publication of the committee leading the management of the construction. Actually, El Propagador published a letter after the designs of the temple were made public in La Veu de Catalunya underlining the shared character of the project. This was the first time in which a work by Gaudí became a truly popular symbol shared by a large group of people, beyond the individual ambitions of its promoters. The cartoons published during this period and in the following years made satirical comments with both direct and indirect allusions to this appropriation, depending on the ideology of the magazine and the audience it was aimed at. Thus, for example, a picture published in 1905 in the anticlerical L’Esquella de la Torratxa played with the idea of repurposing the building in a parallel way to the appropriation that was being carried out by the Lliga, it proposed the potential reuse of the unfinished construction

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as a second-hand market, or even as a cemetery, in a cartoon that featured priests and cardinals wearing a kind of Gaudí-style hat that resembled the shape of the building.17 Other satirical cartoons focused on the idea of charity to fund the construction, as this was a key strategy by the Lliga in their campaign. Satirical comments of the Sagrada Família dealt mostly with the huge scale of the project, its extravagant design and unfinished image, as well as attacking the religious purpose of the architecture. It is not surprising, then, that satirical magazines closer to the Catholic Church did not publish any cartoons about the building or the political campaign of appropriation, but that these representations were concentrated in the most fiercely anticlerical publications. They also increased during the Spanish Civil War due to the religious struggles and tensions associated with the different combatting sides. So, for example, in an issue of L’Esquella de la Torratxa published in 1937 – during the Spanish Civil War – two men looking at the construction site from a balcony reach the conclusion that the cathedral had not been burned down, like other churches, during the antireligious campaigns of the war precisely because it was unfinished.18 It is interesting to note how all of these satirical representations of the Sagrada Família refer to the uniqueness of the design by Gaudí, its religious symbolism and the purpose of the building in the future as shared by society at large, but avoid any reference to its original expiatory purpose. The political and intellectual campaign carried out by the Lliga was successful in appropriating Gaudí’s construction and transforming its widelyaccepted meaning to suit their own strategies. Furthermore, the focus of the cartoons about the Sagrada Família that circulated after the political campaigns by the Lliga is evocative of another series of humorous commentaries that had become popular a few decades earlier: ones about the mountain of Montserrat, its miniatures and their religious resonances. Actually, the connection between the Sagrada Família and the mountain of Montserrat is essential for acquiring a better understanding of both, as well as the architecture of Antoni Gaudí. The comparative analysis of the cartoons about the mountain and its replicas complements some of the ideas previously discussed about the Sagrada Família, Casa Milà and Gaudí’s search for a new modern architecture. The political struggle around the mountain of Montserrat as one of the most – if not the most – important national symbols of Catalonia and Spain, beyond its medieval Catholic appreciation, was unleashed by Victor Balaguer in the 1850s to bolster a federal project to renew the structure of the Spanish state and, ultimately, the whole Iberian Peninsula.19 In this context, according to Balaguer’s ideals, the mountain of Montserrat could potentially become the symbol of a new national system due to its capacity to sublimate the differences between the diverse ideological groups in the nation and go beyond its religious or Catholic interpretation. This first appreciation of Montserrat was produced in 1800 by the German Wilhelm von Humboldt in letters sent to Goethe during his visit, he also went on to write an essay about the mountain. Humboldt was not at all interested in the monastery, the

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Madonna or the Church, but in describing the unique nature of the mountain and its distinctive shapes and formations. He describes it as a big city in ruins, particularly discussing the unique happiness of the hermits living around the mountain and their intense relationship with and contemplation of the landscape. These ideas served as a strong base to define a non-religious – though still spiritual – approach to Montserrat that was seen with concern by the Catalan Catholic Church. The collapse of Balaguer’s federal project in 1873 led to the upsurge of various nationalist movements within Spain, which for the most part were strongly secular. In this new context, from the late 1870s a group of clerics with political ambitions called El Grup de Vic sought to counter the secularism of the burgeoning Catalan nationalist movement and to seek to define a new Catholic Catalan nationalism, appropriating Balaguer’s cultural and symbolic universe. For the group of clerics, as for the Catalan Catholic Church, Catalan nationalism was inseparable from Catholicism, and they insisted upon the idea that the birth of Catalonia as a nation was directly linked to the building of the first monasteries in the Catalan territory. In this context of differing ideologies competing to dominate the symbolism of the famous mountain, the Catalan Catholic Church decided to organize a series of so-called ‘patriotic-religious’ campaigns in the 1880s to reiterate their political ambitions as well as their claims to Montserrat, both the mountain and the monastery on it – together with other monasteries – as key symbols in their monumental and ideological conception of the nation and the state. For them, the monastery and shrine on Montserrat were conceived as inseparable from the mountain itself, whose natural setting was understood as an expression of its sacredness: God’s creation. The mountain was indeed the temple. This is an understanding of the Catalan mountain that was later influenced by the first translation into Catalan of Ruskin’s essays on landscape and geology, later edited under the title of Nature with a selection of texts on the sacred appreciation of nature.20 Gaudí’s monument in the mountain of Montserrat itself represents this idea. His monument, which has no limits, sort of merges with the rock of the mountain, and in it the resurrection of Christ is placed next to the resurrection of Catalonia – expressed through its national flag. Actually, this was not an isolated project but an intentional association of ideas; Gaudí also designed his churches, including the Crypt in the Colònia Güell or the Sagrada Família along the lines of such debates and ideological struggles. They were architectural interpretations of the mountain of Montserrat that made a statement about his understanding of the natural setting as religious in Catholic terms, as well as claiming its symbolism for the political and social project pursued by the Catalan Catholic Church. These strategies in the mountain of Montserrat itself and in the design of other religious buildings around Catalonia – and even beyond – were, therefore, aimed at underlining the sacredness of the mountain as a symbol over other interpretations of the unique mountain. So in this way, they also became manifestos of the principal ideology in the Catalan Catholic Church, which was shared by Gaudí, a fervent Catholic Catalan nationalist and, as such, a supporter of the sacredness of the mountain of Montserrat. 100

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However, these campaigns by the Catalan Catholic Church to appropriate the symbolic capital of the mountain of Montserrat were highly criticized by other political and ideological groups who felt themselves also represented by the mountain. This started a very lively struggle between them for appropriating the mountain as their own symbol. Religious and non-religious replicas of the mountain were erected in Catalonia and even in Cuba, and the mountain became a true symbol shared by all Catalans despite their different understandings of the mountain. This was the period in which reproductions of the mountain of Montserrat, the mountain itself and, to a lesser degree, the monastery on the mountain, became the focus of satirical cartoons focusing on their religious and non-religious understandings and purposes. In an almost prophetic way, anticipating the satirical cartoons about the future uses of the Sagrada Família that were published decades later when the political struggle about it was unleashed, many of the cartoons about Montserrat also came up with satirical uses for the mountain or its reproductions. For example, a cartoon published in L’Esquella de la Torratxa in 1895 about the non-religious miniature replica of the mountain of Montserrat that was erected in the Ciutadella Park in the city of Barcelona played with the potential uses that this strange construction might have, such as using the new mountain miniature as a scenario for Nativity representations during Christmas (Figure 5.4).21 The idea was to trivialize the religious resonances of this replica and to ridicule the concerns and complaints of the Catalan Catholic Church regarding such improper use of the symbolism of Montserrat.

Figure 5.4 A satirical interpretation of the miniature reproduction of Montserrat erected in the Ciutadella Park, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 27 September 1895.

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Due to these struggles between different competing understandings of Montserrat that were seeking to control its symbolic capital, Montserrat often became the focus of cartoons in satirical media, as well as in popular publications like the aucas. These were a kind of predecessor of comic representations in the Catalan culture and consisted of a series of cartoons on traditions and other elements of popular culture, often with historical and descriptive traits, and including jokes and veiled satirical comments. The mountain and the architecture in the shrine of Montserrat became a regular topic for the most popular aucas until well into the twentieth century. These aucas included cartoons about both the new buildings of the shrine and the mountain itself, together with short rhymed captions referring to the new traditions around them. In many instances they included humoristic descriptions about its architecture and speculated on and satirized the different uses they might have. Again, they were somehow prophetic of the future satirical comments about the Sagrada Família, when Gaudí’s construction also became the object of contemporary political struggles. Furthermore, this parallelism underlines the close relationship at the time between the mountain of Montserrat and the construction of the Sagrada Família, which was the consequence of the contemporary struggle unleashed between various political groups and their competing visions.22 In this context, and in addition to the parallelisms across the cartoons on the replicas of Montserrat and those published some decades later on the Sagrada Família, the extraordinary uniqueness of the mountain of Montserrat and the designs by Gaudí inspired by it contributed in a significant way towards their early popularization. This increased the symbolic capital of Montserrat, in the first instance when the political and social struggle started after Victor Balaguer’s campaign, and later on with the Sagrada Família, when the Lliga Catalanista appropriated its symbolism following the articles by Maragall and Pijoan that transformed its original meaning for the first time. Indeed, the huge popularity achieved by both structures and their relevance within the contemporary political and cultural debates, combined with their extravagant forms, led to the contemporary media and cartoonists seeing potential satirical images in them. Therefore, it is not by chance that a number of similarities can be found between some of the cartoons about the Sagrada Família and the ones about the mountain of Montserrat. Both belonged to the same intense debates spanning different decades over the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries.

From satire to Gaudí’s architectural criticism Not all contemporary satirical cartoons about Antoni Gaudí’s architecture dealt with Casa Milà or the Sagrada Família, but a few satirical representations also parodied Park Güell, the Palau Güell and Eusebi Güell as Gaudí’s client.23 The first ones focused on the innovative and extravagant character of the plan sponsored by Güell for an idealized garden-city scheme on the outskirts of Barcelona, showing the strong political and cultural leadership ambitions of Güell himself – as Juan José Lahuerta has clearly pointed 102

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out in his important studies on Gaudí.24 Actually, the cartoons satirize this last aspect, i.e. the cultural and ideological aspirations of the project, as a way of highlighting the huge failure of the scheme, which was unable to sell more than a couple of houses and quickly ground to a halt. The cartoons about Park Güell ridicule the public events organized in the park by Güell as a way of promoting the patron’s political and cultural leadership ambitions. Or they represent Güell dressed elegantly and walking through the park and picking mushrooms,25 as if Gaudí’s famous patron were going mushroom hunting, which was – and still is – a very popular activity in the rural areas of Catalonia. In these cartoons published around the 1910s (towards the end of Güell’s and Gaudí’s lifetimes), Güell is always alone, isolated in the sites or buildings that he was promoting, almost as if to reflect the distance between contemporary society and his political and cultural ambitions. In the few cartoons dedicated to the architect himself, Gaudí is shown in a similar isolated pose. Among these cartoons, it is worth pointing out one that was published in 1910 showing the architect in front of La Pedrera in a very romantic pose with the title ‘Barcelona’s Wotan’ in a satire parallel to that of a cartoon about Wagner entitled ‘Wagnerian Wotan’.26 This isolation of Gaudí and Güell in relation to their contemporary society seems to underline the gap between their political, cultural and religious values and ideologies and those that were dominating contemporary Catalan society from the 1910s. In this new context the architect and his architecture, together with his patron and his ideologies gradually diverged from mainstream concerns and became the focus of an increasing number of cartoons. The popularization of Gaudí’s work went hand in hand with the rise of satirical representations of it. The number of satirical representations about Gaudí and his work increased steeply from 1910 onwards, revealing an important turn in the social taste of the Catalan society against Modernisme and its link with Wagnerianism and the Romantic taste. This change, led by the Catalan writer and philosopher Eugeni d’Ors (1881–1954) was named Noucentisme and proclaimed a return to classicism and order. Therefore, as revealed in many of the cartoons published around the 1910s, most contemporary criticism was focused on the strange shapes created by the Catalan architect, which were clearly detached from the Mediterranean classicism claimed by the Noucentisme and D’Ors. They also implied a new positioning in the debate on the relationship between Catalonia and Spain. In this new context Gaudí became progressively more of an outsider, despite some attempts that tried to incorporate the architect and his work within the Noucentista tradition.27 Both Antoni Gaudí and his complex architecture, so full of national and religious symbolism and sophisticated details, were increasingly satirized in jokes and cartoons. From these years until his death, Gaudí was conceptualized as an outsider relegated to the bizarre – or Wagnerian? – construction of the Sagrada Família (Figure 5.5).28 However, it was also in 1910 that an important exhibition of Gaudí’s work opened at the Gran Palais in Paris – this was actually the only big exhibition on the architect ever celebrated during his lifetime. 103

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Figure 5.5 Gaudí as Wagner, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1 April 1910.

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In the end, this exponentially growing satire about Gaudí’s architecture during the last years of his lifetime paved the way to a harder, more severe architectural criticism of his work and ideas, as well as fostering unexpected interpretations. All this has been crucial in the progressive shaping of the current understanding of Gaudí and his architecture.29

Epilogue Entangled relationships between satirical publications and architectural criticism on the architect Antoni Gaudí and his architecture throughout the twentieth century have shaped a new understanding of both the architect and his work.30 Satirical cartoons published during the construction of Gaudí’s buildings not only reflect the architectural criticism of Gaudí’s work but have contributed to popularize the interpretations defined by this criticism. Furthermore, the change in understanding of the original ideology and symbolism of Gaudí’s architecture paved the way for later interpretations that have progressively defined the current understanding of the architect and his work. Today Gaudí’s work has become one of the foremost, if not the foremost, of all the attractions for people visiting Barcelona from abroad in ever-increasing numbers.31 Indeed, the countless publications that transmit and spread a new outlook and conceptualization of the Catalan architect beyond its original transcendental national and religious symbolism, together with cartoons and satirical interpretations, have marked a veritable turning point in the consolidation of the modern interpretation of Gaudí’s architecture. Cartoons together with tourist guidebooks and academic papers have been manuals for the artialisation of Gaudí – to use Alain Roger’s expression32 – during his lifetime to the present day. As satire and humour, cartoons have made it possible for individuals and society at large to interact with Gaudí and his architecture, contributing in a significant way to progressively shaping a new narrative of Gaudí as an extravagant genius and a technical and structural visionary. They have helped to form a popular understanding of his architecture that is more seductive and comprehensible for foreigners rather than the complex creational national or religious interpretation, and thus better suited to attract all sorts of visitors. Indeed, cartoons and satire have always had the virtue of underlining essential aspects of what they examine, even if we are not yet fully aware of them.

Notes 1

On this process see: Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes, ‘Reinventing and Reshaping Gaudi: From Nation and Religion to Tourism. Architecture, Conflict and Change in Barcelona’s Tourist Imaginary’, in Nelson Graburn and Maria Gravari (eds.), Tourism Imaginaries: Place, Practice, Media (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), pp. 64–78. And also, see examples of this appreciation between others: Salvador Dalí, ‘La visio de Gaudi’, in Robert Descarnes, Clovis Prevost and Francesc Pujols (eds), La visió artística i religiosa de Gaudí (Barcelona: Ayma,

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On the satirical newspapers in Barcelona see: Jaume Guillamet, ‘Proleg’, in Jaume Capdevila (ed.), L’Esquella de la Torratxa. 60 anys d’història catalana, 1879–1939 (Barcelona: Efados, 2014), p. 7.

3

Juan José Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926). Arquitectura, ideología y política (Madrid: Electa, 1999); Juan José Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí. Ornament, Fire and Ashes (Barcelona: Editorial Tenov, 2016).

4

Josep Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘Barcelona Futura. El veritable destí del Casal d’en Milà y Pi’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1723 (4 January 1912), p. 14.

5

Capdevila, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, p. 34.

6

Feliu Elias, ‘[Untitled]’, Papitu, 63 (9 February 1910), p. 84.

7

On this alternative search for a new modern architecture see: Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes, ‘A Mountainous History of Modern Architecture?’, Architectural Research Quarterly, 19, 2 (2015), pp. 102–5.

8

Joan Junceda, ‘[Untitled]’, Cu-cut!, 409 (23 March 1910), p. 186.

9

Josep Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘En Gaudí a Ca’l Bisbe’ (Gaudí at the Bishop’s Palace), L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1681 (17 March 1911), p. 171.

10 ‘En Gaudí a Ca’l Bisbe. – No necessita una imatge pel cimbori de la Catedral? Vegi si li fa pessa aquesta que estava destinada a ca’n Milà, li donaré barateta’ (Gaudí at the Bishop’s Palace. – Do you need an sculpture for the Cathedral’s dome? Look at this one which was bound to Milà’s house, I will give it to you for a cheap price). 11 Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926), pp. 324–35. 12 The Tragic Week in 1909, a series of violent confrontations between the Spanish army and radicals of the working classes of Barcelona and other cities in Catalonia, marked by a huge destruction of religious buildings, contributed to the final decision by the Milà family not to include the statue of the Madonna in the façade of their building. Ibid. 13 Jaime Claramunt and Frederic Pujulà, El Diluvio. Memorias de un diario republicano y federalista de Barcelona (1858–1939) (Barcelona: Ediciones Carena, 2016), p. 14. 14 Llorenç Brunet, ‘Modelo de arquitectura medioeval, entr nido y sepulture, que no me parece mal’, El Diluvio, Suplemento Ilustrado, 9 (5 March 1910), p. 129. 15 Nicolau Maria Rubió i Tudurí, Diàlegs sobre l’arquitectura (Barcelona: Imprenta Altès, 1927), p. 39. 16 Josep Pijoan, ‘La Sagrada Familia. La Catedral nova’, La Veu de Catalunya, 15, 2334 (27 September 1905), p. 1. 17 ‘El cementiri de la Sagrada Familia’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1981 (16 December 1916), pp. 840–1. 18 Martí Bas, ‘[Untitled]’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 3022 (23 July 1937), p. 430. The caption states the dialogue between the two men represented in the cartoon: ‘Ja és estrany que no la cremessin. – Oh, és que no estava acabada’ (It is strange they did not burn it [the Sagrada Familia]. – Oh, it is because it was unfinished). 19 Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes, ‘A Nation of Monasteries: The Legacy of Víctor Balaguer in the Spanish Conception of National Monuments’, Future Anterior, 10, 1 (2013), pp. 40–51. 20 Cebrià De Montoliu, Natura. Aplech d’estudis i descripcions de ses bellesas triats d’entre les obres de John Ruskin (Barcelona: Joventut, 1903). 106

Deconstructing Gaudí 21 ‘A la montanya del Parque diuhen que’l próxim Nadal tractan de fer-hi un pessebre municipal’ (It is being said that next Christmas a representation of the Nativity will try to be made by the City Council at the mountain in the Park). Anonymous, ‘¡Grrran Noticia!’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 872 (27 September 1895), p. 618. 22 On these struggles, see: Josep-Maria Garcia-Fuentes, The Construction of Modern Montserrat (Barcelona: Universitat Politècnica de Catalunya, 2012); and Garcia-Fuentes, ‘Reinventing and Reshaping Gaudí’, pp. 64–78. 23 See for example the cartoons Josep Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘A la festa del parch Güell’ (At the Party in the Park Güell), L’esquella de la Torratxa, 1531 (1 May 1908), p. 292; Josep Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘Comte Obsequiós’, L’esquella de la Torratxa, 1717 (24 November 1911), p. 739. 24 Lahuerta, Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926), pp. 66–223. 25 Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘Comte Obsequiós’, p. 739. 26 The captions of the image state: ‘Wotan wagnerià’ (Wagnerian Wotan) and ‘Wotan Barceloní’ (Barcelona’s Wotan). Josep Costa Ferrer (Picarol), ‘[Untitled]’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1631 (1 April 1910), p. 204. 27 Judith Roher, ‘Una visió apropiada: el temple de la Sagrada Família de Gaudí i la política arquitectònica de la Lliga Regionalista’, in Juan José Lahuerta (ed.), Gaudí i el seu temps (Barcelona: Barcanova, 1999), pp. 193–212. 28 Torii, El mundo enigmático de Gaudí. 29 Garcia-Fuentes, ‘Reinventing and Reshaping Gaudí’, pp. 64–78. 30 Ibid. 31 Joan-Ramon Resina, Barcelona’s Vocation of Modernity, Rise and Decline of an Urban Image (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008). 32 Alain Roger, Court traité du paysage (Paris: Éditions Gallimard, 1997).

Bibliography Bas, M. (1923), ‘[Untitled]’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 3022 (23 July 1937): 430. Brunet, L. (1910), ‘Modelo de arquitectura medioeval, entr nido y sepulture, que no me parece mal’, El Diluvio, Suplemento Ilustrado, 9 (5 March): 129. Brunet, L. (1911), ’Esta Casa es Santa’, El Diluvio. Suplemento Ilustrado, 10 (11 March): 146. Brunet, L. (1911), ’La Casa Cuaresmal’, El Diluvio. Suplemento Ilustrado, 8 (25 February): 122. Capdevila, J. (ed.) (2014), L’Esquella de la Torratxa. 60 anys d’història catalana, 1879–1939, Barcelona: Efados. Cirlot, J. E. (1954), El Arte de Gaudí, Barcelona: Ediciones Omega. Claramunt, J., and Pujula, F. (2016), El Diluvio. Memorias de un diario republicano y federalista de Barcelona (1858–1939), Barcelona: Ediciones Carena. Collins, G. R. (1960), Antonio Gaudí, New York: George Braziller. Costa Ferrer, J. (Picarol) (1908), ‘A la festa del parch Güell’, L’esquella de la Torratxa, 1531 (1 May): 292. Costa Ferrer, J. (Picarol) (1910), ‘[Untitled]’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1631 (1 April): 204. Costa Ferrer, J. (Picarol) (1911), ‘Comte Obsequiós’, L’esquella de la Torratxa, 1717 (24 November): 739. Costa Ferrer, J. (Picarol) (1911), ‘En Gaudí a Ca’l Bisbe’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1681 (17 March): 171.

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Laughing at Architecture Costa Ferrer, J. (Picarol) (1912), ‘Barcelona Futura. El veritable destí del Casal d’en Milà y Pi’, L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1723 (4 January): 14. Dalí, S. (1969), ‘La visio de Gaudi’, in R. Descarnes, C. Prevost and F. Pujols (eds), La visió artística i religiosa de Gaudí, Barcelona: Ayma [first edition 1934]. De Montoliu, C. (1903), Natura. Aplech d’estudis i descripcions de ses bellesas triats d’entre les obres de John Ruskin, Barcelona: Joventut. ‘El cementiri de la Sagrada Familia’ (1916), L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 1981: 840–1. Elias, F. (1910), ‘[Untitled]’, Papitu, 63 (9 February): 84. Garcia-Fuentes, J. M. (2012), The Construction of Modern Montserrat, Barcelona: Universitat Politecnica de Catalunya. Garcia-Fuentes, J. M. (2013), ‘A Nation of Monasteries: The Legacy of Victor Balaguer in the Spanish Conception of National Monuments’, Future Anterior, 10, 1: 40–51. Garcia-Fuentes, J. M. (2015), ‘A Mountainous History of Modern Architecture?’, Architectural Research Quarterly, 19, 2: 102–5. Garcia-Fuentes, J. M. (2015), ‘Reinventing and Reshaping Gaudi: From Nation and Religion to Tourism. Architecture, Conflict and Change in Barcelona’s Tourist Imaginary’, in N. Graburn and M. Gravari (eds), Tourism Imaginaries: Place, Practice, Media, Farnham: Ashgate. ‘Gaudi, el genial arquitecto español’ (1969), Vidas Ilustres. Revista Juvenil, special issue, 209 (1 May): n.p. Granell, E. (2004), ‘El retorn del fill prodig’, Barcelona Metròpolis Mediterrània, 63: 41–9. ‘¡Grrran Noticia!’ (1895), L’Esquella de la Torratxa, 872: 618. Guillamet, J. (2014), ‘Proleg’, in J. Capdevila (ed.), L’Esquella de la Torratxa. 60 anys d’història catalana, 1879–1939, Barcelona: Efados. Junceda, J. (1910), ‘[Untitled]’, Cu-cut!, 409 (23 March): 186. Lahuerta, J. J. (1999), Antoni Gaudí (1852–1926). Arquitectura, ideología y política, Madrid: Electa. Lahuerta, J. J. (2016), Antoni Gaudí. Ornament, Fire and Ashes, Barcelona: Editorial Tenov. Maragall, J. (1900), ‘El templo que nace’, Diario de Barcelona (20 December): 10593–5944. Maragall, J. (1905), ‘A la Sagrada Familia’, Ilustració Catalana, 85 (15 January): 35–7. Maragall, J. (1905), ‘!Una gracia de caritat!’, Diario de Barcelona (7 November): 12127–128. Maragall, J. (1907), ‘Fuera del tiempo’, Forma, 2, 16: 134–47. Opisso (1907), ‘[Untitled]’, Cu-cut! Calendari, special edition: 76. Pijoan, J. (1905), ‘La Sagrada Familia. La Catedral nova’, La Veu de Catalunya, 15, 2334 (27 September): 1. Pijoan, J. (1906), ‘¡Acabem, acabem el temple!’, La Veu de Catalunya, 16, 2347 (20 January): 3. Pijoan, J. (1907), ‘L’obra de la Sagrada Familia’, Forma, 2, 16: 123. Resina, J. R. (2008), Barcelona’s Vocation of Modernity, Rise and Decline of an Urban Image, Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press. Roger, A. (1997), Court traité du paysage, Paris: Editions Gallimard. Roher, J. (1999), ‘Una visio apropiada: el temple de la Sagrada Familia de Gaudí i la politica arquitectonica de la Lliga Regionalista’, in J. J. Lahuerta (ed.), Gaudí i el seu temps, Barcelona: Barcanova. Rubió I Tudurí, N. M. (1927), Diàlegs sobre l’arquitectura, Barcelona: Imprenta Altes. Solà, L. (1969), L’Esquella de la Torratxa (1872–1939), Barcelona: Editorial Bruguera. Torii, T. (1983), El mundo enigmático de Gaudí, Madrid: Instituto de Espana. Zevi, B. (1953), Storia dell’architettura moderna, Turin: Einaudi.

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CHAPTER 6 CONFRONTING PROBLEMS WITH A SENSE OF HUMOUR: ADOLF LOOS’S ARCHITECTURAL POLEMICS AND VIENNESE JOURNALISM Ruth Hanisch Adolf Loos’s texts unlike most other architectural theories are occasionally very funny, as has been observed by many well-known commentators like Aldo Rossi. The power to irritate is closely related to the ability to amuse oneself, and the reader who is not overly confused by the academic pedantry will amuse himself greatly with a good deal of the writings collected here. Certain pieces, written in the ‘journalistic’ manner, have provoked me to laughter and remind me of another artist who loved to confront problems with a sense of humour, namely James Joyce.1 Why did Loos write in a funny way on architecture and thus break with the German tradition of the elaborate architectural treatise like Gottfried Semper’s The Style, which he was so deeply indebted to? From everything we know about him – and I am trying not to get more personal than is advisable – he was a rather serious person. Loos took the matters he wanted to import to his texts very seriously; he was not just having a ball or winding up people for nothing. Nevertheless, he very often exaggerated his most crucial points in such a way that it can only trigger smiles. To support this I will start with the result: Loos’s texts, above all his lecture ‘Ornament and Crime’ (given on several occasions from 1909 onwards, although only published much later),2 can be found in every contemporary anthology of architectural theories and in every student reader. So the text obviously still pushes a button, although the question of the abandonment of ornament does not seem pressing today. In fact, it wasn’t even very pressing at the time when the article by Loos was finally printed in German as late as 1929. When Loos first gave the lecture in 1909, everything he had to say on banishing ornamentation from objects of everyday use he had already said in earlier texts. So why do we still enjoy reading the text although the underlying misogyny and the undoubtedly questionable use of cultures like the Papua are not generally accepted anymore? It is obviously the way this rather short text was written that made it so successful. The English art historian Peter Vergo noted: At the most elementary level, critics have often failed to notice that Loos is, in ‘Ornament and Crime’, far from being entirely serious. A statement such as ‘In certain prisons, as many as eighty per cent of the prisoners are tattooed. People who wear tattoos and are not in prison are merely latent criminals or degenerate

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aristocrats. When someone with a tattoo dies a free man, it is simply the case that he passed away several years before committing a murder’ is surely humorous in intent. But Vergo envisioned Loos’s earnest intentions as well: ‘His attack is not upon ornament as such, but upon meaningless ornament, employed simply because of fashion, which may even obscure the true function and purpose of the building.’3 It is interesting to analyse how Loos developed humour in his writing. After returning from America Loos took up a career as a journalist by publishing the famous series of articles on the ‘Emperor Franz Josef Jubilee’ exhibition in the Rotunda at the Prater in the leading liberal newspaper Neue Freie Presse in 1898. The articles dealt with everything from saddles to plumbing, including two of his most influential essays for generations of architects to follow on ‘Building Materials’ and ‘The Principle of Dressing’. In the series he was aiming to introduce not only the English or American style of living to the Viennese but also himself as an authority on good taste. The short texts were written in a rather matter-of-fact way, not without literary ambition and a certain wink but not deliberately offensive either, rather in the established way of exhibition critics. As cultural historian Dagmar Barnouw suggested: ‘The early essays, written around 1900 for the Neue Freie Presse and for his own short-lived 1903 journal Das Andere (with the telling subtitle “A Newspaper to Introduce Western Culture into Austria”) after his return from the United States, were much more conciliatory than a text like the muchcited 1908 “Ornament and Crime”.’4 Loos complained in his foreword to the 1931 second edition book of those texts: This book contains the essays I wrote up to and during the year 1900. They were written at a time when I had thousand things to think about. For didactic reasons I had to express my true opinions in sentences that years later still cause me to shudder as I read them. Only at the insistence of my students have I in time come to agree to the publications of these essays. Slightly in contradiction to the above he continued, The architect Heinrich Kulka, one of my loyal students, prepared the first edition: it was issued by the publishing house of George Crès and Co. in Paris, since no German publishing house dared to take it on in 1920. It was probably the only book in the last hundred years which was originally written in German, but which was published in France.5 Why – one wonders – would no German publishing house take on the reprint of texts that had already been printed without problems in a leading paper some twenty-two years ago? Were Loos’s comments perceived to be more radical in the 1920s than in 1898? Let us review the paper in which one of these articles originally appeared.6 ‘Underclothes’ was published on 25 September 1898 in Neue Freie Presse roughly a 110

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Figure 6.1 Neue Freie Presse, 25 September 1898, front page. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

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fortnight after Empress Elisabeth was assassinated in Geneva. So it shared the page with several announcements of obsequies in different countries and an obituary for the empress by Gabriele D’Annunzio. The rest of the paper is dominated by discussions of the Dreyfus affair. In the middle of these emotionally and politically highly charged articles, Loos discussed at length the question of which kind of underwear is appropriate to wear in middle Europe and complained: ‘In Budapest they wear the same underpants as the csikos; in Vienna people wear the same underpants as the Lower Austrian farmer.’ He himself vividly argued for jersey underwear to replace linen.7 So even without being excessively polemical or pointedly written, this text is such an anticlimax to its surroundings that it is actually quite amusing. ‘You slave to foreign peoples!!!’ Loos was not isolated in Vienna at the time when he began writing these articles. As a member of one of the most eloquent, critical and close-knit circles in intellectual Vienna, he had made the Café Central in the Palais Ferstel his base. He made friends with the guru of all young critical minds Karl Kraus as well as with the critic, historian and actor Egon Friedell and the godfather of them all Peter Altenberg. To judge Loos’s often very polemical writing style when it comes to his ‘enemies’, it is interesting to first understand the tone between this group of friends. In 1906 Altenberg viciously attacked in a letter his good friend Loos for giving him a new suit: ‘You did not want to please me with the new suit, not do me a favour, instead you wanted to, in a cheeky-tyrannical manner, force me, to accommodate my untouchable taste to your completely mistaken, poor, degenerate, copied from the idiotic English and Americans, insane, cock-eyed taste!?!! Taste it!!!! You slave to foreign peoples!!!’8 A plain ‘thank you’ obviously would not do. Loos, however, used to insults like this by Altenberg, did not end the friendship but stayed loyal to his friend till his death and gave a very moving speech at his grave. Apart from the anecdotic pleasure of this detail as well as many other reported squabbles between Loos and Altenberg, Loos and Friedell, and Loos and Kraus, it is important to know what the limits for jokes was in Loos’s closest circle of friends. And it was apparently without: Horace’s dictum ‘Better to lose a friend than a joke’ is still popular in Vienna today. It is also very important to note that Loos was not only the author of many polemics but also the recipient of many by friends and foes alike, often not less witty than his own. Even his divorced first wife Lina Loos, née Obertimpfler, mocked the patriarchal way Loos had treated her during their short marriage in a short story ‘The Squirrel’ (Das Eichhörnchen). In a dream Lina has turned into a squirrel living happily in the Stadtpark in Vienna. One night in the small hours two men rested on a bench under her tree. The one sat ostentatiously motionless and muttered to himself: ‘No this animal is the outmost! How I love it!’ The other said: ‘If you love somebody you have to do something for him. This really does not seem to be an ordinary animal; you could 112

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Figure 6.2 Trude Fleischmann, Adolf Loos and Peter Altenberg, 1918. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

make something from it.’ Stood up, shook his friends hand and put me into his pocket and went. ‘Felonious hound’ screamed the poet after him. ‘Old impotent git’ the other shouted back.9 Lina describes how the squirrel was taught to sit straight and how to dress and manicure its claws until one day she bit, fled and returned to the Stadtpark only to be laughed at by the other squirrels for looking so hideous. The poet is of course the wakeful Peter Altenberg and the other man is her former husband Adolf Loos. It is a charming

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Figure 6.3 Lina Loos in her Studio in Sievering, post-1906. Author’s collection. story on top of a very accurate and witty description of the relation between Lina and Adolf and between Altenberg and Loos. These two glimpses in their private lives allow us to get an idea of the communication between these individuals who were all great writers. This is one background of Loos’s writing. He had to put up with his friends, all extremely pointedly in their conversations, letters and publications. And of course they were reading each other’s texts and reacted to them. There was a constant rivalry for women and wits.

The chamber pot Even before they got close, Kraus occasionally addressed Loos in Die Fackel, although the first ever mention was not a favourable one: ‘Six or seven critics, Vincenti, Emil Schäffer, Adolf Loos, Franz Arnold (who is this?), Servaes et. al. have one after the other been seen to announce their judgments in the feuilleton of the paper more or less influenced by the publishers.’10 Kraus initially included Loos in his crusade against the corruption in the Neue Freie Presse but soon mellowed towards him. The relation between Kraus and Loos was very close intellectually but also in their personal lives. The Catholic Loos even served as godfather when the Jewish Kraus was baptized in Johann Bernhard Fischer von Erlach’s church on the Karlsplatz, on 8 April 1911. An awful lot has been written on the way they both addressed the question of ornamentation, 114

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the parallels between their purge of language and architecture, their shared quest for the truth behind the façade.11 Many scholars have elaborated on Kraus’s famous aphorism ‘Adolf Loos and I – he literally and I verbally – have done nothing other than demonstrate that there’s a difference between an urn and a chamber pot, and that culture gets the space it needs to live from this difference.’12 As the Kraus biographer Edward Timms noted: ‘There are many echoes of Loos’s ideas in Kraus’s writings. The most significant is certainly this polemical definition of ornament. It becomes a key concept in several of his most important critical essays.’13 But Timms also questioned the possibility of comparing architectural ornaments with verbal elaboration: ‘Words do not really function in the same way as the façade of a building, a decoration on a teacup or a mask in the theatre.’14 Instead Timms draws the attention to other mutualities: Both Kraus and Loos excelled in the symbolic decoding of trivia. This kind of cultural extrapolation is indeed characteristic of Viennese intellectual life of the period. Kraus would base his apocalyptic prophecies on the evidence of a small advertisement or a local incident reported in the newspaper. Freud would draw far-reaching conclusions from an individual dream or even a slip of the tongue. Wittgenstein took trivial turns of phrase from everyday speech as the data from which to derive a whole philosophy of language. Loos would draw sweeping anthropological conclusions from the cut of women’s clothing, the shape of a button or the design of a salt-cellar.15 It is very often the complete incongruity between the utterly insignificance of the object and the ferocity of Loos’s rants that makes his texts funny. Loos increasingly tried different literary modes for his critiques – probably with the encouragement of his literary friends Altenberg, Friedell and Kraus. Parallel with his series in the Neue Freie Presse he published the burlesque ‘The Scala-Theatre in Vienna’ in the more open and critical weekly journal Die Wage.16 The play is set in the Arts and Crafts Museum (Österreichisches Museum), the Ministry of Culture and Education, a street and a coffee house, featuring the power struggle between the new innovative Director Arthur von Scala and the established corrupt Arts and Crafts Society (Kunstgewerbeverein). The title plays with the name of Director Scala and the famous opera house in Milan. The setup and language of the play is reminiscent of two of the prominent Viennese playwrights from the nineteenth century, Ferdinand Raimund (1790–1836) and Johann Nestroy (1801–1862). Kraus was especially fond of Nestroy, he often publicly read his texts and published the essay Nestroy and Posterity (1912). Loos’s play was never intended to be performed on stage. It was a journal piece, which Loos staged to enforce his critique of the workings of the Kunstgewerbe-Verein and the idea of the Kunstgewerbe in general. The burlesque is complemented by the humoresque ‘My Appearance on Stage with Melba’ in 1900.17 In a very casual tone Loos tells the story of how he was commissioned to write a critique of the opera Carmen with the famous Australian singer Nelly Melba in the New York Met for a newspaper called The New Yorker Bannerträger. Although 115

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Figure 6.4 Caricature of Adolf Loos from Die Bühne, 1927. Österreichische Nationalbibliothek.

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totally unmusical he accepted and studied the language of music criticism for half an hour. Through an incidental encounter he also made an appearance on stage as the guard in the first act. Afterwards he scribbled the critique using an accumulation of clashing musical terminology. To his own surprise his critique was received with great applause the next morning because it was interpreted as a satire. He even received the prize of the New York Music Critic Association for mocking the poor standards of music critique. It is not quite clear if and how much of the described incidents actually took place, or if Loos entirely made up an anecdote to show off his American experience and mock the incompetence of the Viennese architectural critics.18 The forced naivety of the firstperson-narrator is reminiscent of the travel reports of Mark Twain, who used it in a comparable way to debunk the stupidity of his contemporaries. The story ends with a side blow to the Viennese authors writing on architecture and craft without a clue of the correct use of terminology; scattering terms like ‘tenon joint’ or ‘mitre’ randomly over their texts. The burlesque and the humoresque were followed by ‘The Poor Little Rich Man’, the story of a rich young man who has his house decorated by an unnamed secessionist architect. It was again published in the Neues Wiener Tagblatt on 26 April 1900, starting on the first page, replacing the popular sequence novels in the paper. Loos’s tale was a riposte of an article by the poet Felix Dörmann. Dörmann was one of the more colourful figures of the Viennese scene, known for having his poems censured because of their erotic content. More than two months earlier Dörmann had published a tale of a young man under the title ‘The Modern Apartment’ in the Neue Freie Presse.19 It was a polemical, though anonymous, description of Loos and his circle of friends: ‘You always felt: a grey hound comes roaring in, and he will nip me in the leg and not even apologize. And when he starts talking, you feel: a synthesis of apostle and charlatan.’ After this introduction Dörmann gained momentum, You want to ask him, let yourself get carried away, for gods sake do not keep at it, exaggerate, your sobriety is unbearable, please get paradox and cheerful, tell me again, that I am a criminal, because I was wearing a turn down collar after six o’clock, […] tell me in seriousness and dignity that you will despise me, as long my doors are painted brown and not blue or red or white … you can tell me everything, … I will do what I want anyway, as I am not Mr Salinger, and his young wife is not my wife.20 Dörmann then told the story of the naive young Mr Salinger who became a member of the circle around the young grey hound and got a complete makeover of his extérieur from the outfitters chosen by the young architect (and thus helping to settle his unpaid bills with them). Although the circle of friends did not approve Mr Salinger’s fiancée, because she was too middle class, he insisted on marrying her, and at least she agreed to have the apartment furnished in the modern way by the ‘American grey hound’. ‘Mr Salinger was not allowed to buy anything, not anything at all; they did not trust him; the apartments had to get impeccable: one or two of the circle always accompanied him as 117

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experts and referents of the regulars table.’21 The wedding had to be postponed two times because the apartment was not ready. ‘Finally the work of art was finished, with the help of countless professionals and seven aesthetes.’22 It was opened to the public. At 8 o’clock in the morning people came who had to be in the office at 9, guided by the architect who regretted that he can only show the lounge and the dining room because it is too early, at 10 o’clock the professionals came to show their achievements to their clients, at 11 o’clock the young ladies came, who where just shopping nearby, at 12 o’clock the aesthetes came well-rested and jolly, on their way to breakfast to have a quick glance at their beloved apartment […]23 and so forth, until the young couple gave in and left for a honeymoon in Sorrento. This was a funny but, nevertheless, accurate description of the Altenberg circle in Café Central and Loos’s habits of not paying the bills at his outfitters and making public tours through his interiors, as well as the close connection he held with his clients. It was arguable which insult was worst, that Loos did not pay his bills or that he had produced an interior as an art piece. Karl Kraus defended Loos and attacked the Neue Freie Presse in one breath: Not that Mr Dörmann recently spread the worst about the unequally more original Adolf Loos did shatter me. But it is strange, that the Neue Freie Presse has mocked a writer whose essays it presented over months to its public as fine Sunday reading. Maybe it cannot forgive Mr Loos discussing arts and crafts objects as art critic and thus damaging the advertisement section.24 Kraus referred to Loos’s articles in the Neue Freie Presse for the jubilee exhibition where he regularly named Viennese companies, not always favourably. Kraus criticized the Neue Freie Presse over decades for being bribed by its advertisers. Loos reacted to Dörmann’s text by taking up the literary form of a tale and turning it towards its author and his circle of friends, especially the writer Hermann Bahr who was very close to the Secessionists. Loos told the story of a successful businessman who had everything and was happy until he commissioned an unnamed architect to refurbish his flat following the dictate of the latest fashion as practised by Josef Hoffmann, Joseph Maria Olbrich or Henry van de Velde.25 After that he went into decline because his life was now taken over by his apartment. It was a total work of art, nothing could be added or taken away: He imagined his future life. No one was allowed to give him pleasure. He would have to pass by the shops of the city impervious to all desires. Nothing more would be made for him. None of his dear ones was permitted to give him a picture. For him there were to be no more painters, no more artists, no more craftsmen. He was precluded from all future living and striving, developing and desiring. He thought, this is what it means to learn to go about life with one’s own corpse. Yes indeed. He is finished. He is complete!26 118

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Two points are to be considered in this context. Firstly, Dörmann started the attack, not Loos. Loos was challenged. Secondly, Loos’s use of language was so well known in Vienna in 1900 that Dörmann could make fun of it without actually naming him, it was enough to mock the grey hound for calling people criminals because they were wearing the wrong collar in the evening.

Crimes or misdemeanours? It is never a good idea to explain a joke, but we can recover through the context of Loos’s teasing what is not automatically understandable today. A lot of Loos’s humour is based on turning social relations and habits on their heads. When most members of the educated upper middle class (his potential readers and clients) cherished the idea of having an artist furnishing their apartments, Loos called them victims. Kraus was influenced by Loos’s concept of ornament and Loos was inspired by Kraus’s concept of crime. In his journal Die Fackel Kraus commented regularly on court cases exposing the underlying injustice of a juridical system frequently criminalizing the victims of social injustice and not the persons responsible for the injustice. Kraus often criticized judges for giving unjustified long prison sentences for lesser crimes to uphold an entirely subjective morality. Tellingly a first collection of essays from Die Fackel appeared in 1908 under the heading ‘Sittlichkeit und Kriminalität’ (Morality and Criminality). Loos used the term crime to show the same contortion of the established value system although with a different augury: something considered as cultured was stigmatized as criminal. Like Kraus he consciously challenged the difference between morality and legality. And like Kraus he attacked the educated middle class. Jonathan Franzen writing in a footnote to his translation of Heine und die Folgen, an essay published by Kraus in 1910, made a very important point in analysing Kraus’s aims and his readers, As the essay will make clear, the individualized ‘blockheads’ that Kraus has in mind here aren’t hoi polloi. Although Kraus could sound like an elitist, and although he considered the right-wing anti-Semites idiotic, he wasn’t in the business of denigrating the masses or lowbrow culture; the calculated difficulty of his writing wasn’t a barricade against the barbarians. It was aimed, instead, at bright and well-educated cultural authorities who embraced a phony kind of individuality – people Kraus believed ought to have known better.27 The same is true for Loos’s writings, he attacked a cultural elite who ought to understand the difference between good and bad taste, and he attacked the artists of the Arts and Crafts movement who ought to have known even better. Frederic J. Schwartz used ‘The culture of the “Case”’ to unravel the meaning of Loos’s text ‘Ornament and Crime’ as well as the publicly staged tug of war between Loos and the city’s building administration in the case of the building of the House on Michaelerplatz. Referring to ‘Ornament and Crime’ Schwartz noticed, 119

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Scholars have sought to make sense of this very strange essay by tracing the intellectual sources of Loos’s mixture of criminology and the discourse on decadence, his treatment of the primitive, and his echoes of Gottfried Semper, Alois Riegl and Sigmund Freud. Yet there are other, more direct and literal ways of thinking about Loos and crime: the architect was involved in two widely reported criminal cases, in 1905 and 1928.28 Schwartz correctly emphasized the importance of court cases in Loos’s life and the concept of crime in his writings but failed to mention that Loos’s first experience with lawyers and courts was not the Beer case in 1905 but his ongoing legal battle with his own mother over his paternal inheritance.29 On the meaning of ‘Ornament and Crime’ Schwartz noted, While the position he developed in the lecture can be plotted and the sources identified with precision, recent commentators have admitted that there is really no logical and coherent argument in ‘Ornament and Crime’. To explain its oddness as the result of its form of ‘satire’ and ‘polemic’ misses the point that it makes more sense as practice, a publicistic strategy that tries to achieve a public profile under the conditions of the culture of the case.30 However, this overlooks the crucial point that ‘satire’ as well as ‘polemic’ was itself a well-established ‘practice, a publicistic strategy that tries to achieve a public profile’, in Vienna from the early nineteenth century onwards.

Non-specialist and pseudo-expert To return to the observation of Peter Vergo: A statement such as ‘In certain prisons, as many as eighty per cent of the prisoners are tattooed. People who wear tattoos and are not in prison are merely latent criminals or degenerate aristocrats. When someone with a tattoo dies a free man, it is simply the case that he passed away several years before committing a murder’ is surely humorous in intent. Although Loos’s statement is humorous in intent it does not mean that what lay behind it was not also meant seriously. As Harry Francis Mallgrave has put it: ‘Beneath the sour humour of the piece is a serious argument, though oversimplified in places. Loos is not equating ornament with crime; he allows the cobbler the joy of creating traditional scallops on his shoes. But he does reject the use of ornament on objects of everyday use and denies it to those who attend a symphony of Beethoven.’31 Schwartz and Mallgrave viewed the ‘satire’, ‘polemic’ and ‘sour humour’ of ‘Ornament and Crime’ as an obstacle to its understanding, while I would suggest that it is the key to it. Valuable clues on the 120

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intention of the piece are delivered by the text of ‘Ornament and Crime’ itself. The text consists of two distinct parts, and like his earlier texts Loos used an established genre. In the introduction he played out his superior literary skills mocking a sermon with a prophetic undertone obviously referring to the book of Revelation: Then I said: Weep not! See, therein lies the greatness of our age, that it is incapable of producing a new ornament. We have outgrown ornament; we have fought our way through freedom from ornament. See, the time is nigh, fulfilment awaits us. Soon the streets of the city will glisten like white walls. Like Zion, the holy city, the capital of heaven. Then fulfilment will be come.32 Loos presented himself simultaneously as prophet and saviour, similar to the ‘synthesis of apostle and charlatan’ Dörmann had described, writing: ‘I have made the following discovery and pass it on to the world: The evolution of culture is synonymous with the removal of ornament from utilitarian objects.’33 This one sentence encapsulates the dual strategy of the whole text: Loos did not think he was the new Messiah as he ironically suggested by the tone in the first part of the sentence, but he did think that the evolution of culture is synonymous with the removal of ornament. After the iridescent and deliberately irritating introduction – in which all the well-known quotes on sex, crime and cannibalism are to be found – he developed his serious argument in a rather matter-of-fact style. His core argument is rather political, claiming: ‘Ornament is wasted labour power.’34 There is no more talk of sex and crime in the second part. By loosely mounting the irrational introduction on a more rational second part, Loos produced a montage of fragments, like Karl Kraus liked to do. But what did Loos want to achieve with it? Despite careful studies the genesis of ‘Ornament and Crime’ is still dubious. It is not even clear if it was written as a lecture or essay. Christopher Long has suggested that one trigger for Loos was an article by the prolific and controversial Viennese art writer Joseph August Lux in the German Journal Innen-Dekoration under the title ‘Die Erneuerung der Ornamentik’ (The Renewal of Ornamentation).35 Indeed Lux used a lot of motives that reappear in ‘Ornament and Crime’, ‘native populations’, the origin of art, the role of the female, etc.36 But Lux argued that the modern ornament needed to develop into a seismograph of emotions, originating in the soul of the object and addressing the soul of the beholder: ‘These spiritual effects want to ebb out on the surface and out of organic necessity become lines of a certain kind, in a certain rhythm, that produces contrasts.’37 Lux’s inflated way of writing annoyed Karl Kraus so much that three years later he coined the verb ‘luxen’, meaning to ‘spoil something’.38 It is hard to imagine a text more capable of provoking Loos in content and writing style than Lux’s The Renewal of Ornamentation. Loos – who in 1900 criticized the unqualified use of terminology in the papers in his text ‘My Appearance on Stage with Melba’ – scourged the esoteric, quasi-religious writing style of contemporary art critics (maybe Lux) in the first part of ‘Ornament and Crime’. He deliberately threw out the baby with the bath water to deconstruct the self-declared ‘art apostles’ (Kunstapostel). In the 121

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first paragraphs of ‘Ornament and Crime’ Loos inflated his views on ornaments into the absurd, exposing the cursory ‘art-talk’ of his time, but not without contrasting them with serious arguments later in the text. Loos did not name and shame Lux in ‘Ornament and Crime’ but he did in his lecture on the building on the Michaelerplatz two years later, I would ignore this criticism, as it was made by a non-specialist who likes to play the art historian, but since the public in general assumes, because he comments on matters relating to static equilibrium, he is a qualified expert, I will have to teach him a public lesson. He has been so willing to learn from the articles I wrote in the Neue Freie Presse thirteen years ago that complete sentences flow from his pen and people keep asking me whether I have started writing under the pseudonym Lux. This pseudo-expert expressed his surprise that I of all people, the opponent of ornament, should make the blunder of employing ornamental pillars.39 Loos’s texts were polemical, satirical and occasionally deeply unfair; his arguments often over the top and twisted; plus he had an inclination to contradict himself. But all of this was carefully aimed at an audience who were trained over decades to understand the irony and to prefer quick-wittedness over verbose arguments (and who were even willing to take up the challenge in letters to the editor). It was a form of on-going competition over the mastering of language skills that not only included Loos, his friends and his opponents but the general public as well. Not accidentally Loos often did not prepare his lectures but let the audience write questions on a piece of paper (due to his hearing problems) so he could directly respond spontaneously to the questions of his listeners and demonstrate his quick-wittedness. In this context it is very important to remember that a polemical and satirical way of discussing aesthetics in public newspapers was not invented by Loos and his friends or his enemies but was part of an established cultural practice reaching far back into the nineteenth century. To come back to the question, did Loos’s texts accumulate radicality in the course of the 1910s and 1920s? The answer must be yes. They lost their context and stood on their own in collected volumes and reprints in avant-garde journals like Herwarth Walden’s Der Sturm. Isolated from their original intent of outwitting other texts they seemed to get bitter, resenting and violating, and the humour was getting sour. ‘Ornament and Crime’ had a life of its own, even though when the text was finally printed the question of ornament had long been settled (so it seemed at the time) by the Bauhaus and the German Werkbund and others. Loos has been adopted as a predecessor by the international Modern Movement. Was he happy with this? Of course he was not, in 1931 in an essay in the journal Das Neue Frankfurt (of all places) he rejected the rejection of ornament, ‘The misunderstanding of my doctrine was taken over by the Weimar Bauhaus. It was called “New Objectivity”. […] So to all the evils since 1896 even more complicated forms of ornamentation have been added: needless constructions, orgies in preferred materials (concrete, glass, iron). Bauhaus and Constructivist Romanticism is no better than the Romanticism of the ornament.’40

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Figure 6.5 First edition of Adolf Loos’s Ins Leere gesprochen, 1921, cover.

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Notes 1

Aldo Rossi, ‘Introduction’, in Adolf Loos (ed.), Spoken into the Void, Collected Essays 1897–1900. Introduction by Aldo Rossi. Translated by Jane O. Newman and John H. Smith (Cambridge, MA and London: MIT Press, 1982), p. VIII.

2

For a detailed reconstruction of the genesis and the context of the lecture see: Christopher Long, ‘The Origin and Context of Adolf Loos’s “Ornament and Crime”’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 68, 2 (2009), pp. 200–24.

3

Peter Vergo, Art in Vienna 1898–1918: Klimt, Kokoschka, Schiele and their Contemporaries (London: Phaidon, 1975), p. 172.

4

Dagmar Barnouw, ‘Loos, Kraus, Wittgenstein, and the Problem of Authenticity’, in Gerald Chapple and Hans H. Schulte (eds), The Turn of the Century. German Literature and Art, 1890–1915 (Bonn: Bouvier Verlag, 1983), p. 253.

5

Loos, ‘Foreword’, in Spoken into the Void, p. 2.

6

To get the full context of Loos’s articles and lectures, see: Janet Stewart, Fashioning Vienna: Adolf Loos’s Cultural Criticism (London and New York: Routledge, 2000).

7

Loos, ‘Underclothes’, in Spoken into the Void, p. 72.

8

If not indicated otherwise translations are mine. Du wolltest also nicht mir eine Freude machen mit dem neuen Anzug, nicht mir einen Freundschaftsdienst erweisen, sondern wolltest nur, in frech-tyrannischer Art mich zwingen, meinen unantastbaren Geschmack deinem verfehlten elenden verkommenen, den idiotischen Engländern und Amerikanern abgeguckten, irrsinnigen, wider-sinnigen Geschmacke anzubequemen!?! Schmecks!!!!! Du Sklave fremder Völker!!! Peter Altenberg, ‘Letter to Adolf Loos’, in Egon Friedell (ed.), Das Altenbergbuch (Leipzig, Vienna and Zurich: Verlag der Wiener Graphischen Werkstätte, 1922), pp. 356–57.

9

Der eine saß ostentativ regungslos und sagte nur leise vor sich hin: ‘Nein, dieses Tier ist überhaupt das Äußerste! Wie ich es liebe!’ Der andere sagte: ‘Wenn man jemanden liebt, muß man auch etwas für ihn tun; es scheint wirklich kein gewöhnliches Tier zu sein; daraus könnte man etwas machen.’ Stand auf, reichte seinem Freud die Hand, steckte mich in seine Tasche und ging seines Weges. ‘Verbrecherischer Hund!’ schrie ihm der Dichter nach. ‘Alter impotenter Trottel!’ rief der andere zurück. Lina Loos, Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Adolf Opel (Vienna and Klosterneuburg: Edition va bene, 2003), p. 199.

10 ‘Sechs oder sieben Kritiker, Vincenti, Emil Schäffer, Adolf Loos, Franz Arnold (wer ist diese Größe?), Servaes u. s. w. sah man nacheinander ihre mehr oder minder von den Herausgebern beeinflussten Urtheile im Feuilleton des Blattes verkünden.’ Anonymous [Karl Kraus], ‘Die Kunstpflege der “Neuen Freien Presse”’, Die Fackel, 1, 10 (1899), p. 23. 11 For example: John V. Maciuika, ‘Adolf Loos and the Aphoristic Style: Rhetorical Practice in Early Twentieth-Century Design Criticism’, Design Issues, 16, 2 (2000), pp. 75–86; Gilbert J. Carr, ‘The “Habsburg Myth”, Ornament and Metaphor: Adolf Loos, Karl Kraus and Robert Musil’, Austrian Studies, 15 (2007), pp. 65–79. 12 Karl Kraus, ‘Nachts’, Die Fackel, 389–90 (15 December 1913), pp. 18–43, 37, quoted in Jonathan Franzen, The Kraus Project. Essays by Karl Kraus. Translated and annotated by Jonathan Franzen, with assistance and additional notes from Paul Reitter and Daniel Kehlmann (New York: Picador, 2013), p. 35.

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Confronting Problems with a Sense of Humour 13 Edward Timms, Karl Kraus. Apocalyptic Satirist. Culture and Catastrophe in Habsburg Vienna (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 1986), p. 119. 14 Ibid., p. 121. 15 Ibid., pp. 123–24. 16 Loos, ‘The Scala-Theater in Vienna’, in Spoken into the Void, pp. 114–19. 17 Loos, ‘My Appearance on Stage with Melba’, in Spoken into the Void, pp. 120–24. 18 The editor of the English translation of the text researched that the New York Bannerträger, like all the other journals mentioned in the text, disappeared without any trace (or never existed) and Nelly Melba gave the Carmen in the Metropolitan not in 1895 as Loos mentions but a year later. 19 ‘Man hatte immer das Gefühl: ein Windhund kommt da hereingesaust, und er wird mich ins Bein zwicken und nicht einmal Pardon sagen. Und wenn er zu reden begann, hatte man immer wieder das Gefühl: eine Synthese von Apostel und Charlatan.’ Felix Dörmann, ‘Die moderne Wohnung’, Neue Freie Presse (11 February 1900): 6–7. 20 Man bekommt ordentlich Lust, ihn zu bitten: lass’ dich hinreißen, bleibe umGotteswillen nicht bei der Stange, schieß’ ruhig über’s Ziel hinaus, dein Ernst ist unerträglich, bitte werde paradox und heiter, sag’ es mir immer wieder, daß ich ein Verbrecher bin, weil ich nach 6 Uhr einen Steh-Umlegekragen angethan hatte, […] sag’ es mir mit Ernst und Würde, daß du mich verachtest, so lange meine Zimmerthüren braun gestrichen sind und nicht blau oder roth oder weiß … mir kannst Du alles sagen … ich thu’ ja schließlich doch, was ich will, ich bin ja nicht Herr Salinger, und seine junge Frau, ist nicht meine Frau. Ibid., p. 6. 21 ‘Herr Salinger durfte nichts, gar nichts allein einkaufen; man graute ihm nicht über den Weg; die Wohnung mußte tadellos werden; einer oder zwei aus dem Kreise gingen immer mit als Sachverständige und Experten und auch als Referenten des Stammtisches.’ Ibid., p. 7. 22 ‘Endlich war das Kunstwerk, an dem außer den unzähligen Professionisten noch sieben Aestheten mitgearbeitet hatten, fertig.’ Ibid. 23 Um 8 Uhr früh kamen die Leute, welche um 9 Uhr ins Bureau mußten, geführt vom Architekten, der bedauerte, ihnen nur den Salon und das Speisezimmer zeigen zu können, weil es noch zu früh sei; um 10 Uhr kamen die Professionisten, um ihren Kundschaften zu zeigen, was sie zu leisten im Stande sind; um 11 Uhr kamen die jungen Frauen, welche gerade Einkäufe machten und in der Nähe waren; um 12 Uhr kamen die Aestheten, ausgeschlafen und munter, im Begriffe, zum Frühstück zu gehen, und wollten nur einen raschen Blick auf ihre geliebte Wohnung werfen. Ibid. 24 Nicht dass Herr Dörmann dem ungleich originelleren Adolf Loos kürzlich das Schlimmste nachsagte, hat mich erschüttert. Aber dass die Neue Freie Presse einen Schriftsteller, dessen Essays sie über Monate ihrem Publicum als erlesene Feiertagslectüre bot, nun plötzlich verhöhnen lässt, ist seltsam. Vielleicht kann’s sie’s Herrn Loos nicht verzeihen, dass er kunstgewerbliche Gegenstände als Kunstkritiker besprochen und so durch längere Zeit den Inserateteil geschädigt hat. Karl Kraus, ‘H. Fr’, Die Fackel, 2, 32 (February 1900), pp. 31–2. Erlesen does not only mean ‘fine’ but also ‘read’, this cannot be translated adequately. 25 See Gabriele Neri, Caricature architettoniche: Satira e critica del progetto moderno (Macerata and Rome: Quodlibet, 2015), p. 98.

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Laughing at Architecture 26 Loos, ‘The Poor Litte Rich Man’, in Spoken into the Void, p. 127. 27 Franzen, The Kraus Project, pp. 11–12. 28 Frederic J. Schwartz, ‘Architecture and Crime: Adolf Loos and the Culture of the “Case”’, The Art Bulletin, 94, 3 (2012), p. 437. 29 Burkhardt Rukschcio and Roland Schachel, Adolf Loos. Leben und Werk (Salzburg: Residenz, 1982), p. 35. 30 Schwartz, ‘Architecture and Crime’, p. 443. 31 Harry Francis Mallgrave, Modern Architectural Theory: A Historical Survey. 1673–1968 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), pp. 217–18. 32 Adolf Loos, ‘Ornament and Crime’ (1908), in Ulrich Conrads (ed.), Programs and Manifestoes on 20th-century Architecture. Translated by Michael Bullock (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1971), p. 20. 33 Ibid. 34 Ibid., p. 22. 35 Long, ‘The Origins and Context of Adolf Loos’s “Ornament and Crime”’, p. 210. 36 On Lux: Ruth Hanisch, ‘Joseph August Lux und die Internationale der Heimatkunst’, in Kai Krauskopf, Hans Georg Lippert and Karin Zaschke (eds), Neue Tradition. Europäische Architektur im Zeichen von Traditionalismus und Regionalismus (Dresden: Thelem, 2012), pp. 87–106; Mark Jarzombek, ‘Joseph August Lux. Werkbund Promoter, Historian of a Lost Modernity’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 63, 2 (2004), pp. 202–19. 37 ‘Diese seelischen Wirkungen suchen an der Oberfläche auszuschwingen und werden aus organischer Notwendigkeit Linien von bestimmter Art, in einem bestimmten Rhtythmus, der Gegensätze schafft.’ Joseph August Lux, ‘Die Erneuerung der Ornamentik’, InnenDekoration, 18, 9 (September 1907): 286–92 and 18, 10 (October 1907): 352. 38 Karl Kraus, ‘Das Haus am Michaelerplatz’, Die Fackel, 31 December 1910, reprinted in: Adolf Opel (ed.), Kontroversen. Adolf Loos im Spiegel der Zeit (Vienna: Prachner, 1985), p. 41. 39 Adolf Loos, ‘My Building on Michaelerplatz’ [1911], in Adolf Loos (ed.), On Architecture. Selected and Introduced by Adolf and Daniel Opel. Translated by Michael Mitchell (Riverside, CA: Adriane Press, 2002), p. 97. 40 ‘Adolf Loos on Josef Hoffmann’, in Loos (ed.), On Architecture, p. 197.

Bibliography Barnouw, D. (1983), ‘Loos, Kraus, Wittgenstein, and the Problem of Authenticity’, in G. Chapple and H. H. Schulte (eds), The Turn of the Century. German Literature and Art, 1890–1915, Bonn: Bouvier Verlag. Carr, G. J. (2007), ‘The “Habsburg Myth”, Ornament and Metaphor: Adolf Loos, Karl Kraus and Robert Musil’, Austrian Studies, 15: 65–79. Conrads, U. (ed.) (1971), Programs and Manifestoes on 20th-century Architecture, trans. M. Bullock, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Dörmann, F. (1900), ‘Die moderne Wohnung’, Neue Freie Presse (11 February): 6–7. Franzen, J. (2013), The Kraus Project. Essays by Karl Kraus, trans. and annotated by J. Franzen, with assistance and additional notes from P. Reitter and D. Kehlmann, New York: Picador. Friedell, E. (ed.) (1922), Das Altenbergbuch, Leipzig-Vienna-Zurich: Verlag der Wiener Graphischen Werkstätte.

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Confronting Problems with a Sense of Humour Hanisch, R. (2012), ‘Joseph August Lux und die Internationale der Heimatkunst’, in K. Krauskopf, H. G. Lippert, and K. Zaschke (eds), Neue Tradition. Europäische Architektur im Zeichen von Traditionalismus und Regionalismus, Dresden: Thelem. Jarzombek, M. (2004), ‘Joseph August Lux. Werkbund Promoter, Historian of a Lost Modernity’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 63, 2: 202–19. Anonymous [K. Kraus] (1899), ‘Die Kunstpflege der “Neuen Freien Presse”’, Die Fackel, 1, 10 (July): 23. Kraus, K. (1900), ‘H. Fr’, Die Fackel, 2, 32 (February): 31–2. Kraus, K. (1910), ‘Das Haus am Michaelerplatz’, Die Fackel, 12, 313–14 (31 December): 4–6. Kraus, K. (1913), ‘Nachts’, Die Fackel, 389–90 (15 December): 18–43, 37. Long, C. (2009), ‘The Origin and Context of Adolf Loos’s “Ornament and Crime”’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 68, 2: 200–24. Loos, A. (1982), Spoken into the Void, Collected Essays 1897–1900, intro. A. Rossi, trans. J. O. Newman and J. H. Smith, Cambridge, MA and London: The MIT Press. Loos, A. (2002) On Architecture. Selected and Introduced by Adolf and Daniel Opel, trans. M. Mitchell, Riverside, CA: Adriane Press. Loos, L. (2003), Gesammelte Schriften, hg. von Adolf Opel, Vienna and Klosterneuburg: Edition va bene. Lux, J. A. (1907), ‘Die Erneuerung der Ornamentik’, Innen-Dekoration, 18, 9 (September): 286–92 and 18, 10 (October): 352. Maciuika, J. V. (2000), ‘Adolf Loos and the Aphoristic Style: Rhetorical Practice in Early Twentieth-Century Design Criticism’, Design Issues, 16, 2: 75–86. Mallgrave, H. F. (2005), Modern Architectural Theory: A Historical Survey. 1673–1968, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Neri, G. (2015), Caricature architettoniche: Satira e critica del progetto moderno, Macerata and Rome: Quodlibet. Opel, A. (ed.) (1985), Kontroversen. Adolf Loos im Spiegel der Zeit, Vienna: Prachner. Rossi, A. (1982), ‘Introduction’, in A. Loos (ed.), Spoken into the Void, Collected Essays 1897– 1900, intro. A. Rossi, trans. J. O. Newman and J. H. Smith, Cambridge, MA and London: The MIT Press. Rukschcio, B. and Schachel, R. (1982), Adolf Loos. Leben und Werk, Salzburg: Residenz. Schwartz, F. J. (2012), ‘Architecture and Crime: Adolf Loos and the Culture of the “Case”’, The Art Bulletin, 94, 3: 437–57. Stewart, J. (2000), Fashioning Vienna: Adolf Loos’s Cultural Criticism, London and New York: Routledge. Timms, E. (1986), Karl Kraus. Apocalyptic Satirist. Culture and Catastrophe in Habsburg Vienna, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Vergo, P. (1975), Art in Vienna 1898–1918: Klimt, Kokoschka, Schiele and their Contemporaries, London: Phaidon.

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CHAPTER 7 WORDS AND IMAGES OF CONTEMPT: IL SELVAGGIO ON ARCHITECTURE (1926–1942) Michela Rosso

Among the many interests of Mino Maccari (1898–1989) – painter, journalist, caricaturist and main catalyst of the magazine Il Selvaggio (The Wild One)1 – were the building works promoted by the fascist government in its twenty-one-year existence. Aided by Leo Longanesi (1905–1957) in the pages of the bimonthly L’Italiano, Maccari’s architectural polemic vehemently challenged the centralist government policies of huge building tenders, the historicist projects of the official architecture and the sventramenti (disembowelments) that erased some of the country’s most celebrated historic thoroughfares to make way for new modern urban plans. Through the analysis of copious writings and visual materials that were published in the magazine, from 13 July 1924 until five weeks before the arrest of Benito Mussolini, I propose to retrace the history of the relationships between the mouthpiece of the Strapaese movement and the contemporary discourse on architecture and the city as voiced by the specialist literature and other medias during the critical years of Fascism. From its inception, and increasingly from 1926, Il Selvaggio published articles and polemic essays alongside a varied range of materials in different genres and forms of artistic expression including cartoons, rhymes and aphorisms, ironic manipulation of proverbs, word plays and puns. The interest of a study on the satirical representations of architecture within Il Selvaggio lies in the non-specialist nature of a periodical whose cultural stances were predominantly elaborated outside the professional circles of architects, builders and their critics. This essay examines these materials in detail. It also elucidates the historical context in which the contemporary architectural debate unfolded, which provided the source materials for the journal’s invectives.

Trajectories of Il Selvaggio The artistic and political history of Il Selvaggio, born in the small Tuscan town of Colle Val d’Elsa, has already been amply studied2 and will only be briefly summarized. Its origins go back to the initiative of Angiolo Bencini, a wine seller from Poggibonsi, an artillery officer in the First World War and later a squad member. In July 1924, Bencini set up what appears to have been little more than a small local journal, appointing as editor the then twenty-six-year-old apprentice lawyer Maccari, who was soon to become the

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magazine’s factotum. After the murder of the socialist Member of Parliament Giacomo Matteotti, Il Selvaggio rallied those early fascists who had participated in the March on Rome and supported the government uncompromisingly, and soon became the standard bearer of Fascism’s most intransigent faction. From its launch, Il Selvaggio was a magazine of low production values, reporting from the remote provincial recesses of Italy the echoes of what was happening in the capital and the reverberations in the provinces of decisions taken elsewhere. Anti-conformism, programmatic dissent and contempt for fascist normalization alongside exaltation of the most radical and violent aspects of fascist ideology are the dominant registers of the magazine’s first two years. After the spring of 1926, with the resignation of the party’s general secretary, Roberto Farinacci, the ras (local leader) of Cremona and a fascist hardliner, the intransigent period was over: the board moved to Florence, and Bencini was out of the picture. Il Selvaggio, now directed by Maccari, reinvented itself by shifting its programme from politics to culture, devoting increasing space to the visual arts and literature. Despite episodes of censorship, Il Selvaggio was substantially tolerated by the regime, acting as a typical fronde (internal dissident), and soon turned out to be a useful instrument for Fascism to neutralize possible centrifugal tendencies within public opinion. Maccari and Longanesi, continually walked the fine line between faithfulness and dissent towards the regime. Born as a bimonthly publication, Il Selvaggio’s format varied from 50 x 35 cm to 44 x 32 cm, and between four and twelve sheets. Its text, printed in a range of different typefaces, was arranged in two, three or four columns. Articles, aphorisms, mottoes, epigrams and satirical cartoons on architectural and urban topics were published almost uninterruptedly after the editorial board’s move to Florence in 1926 until 1942. The attention to these topics is most evident between 1931 and 1935, corresponding to the most intense period of architectural discussion within the specialist press as well as within the most prominent national newspapers. A similar discontinuity seems to echo the magazine’s inconsistent format and characterizes the architectural and urban issues, which only in the years 1931 to 1935 were treated within identifiably distinct and special series of articles, such as ‘Bandiera gialla’ (Yellow Flag) and ‘Cemento disarmato’ (Concrete Disarmed).

Strapaese, Stracittà and their images In the autumn of 1926 a new literary magazine appeared on the scene called Novecento: Cahiers d’Italie et d’Europe, directed by Massimo Bontempelli. Maccari immediately identified it as the anti-Italian expression of an internationalist, urban and modernist culture, antagonistic to the values that he intended to promote in the pages of Il Selvaggio. This was the start of the dispute between Strapaese (hypercountry) and Stracittà (hypercity). It was officially announced by an article signed by ‘Orco Bisorco’, one of the many pseudonyms used by Maccari, where Strapaese was proposed as ‘the resolute and 130

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serene affirmation of the present, essential and indispensable value of traditions and costumes characteristically Italian, of which the country is at the same time revealer, custodian and innovator’.3 All fundamental motifs of the movement are delineated: promotion of small-town rustic life and of the peasantry; restoration of the indigenous elements of the native culture; recourse to the proud agrarian tradition of Italy; dismissal of cultural homogeneity, foreign culture and bourgeois values as decadent and corrupt. The first architectural polemic, in 1926, discusses the public competition for a new bridge to be built in Florence.4 In the subsequent issue a little woodcut picturing a medieval town illustrates an imaginary dialogue between ‘the Big Chief ’ and ‘one of the ras’, by means of which Maccari explains the editors’ preference for the ‘wild village’ versus the ‘industrial city’.5 The article is followed by the famous passage by John Ruskin, from The Lamp of Memory, on the preservation of historic buildings.6 It is only in May 1928 that the architectural discussion transcends the Tuscan borders to enter a broader national dimension. Only a few weeks before, the architects Adalberto Libera and Gaetano Minnucci had inaugurated the ‘Prima esposizione italiana di architettura razionale’ (First Italian Exhibition of Rational Architecture) held in the galleries of Palazzo delle Esposizioni in Rome with the patronage of the Sindacato Nazionale Fascista Architetti (National Fascist Union of Architects). Maccari’s antimodernist crusade had begun: he had no doubts, and he immediately pigeonholed the rationalist show as an exhibition of ‘lousy, revolting, bolshevic, American and German stuff ’.7 Indeed, images are an integral and fundamental part of the journal’s agenda, as Maccari had made clear in 1927: ‘For us a drawing, an etching, a woodcut are worth as much as an article, and serve our “wild” campaign as much and more than prose.’8 Emblematic in this respect is the publication, on 28 February 1929, of a large allegoric cartoon, the representation of a fictional land, a contemporary version of Thomas More’s insula utopia. The picture shows Strapaese lying at the centre of the ‘Isle of Good Faith’, surrounded by the ‘Forest of True Fascism’, the ‘Mount of Misery’, the ‘Slipway of Profiteers’, the ‘Mine of Illusions’ and the ‘Bastion of Tradition’. The journey to reach this still unexplored territory is dangerous and full of obstacles: the island is bordered by the ‘Sea of Troubles’, the ‘Sea of Lethe’ and the ‘Canal of Ingratitude’. ‘The only way to reach Strapaese’, the accompanying caption tells us, ‘is Fascism’.9 In December 1929 the opposition between Strapaese and Stracittà is again the central theme of an emblematic illustration published on the journal’s cover. Like the February issue’s geographic chart, this one tells a tale in which all the key arguments of Strapaese’s doctrine are summarized and whose protagonists are Filippo Tomaso Marinetti, Ugo Ojetti, Bontempelli and other usual adversaries of Il Selvaggio. In the picture’s background Stracittà is neatly distinguishable thanks to its ‘rational architecture, hostile to children’s smiles, the triumph of the W.C. and of rubber items’. Opposite to it is the land of Strapaese, ‘whose agreeable hillocks rich of woods are populated with pregnant women and children playing and running’. The two landscapes are separated by a neutral space occupied by a river, ‘which sometimes is even a sea’, in which the undecided, ‘those who have not the courage to make a landfall either here or there’, float aimlessly.10 131

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In 1931, Maccari was appointed editor-in-chief of the Turin daily newspaper La Stampa directed by Curzio Malaparte. He moved the board of Il Selvaggio to Turin where it would remain from 30 January until the end of the year. In the ‘laboratory city’ of architectural modernism11 – the seat of the pioneering Lingotto factory, the city of Riccardo Gualino and of his office building reviewed in the pages of La Casa Bella and Domus as an early example of Italian rationalist architecture – Maccari did not conceal his different cultural leaning. On the fourth page of the 30 January 1931 issue a lyric accompanied a satirical illustration whose main protagonist is the industrialist from Biella, whom the regime had just sent to exile. Gualino is attacked not only as an entrepreneur but also as a patron of the arts, architecture and theatre, soon to be identified by Maccari as the representative of a culture strenuously opposed by Il Selvaggio.12 The discussion around the role that modern architecture should play in a fascist state became crucial at the beginning of 1931. Igniting the debate was the article ‘Architettura arte di Stato’ published by Pier Maria Bardi on 31 January in the Milan newspaper L’Ambrosiano.13 The issue, later at the heart of Bardi’s Rapporto sull’architettura, was extensively discussed between February and June 1931 in all the major newspapers. Within the general reorganization of the state apparatus carried out by Fascism, Bardi saw the revision of building legislation as a compelling necessity: the state must surveil and intervene to make way for the ‘Italian new artistic conscience’. Bardi’s exhortation fitted perfectly within the fascist policy for official culture and the management of social consensus.14 Maccari’s architectural polemics went to the heart of this discussion and became explicit on 15 February 1931, with the publication of a satirical cartoon of the architect Marcello Piacentini dressed in eighteenth-century attire riding a winged devil (Figure 7.1). The picture is accompanied by a humorous epigram whose main theme is the reconstruction, sanctioned by the royal decree of July 1930, of Turin’s via Roma. In order to understand the different layers of meaning implied by Maccari’s cartoon we have to briefly introduce the terms of the contemporary discussion developed at that moment around the architectural style to be used in the reconstruction of Turin’s main thoroughfare. For the enlargement of the first part of the street, the law had prescribed the adoption of an ‘eighteenth-century’ style identified with that of the buildings of Piazza San Carlo, which actually date back to the 1630s. Divergences between the official architecture and the internationalist stances of the young rationalist architects are made evident at the end of March, when the counter-project’s perspective drawings signed by the members of the Movimento per l’architettura razionale (Miar, movement for rational architecture) were shown at the Second Exhibition of Rational Architecture in Rome. The expert advice sought from the Roman architect Piacentini by the city’s public administration for the second phase of reconstruction, and his subsequent appointment as the project’s general coordinator, is a well-known story, and the rhyme does not spare explicit allusions to the difficult layout of the square behind the two churches, the most critical point of the second section’s whole operation. At the same time, at least two meanings are implied by Piacentini’s baroque garb: an allusion to the street’s historicist architectural language and to Messinese Filippo Juvarra who in 1714 had been recruited 132

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Figure 7.1 ‘Piacentini il gran flagello…’ (Piacentini, the great plague…), February 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

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as the chief court architect by the Savoy king Vittorio Amedeo II. The article of February 1931 is the first of a series of harsh attacks on Piacentini, who, since 1929, had been at the centre of a sequence of exceptionally important public commissions, confirming him as the interpreter as well as the arbiter of any official enterprise.15 The historian Walter Adamson has rightly called attention to Il Selvaggio’s tendency ‘to focus on a personalized enemy, often one with stereotyped attributes suitable for scapegoating’.16 Probably the most prominent and most publicly exposed figure of the architectural profession under Fascism, Piacentini offers himself to Il Selvaggio as the ideal butt of such a personification. In March 1931 the architectural polemic gathered momentum, and a long article signed by Ardengo Soffici presented a first critical articulation. In twenty-two points, Soffici appealed to the constituent values of Italian civilization: it is necessary to expel all that ‘does not feel Italian and is an intrusion of alien spirits and forms’ and restore the faith in ‘italianità’. Soffici labels reinforced concrete as an ‘architecture of non-civilization’ and an unequivocal sign of ‘imbecility and vulgarity’. By contrast, he advocates the use of marble and stone, which he commends as genuinely local and traditional materials capable of resisting the destructive power of time. For the Tuscan painter and art critic, modernity is the expression of a ‘transitory’, ‘materialist’, ‘mechanical’ and ‘imported’ civilization. Hyperbolic in tone, Soffici’s words sound more an invective than serious criticism, blending together common-sense statements and latudinarian arguments in which modernists are associated with a variety of alien enemies, such as Bolshevics, Jews, Masons and Protestants.17 Crucial to Soffici’s article are the contrast between the national tradition and a foreign and imported culture, the defence of ‘italianità’ as an antidote to the perils of an ‘intellectual and artistic German, French or American colonization’.18 The two-page text is distributed over four columns and has a pictorial counterpoint in a woodcut and in a satirical cartoon. The first one is a drawing of Piazza Cavour in Livorno, signed by Maccari and occupying the two central columns. The second, entitled ‘La cometa infausta ovvero il Marcello Piacentini incombente’ (The inauspicious comet, or the looming Marcello Piacentini) (Figure 7.2), shows a crowd of men and women standing in a historic Italian square and staring in fear at a comet suddenly appearing in a sky full of stars; some of the people run to escape while the surrounding buildings begin to sway and the top of a tower looks like it is about to fall. The equation between contemporary architecture and calamity is explicit. The graphic style of this picture, like that of others that will follow in subsequent issues, recalls the late nineteenth-century tradition of popular almanacs and woodcuts produced by anonymous self-taught artisans. Maccari saw this language – as the art historian Roberto Longhi would soon notice – as the product of a venerable technique steeped in the Italian tradition, from which he profusely borrowed ‘to illustrate the popular moods of a political action in which he was personally engaged’.19 Already, since the early 1920s, the dialectic between tradition and modernity, national ideals, internationalism and the search for Italian-ness, which were at the heart of cultural debates during Fascism, had triggered a vast discussion in which the most distinguished voices of the architectural profession were involved. In 1921, in an article published in 134

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Figure. 7.2 ‘La cometa infausta ovvero il Marcello Piacentini incombente’ (The inauspicious comet, or the looming Marcello Piacentini), March 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

Architettura e Arti Decorative Piacentini had himself admitted the inferiority of Italy’s modern architecture compared to foreign examples. As it is well known, the Gruppo 7, which, in the first of its four statements published in Rassegna Italiana, had overtly allied itself with the internationalist cause, would not hesitate subsequently to correct this stance by recognizing its attachment to a deeply rooted Italian tradition as well as the necessity for the new architecture ‘to maintain a character which is typically ours’.20 On 31 March 1931, only a few days after the opening of the Second Exhibition of Rational Architecture inside Bardi’s Galleria d’arte, the modernist catastrophe previously evoked by the ‘cometa infausta’ reappears in Il Selvaggio in ‘Sogno di un giovane architetto’ (Dream of a young architect). Among a group of buildings in ruins, people run about, throwing open their arms or putting their hands on their heads; everyone looks terrified. In the same issue a cartoon picturing a dressing screen, entitled ‘Da P. M. Bardi ognun si guardi’21(Stay on the lookout for Bardi) inveighs against the author of the outrageous photomontage ‘Tavolo degli orrori’ (Table of horrors).22 At the Second Exhibition of Rational Architecture, alongside postcards picturing the worst examples of the pre-fascist fogeyism, the photomontage includes Bergamo’s civic tower and Brescia’s Piazza della Vittoria, both works by Piacentini.23 135

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Bandiera Gialla: Razionale on board Il Selvaggio attacked all those diverse components of the Italian architectural culture that its editors and contributors hastily gathered under the generic umbrella of ‘il razionale’. The personification of the polemic as well as the use of all-comprehensive terms to address often different sets of problems gave the enemies a false concreteness. It is difficult to isolate precisely what such categories as ‘razionale’ really meant to Maccari and his comrades. Among the most direct targets of Il Selvaggio was certainly the polemical and political action of Bardi, but the journal’s tirades did not spare architects whose works are less easy to fit within the category of rationalism. A case in point is Piacentini, the obsessive focus of Il Selvaggio’s fulminations. Since the First Exhibition of Rational Architecture in 1928, Piacentini’s relationship with ‘razionalisti’ was intertwined with reciprocal admonishments and attacks, such as the ones directed at him by Bardi in ‘Tavolo degli orrori’ as well as in the Rapporto sull’architettura, where Piacentini is epitomized as the greatest obstacle to the affirmation of the rationalist tendency in Italy.24 Throughout the 1930s, after achieving a sober neotraditionalist language, of which Bergamo’s civic centre, the Palace of Justice of Messina and the Casa Madre dei Mutilati are emblematic, Piacentini adopted a new pragmatic approach that combined a deep anti-dogmatism with an inclusive architectural language in which modernism and traditionalism coexisted. A clear testimony to this orientation is his essay Architettura d’oggi, published in 1930, where the complexity and variety of the contemporary international experiences are reordered in a coherent system, thus prefiguring a true programme for Italy’s new architecture.25 It is exactly this role of mediator between opposing tendencies played by Piacentini from the early 1930s that Longanesi attacked when he criticized the architect’s opportunistic shift towards the most recent strands of international architecture. A further criticism of the ‘Accademico d’Italia’ is contained in an article published on 15 April 1931, entitled ‘Bandiera Gialla’, a reference to the flag flown to announce a ship’s arrival from a foreign country requesting customs clearance, a truly appropriate image for what the editors thought of modern architecture.26 The text reads: ‘Starting from a rhetorical notion of the Roman and the baroque, the Piacentinian style has gradually updated itself to the recent tendencies of rational architecture, German and Dutch, adopting a false character of tradition and modernity.’27 At the bottom of the page, a cartoon called ‘La pialla dei tre’ (The threesome’s plane), drawn by Amerigo Bartoli Natinguerra (1890–1971), accompanied by a long rhyme and caption, shows a bust with three necks. It is the reinvention of a monstrous Cerberus and at the same time a gloomy recollection of the Triple Alliance, hinting at the three Italian accademici, Armando Brasini, Cesare Bazzani and Piacentini, wearing the typical fascist ‘feluche’, in the act of planing down Rome’s monumental historic fabric. Various Roman buildings, including the Colosseum, are placed alongside the plane. On 15 May Longanesi resumed the arguments already aired in April by publishing a second article,28 this time dedicated to Rome’s new master plan. As has been amply shown,29 it is in the transformation of the Italian capital since the 1920s that the different cultural 136

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components of Fascism found a concrete terrain of confrontation. In this scenario, the mediating role of Piacentini was pivotal. Longanesi’s attention thus went to the new layout of Piazza Venezia, which he defined as ‘the square where the modern city has left its saddest imprints […] a square typical of a South American republic, of those that are planned after plebiscites and realized thanks to public subscriptions’.30 The writing, evoking emblematic episodes of the city’s dramatic past, from the Sack of Rome, which gives the title to the article, to the breach of Porta Pia, is echoed in Longanesi’s satirical cartoon picturing the architectural solution for the square, where ‘two rows of columns […] are placed alongside [Giuseppe] Sacconi’s monument, and two dreary seemingly fake fountains hamper the circulation’ (Figure 7.3).31 Thus, in the cartoon an obelisk surmounted by the head of Piacentini wearing the typical fascist cocked hat is placed at the centre of the gate leading to the square, and on the top of the colonnade a series of ‘fasci littori’ replace statues. Longanesi concludes, ‘the architecture of Rome does not allow disembowelments: Piacentini instead divides it in lots and in squares, slices it as if it were cheese’.32 In June 1931 the reconstruction of Turin’s Via Roma is again at the centre of the journal’s attention with an etching introduced as the ‘work of an anonymous engraver to illustrate a popular song of twenty years ago’. The indication of a third route to be followed in the reconstruction of Turin’s most central thoroughfare, an alternative to the counter-project put forward by the young Miar rationalists and to Piacentini’s solution, dictates the choice of an appropriate artistic genre, rooted in the anonymous works of self-taught Italian artisans (Figure 7.4).

Figure 7.3 Leo Longanesi, ‘La definitiva sistemazione di Roma secondo l’architetto Piacentini’ (The definitive layout of Rome in the idea of architect Marcello Piacentini), May 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977). 137

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Figure 7.4 ‘Come sarà la nuova via Roma a Torino?’ (What will the new Via Roma in Turin be like?), June 1931. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

Various expressive opportunities find a place in the magazine. The political and cultural satire, translated into verses, prose and vignettes, is accompanied by woodcuts and drawings, art criticism, aphorisms and gazzettini (chronicles) ironically gossiping on the most recent anecdotes. Bandiera Gialla, inaugurated in April 1931 – and soon after interrupted, recommencing on 1 April 1933 – published an article by Longanesi and Maccari, introduced by a black title on a yellow setting reading ‘Bandiera Gialla: Razionale a bordo’ (Yellow Flag: Rational on board). The article marks a shift in the way the journal responded, by means of a more incisive layout, to the suggestions offered by the national architectural polemics (Figure 7.5).33 The first page is divided into three columns corresponding to three distinct topics: ‘Macchine’, ‘1910=1930’ and ‘Italklinker’. A visually composed argument weaves together the polemic writings and three photographs, respectively picturing models of locomotives, a small Art Nouveau villa and an anonymous rationalist house. The equivalence ‘1910=1930’ finds an immediate reflection in the text, where we read that ‘the Liberty and the razionale are two enemies worthy of each other and fighting each other in order to keep themselves alive’. In ‘Macchine’, the analogy between machine and architecture, a recurrent topos of the avant-garde discourse and a source of poetic suggestions for artists and architects alike, is the pretext to push the anti-modernist argument even further. A sequence of paroxisms culminate with the affirmation that ‘the rationalist aesthetics takes advantage of machine forms, such as ships, locomotives – but also – cranes, canons, radiators, and insulating antennas’.34 On the second page, again 138

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Figure 7.5 ‘Bandiera Gialla: Razionale a bordo’ (Yellow flag: Rational on board), April 1933. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977). structured on three columns, texts and images define an asymmetrical composition in which two horizontal photographs, positioned in the page’s left upper section and showing a school designed by Willem M. Dudok at Hilversum, are counterpointed by 139

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two smaller pictures introduced by the title ‘Museo d’orrori’ (Museum of horrors). One of these illustrates a modernist villa with a caption in German whose translation reads, ‘The T-square gone wild. The house as a boat – modern architecture, misunderstood.’35 On the third page a sculpture by the Lithuanian artist Jacques Lipchitz, exhibited outside the Villa de Noailles designed by Robert Mallet-Stevens at Hyères, is designated as ‘Il mostruoso’ (The monstrous).36 In the page’s lower section two horizontal pictures portray Walter Gropius’s Bauhaus building and Dudok’s school. A passage taken from Giacomo Leopardi’s Della natura degli uomini e delle cose completes the page. The fourth and last page deploys three different registers. In the upper part is an invitation calling on the co-founder and director of the magazine Quadrante, Bardi, ‘to repent of the campaign he has been conducting in favour of rational architecture’.37 The special characters in which it is printed and the frieze framing it, defined by the stylized images of a fish and a snake, are typographic clichés of the popular illustrated press that Maccari and Longanesi discovered while rummaging in the drawers of old typography workshops. In the centre of the page, the photograph of Emil Fahrenkampf ’s Shell Haus, rotated 90 degrees and re-christened ‘Treppen-Haus’ (Stair House), is accompanied by an ironic caption written in German. On its left, the editors dedicate one column to reviewing the competition entry for the new Florence railway station by the Tuscan group led by Giovanni Michelucci, summed up as ‘a masterpiece in laziness’.38 Reactions to ‘Bandiera Gialla’ followed promptly. In April 1933 it was the turn of Edoardo Persico, then at the head of the magazine Casabella with Giuseppe Pagano. For him both Maccari and Longanesi were ‘mediocre figures’ sharing the ‘hatred intelligence and the reactionary passion’, and were not to be taken seriously.39

Concrete disarmed: ‘Architettura e buoi dei paesi tuoi’ The polemic unfolds in the subsequent issue of 15 May 1933, in a new series entitled ‘Il cemento disarmato’, 40 a witty montage of jokes, rhymes and photos mocking the ‘new architecture’ epitomized by the use of cemento armato (reinforced concrete). The series’ title, ‘Cemento disarmato’ (Concrete disarmed), is accompanied by two subtitles that adapt popular Italian rhymes to concurrent architectural themes: ‘Architettura e buoi dei paesi tuoi’ (Choose buildings and cattle from your own town), which is a reworked version of ‘Moglie e buoi dei paesi tuoi’ (Choose wife and cattle from your own town), and ‘Di razionale ogni scherzo vale’ (With razionale any trick goes), from the popular ‘A carnevale ogni scherzo vale’ (With carnival any trick goes). The article on the fifth page, as was already customary for the journal, is printed in various typographic styles, structured in four columns and furnished by four black and white images. In the upper left, a vertical photo occupying two columns portrays the backyard of a run-down working-class condominium, captioned as ‘houses in Rome: aspects of unintentional razionale’. On the right, a cartoon showing two modern buildings, from which spring a human bust and head, is entitled ‘Specchio dell’architettura’ (Mirror of architecture). In the page’s lower section is an engraving captioned ‘Il senso dell’architettura nelle stampe 140

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popolari’ (Meaning of architecture in popular prints), whose style programmatically echoes that of late nineteenth-century illustrated journals. In the last column, a picture taken from an old issue of Emporium illustrates Bergamo’s Banca d’Italia, an earlier work of Piacentini. Two photos of ‘urinoirs publiques’ (public urinals) and ‘acquai’ (water sinks) printed on the following page provide further samples of ‘razionale involontario’ (unintentional rational) and are followed by pictures of Dudok’s buildings at Hilversum. In the following issue, a couple of rhymes accompany the series ‘Il cemento disarmato’.41 The first one reads, ‘Facil successo/Porta al decesso’ (Easy success/Leads to decease), once again referring to Piacentini. In the first column, a picture taken by Longanesi portrays an anonymous house in Rome and is followed by a sentence taken from Leopardi’s Zibaldone. In the second column, a brief text entitled ‘Specchio dell’architettura’ introduces a review of earlier works by Piacentini. Alongside the text, on the following page, a drawing of a bridge and small houses by Pietro Bugiani and a landscape by Maccari bring the polemic back to the already familiar language of rural scenes and still lives frequently featured by the journal. Il Selvaggio was nurtured by heterogeneous visual repertories. For the 15 August 1933 cover, as an introduction to a passage taken from Francesco Algarotti’s architectural treatise, Longanesi imagines an architectural capriccio in which real objects and fictitious elements are placed alongside each other to give shape to a surreal composition: an architect with raised arms is standing in front of the Spanish Steps at Trinità dei Monti. But instead of the church with its towers, the scene is pictured against the backdrop of two smoking chimneystacks, emblems of a much-despised industrialist aesthetics. Persico’s immediate reaction to these repeated affronts appears on the August– September issue of Casabella, where the architectural critic nicknames Maccari as ‘Maccarone’, in homage to those Italians ‘without alphabet and without trade that seek fortune beyond the Alps’. He labels Il Selvaggio ‘an intolerable document of ill faith’; while the magazine had been initially inspired by such illustrious satirical models as Simpliccissimus or Il Mondo Illustrato, it had fallen, Persico thought, into banal rhetoric.42 The idea that the razionale already existed long before it was codified by Bardi, Persico and Pagano, in the nineteenth-century patrimony of textile workshops, warehouses, iron bridges and slaughterhouses, is made explicit by an etching published on 30 September and entitled ‘I parenti poveri’ (The poor relatives). The image, featuring an anonymous unostentatious nineteenth-century warehouse crowned by a smoking chimneystack, is proposed as evidence that ‘the razionale has always existed and never bothered anyone until it pretended to become an aesthetics’.43 The anti-modernist polemic finds further expression in a passage taken from Algarotti’s Saggio sopra l’architettura, introduced by a drawing of Longanesi translated into a linocut by Maccari, where, alongside the portrait of the celebrated Venetian writer, a bizarre landscape of skyscrapers and modern bathroom fixtures is completed by classical architectural fragments and ruins (Figure 7.6). A few pages later, a new episode of ‘Il cemento disarmato’ generically equates the ‘awkward piacentinian henhouses’ to the ‘bonnets, cages and tubes that the building cooperatives of rationalism spread here and there in Italy’.44 As a comment to this umpteenth invective, the journal published the cartoon ‘Tempesta barocca sul razionale’ 141

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Figure 7.6 ‘Saggio sopra l’architettura di Francesco Algarotti. Disegno di Longanesi. Linoleum di Maccari’ (Essay on architecture by Francesco Algarotti. Drawing by Longanesi, linocut by Maccari), September 1933. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

(Baroque storm on the razionale), where a stormy sky looms above a modern cityscape populated by a congregation of different characters. An angel plays a trumpet, another holds a burning heart in his hands and throws thunderbolts at the city below, while a third blows wind onto the buildings. As an effect of this action the city’s structures begin to sway or fall, while a group of tiny people run across an open space toward a car. After 1933, cartoons in colour and in increasingly larger dimensions began to prevail over other expressive registers of the architectural polemic. This tendency is confirmed by the cover of the issue for 15 February 1934. The upper half is occupied by Maccari’s ‘Pare che il razionale non ti abbia portato bene, o Carlo Marx!’ (It seems that razionale did not bring you luck, oh! Karl Marx!). In the midst of the Austrian Civil War between socialist and conservative forces, Il Selvaggio published a cartoon where a man reproaches the German philosopher, who is lying exhausted on the ground, the famous modernist Viennese building bearing his name falling onto him. The 30 September 1934 issue, published while the discussion on the Palazzo del Littorio competition45 was still ongoing, is particularly worthy of notice. The competition jury, formed by Piacentini, Bazzani, Brasini and others, was regarded with suspicion by Bardi. In a well-known article46 and three satirical photomontages published in Quadrante, Bardi harshly criticizes the majority of the entrants and warns about damage to the archaeological zone at the hands of the state.47 In an article entitled ‘Dal vecchio al nuovo testamento’ (From 142

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old to new testament),48 Il Selvaggio traces the descent of architectural competitions from Sacconi’s monument to Vittorio Emanuele II to Piacentini’s public commissions, and denounces the inevitable ageing of the ‘rationalist formulas’. The article is illustrated by Maccari’s etching of a condensed visual inventory of architectural modernism: a transatlantic oceanliner, a tower and the spiral shape of a long modern building, an exaggerated version of Mario Ridolfi, Vittorio Cafiero and Ernesto Lapadula’s entry to the competition for the Palazzo del Littorio. On the same page the editors resurrect some of the nation’s forgotten memories and publish what the authors describe as a further, neglected nineteenth-century ancestor of razionale. The image of a cubic stepped tower, articulated into regular geometric grids of vertical pillars and horizontal beams, is one of the 296 entries for the Vittoriano, which an old book by Carlo Dossi, cited by Maccari, included among the many architectural follies generated by the competition.49 On 10 June 1934, on the occasion of the public reception given to the architects of Sabaudia and of the Florence railway station at Palazzo Venezia, Mussolini also expressed his admiration for the ‘beautiful church’ of Cristo Re in Rome, a work of Piacentini, describing it as ‘perfectly respondent to the spirit and to the scope’.50 In the November issue, Il Selvaggio published a cartoon in which five architects dressed as priests and wielding rifles similar to church candles are lined up as an armed guard in front of the church. The project can be seen as a true test case of Piacentini’s inclusivist attitude, marking his shift from a neotraditional language towards a modern and more updated idiom, the cartoon alluding to the many variants before the definitive version was produced; the same church was the focus of another humorous note published four years later.51 The last episode of ‘Il cemento disarmato’ sanctioning the inexorable failure of razionale, which has ‘turned itself into a manual for speculative and master builders’, is entrusted to Manlio Malabotta. His article warns of the imminent demolition of Trieste’s Piazza Oberdan and calls attention to the urgent need to include the despised nineteenth-century architectural patrimony in the national catalogue of buildings worthy of preservation.52 Longanesi’s picture of an unfinished and shabby wall of a Roman block of flats, the last example of ‘un-intentional’ rationalist architecture, closes the page. Whereas Maccari’s volcanic imagination does not cease to generate jibes about Piacentini’s recent commissions, such as the Brazilian university campus53 or the infamous project for the demolition of Spina dei Borghi, satirical illustrations of architecture gradually prevail over polemical writings, which are increasingly limited to brief notes included in the Gazzettino. In December 1935 a cartoon entitled ‘Razionalsanzioni’54 (Rational sanctions) accompanied a rhyme in which the modernist architect, his steel buildings as well as the idea of a motorized and hyperurban modernity are all curtailed in the wake of the regime’s autarchy measures that limit the use of iron in the building trades. Against the backdrop of modern skyscrapers, an angel crowned with aureole is breaking an automobile, driven by a tiny architect, into two pieces. The polemics became increasingly rarefied and condensed in a few, but powerful, graphic signs: images definitely took over words. Thus, an entire page of the August 1936 issue is devoted to a large colour illustration entitled ‘Un’indigestione di razionale’, picturing Italy in the style of the popular children’s book character Shockheaded Peter 143

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and carrying an enormous belly filled with a chaotic multitude of modern miniaturized buildings (Figure 7.7). And on 15 March 1942, a vindictive caricature of a disemboweled Piacentini attacked by a horde of houses wielding pickaxes officially closes Il Selvaggio’s architectural polemic (Figure 7.8).55

Figure 7.7 Mino Maccari, ‘Un’indigestione di razionale’ (An indigestion of rational), August 1936. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

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Figure 7.8 ‘L’itala architettura all’architetto che per sete dell’or la distruggea, gridi e sia il grido fausto benedetto, mors tua vita mea’ (The architecture of Italy, to the architect who destroyed it for the sake of his thirst for gold. Cry, and the propitious cry be blessed: your death, my life), March 1942. Reprinted from Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence, 1977).

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Between words and images: Symmetries and collisions As it appears from the texts I have quoted in this article, the terms of the architectural writings of Il Selvaggio often remain vague, and none of the texts by Maccari and his collaborators ever addresses concretely the architectural features of the buildings and projects they cite. Whilst they are clear about what they stand against it is often difficult to understand what they stand for. The personification of the polemic against Piacentini and other prominent figures of the architectural establishment was only one aspect of a broader attack on the regime. Landscape, architecture and the city – and their visual counterparts – all played a crucial role in the ideology of Il Selvaggio. Architecture is not rejected per se but it is seen as a microcosm of society, continually and programmatically used as a platform to express a dissent that informs the broader fields of politics and culture. This is reflected first and foremost in the invention of the fictional or idealized Strapaese landscapes whose particular subject iconography and graphic style together convey an identical message, where the verbal and the visual are in ideal harmony. The values of geographical rootedness promoted by the journal are represented in the rural imagery of the drawings and etchings by Carlo Carrà, Soffici, Ottone Rosai, Maccari, Nicola Galante and Achille Lega. Their repeated representations of Tuscan landscapes privilege the key iconographic elements of cypress and pine trees, haystacks, rolling hills and anonymous farm buildings. At the same time, the preference for the crude language of woodcuts and linocuts, with their deliberately undefined contours and shapes, emphasize the unsophistication dear to Maccari and his collaborators.56 Furthermore, the paraphrasing of an archaic graphic style borrowed from the works of the anonymous self-taught artisans, as in ‘La cometa infausta’, ‘Sogno di un giovane architetto’ or ‘Senso dell’architettura nelle stampe popolari’, is the result of a deliberate choice meant to attain the maximum transparency between content and expression, in an almost functionalist mode. The same aspiration informs the use of the German or French language for some of the captions to unequivocally convey the perceived foreignness and alien nature of those modernist architectural works, whose pictures are being celebrated throughout the contemporary architectural press. At the same time the rhetoric of calamity and destruction reiterated by the journal, as a reaction to disembowelments, was the product of a brilliant reworking of that kind of sensationalist imagery of natural and accidental catastrophes, such as floods, earthquakes and fires, diffused throughout the popular almanacs and illustrated periodicals of the second half of the nineteenth and into the early twentieth century. One of the most original yet underappreciated achievements of Il Selvaggio is the unconventional way in which Maccari and Longanesi deliberately use or emulate late nineteenth-century typography as a weapon to illustrate their alternative version of a contemporary architectural and artistic aesthetics. What is entirely original, compared to the same use in other contemporary art and architectural magazines, where it is primarily aesthetic, is the intentionally programmatic employment of this kind of pictorial material. Longanesi’s personal obsession with nineteenth-century ephemeral 146

Words and Images of Contempt

culture, which was also at the heart of L’Italiano, emerged in the magazine’s obstinate attempt to show the nineteenth century’s ability to anticipate the future, thereby giving recognition to a neglected cultural patrimony. Thus, the faux-naif use of old prints derived from popular illustrated journals, agrarian almanacs and ex-voto images can be interpreted as an original and ironic form of nineteenth-century revivalism as well as an anti-conformist response to that homogenization of taste and culture that was perceived as one of the ill effects of state-sanctioned centralization and propagation of mass culture. The rediscovery of nineteenth-century popular illustrations is far from nostalgic, and was not merely a counterpart to the more refined and cultivated language of etchings, woodcuts and drawings signed by notable artists published in the magazine. Maccari and Longanesi were well aware that, by proposing these materials, they were explicitly acknowledging a paternity of those modern movements of art and architecture, though not one always admitted to by their supporters. Far from being an innovation, the functionalist, primitivist or surrealist lexicon of modern art and architecture can be recognized as having some of its roots and sources in those unsophisticated products of anonymous art.57 In so doing, Longanesi and Maccari predate later post-war critiques of modernism and show how a well-established figurative anonymous tradition was reappropriated and re-contextualized by modernism, undercutting its claim to being a schismatic break with the past. This is clear when, in ‘Via Roma’, ‘Il senso dell’architettura nelle stampe popolari’ as well as in ‘Parenti poveri’, Maccari and Longanesi trace back the origins of an alternative version of architectural modernity to the language of the popular art of the previous century, or when they identify a paradoxical nineteenthcentury predecessor to modern abstraction in one of the projects published by Dossi among its inventory of ‘nutty’ entries to the architectural competition for the Vittoriano. The main interest of the architectural polemics published in Il Selvaggio resides in the graphic language and communication techniques used to substantiate the authors’ dissent towards certain foibles of Fascism. The disparity between the arguments contained in the writings and the varied repertory of graphic materials and literary registers deployed by Maccari and his collaborators could not be stronger. Whereas the amateurishness of their architectural criticism leaves us disconcerted, we are intrigued and fascinated by their rich and eclectic language of puns, jokes, etchings and cartoons. It is in the satirical cartoons, in the short stories and rhymes, that their aversion to fascist official culture and rhetoric is best expressed. Maccari and Longanesi, united by a similar social and formative background, creatively plunder the whole varied expressive catalogue of visual and textual satire, caricature and parody. This is manifest in the etchings where the whole diverse phenomenology of modern architecture is synthetically condensed, from the reiterated shapes of squared towers and polished modern bathroom fixtures to the deformation and manipulation of graphic materials, as in the rotated photograph of Fahrenkampf ’s Shell Haus. In Longanesi’s inventory of ‘unintentional rationalist’ prototypes exemplified by derogatory photographs of modular water sinks, public urinals and unadorned backyards of popular housing blocks, Il Selvaggio overturns the objet trouvé aesthetics and the cult of ordinary things congenial 147

Laughing at Architecture

to the artistic and architectural avant-gardes, and uses it to deflate modernist myths of functionalist de-ornamenation and building standardization. The representations of architecture in Il Selvaggio are of particular interest because of the non-specialist nature of the periodical, in which irony and sarcasm are used to voice concern about a variety of political and cultural issues, including Italy’s architectural and artistic identity and patrimony. As with any other instances of social, political and cultural satire, each of Maccari’s and Longanesi’s cartoons, eclectic montages, short stories and rhymes is informed by a specific and unique set of historical circumstances. The semantic instability of this kind of material, its ambiguity and the richness of possible meanings are what make this study fascinating as a field of investigation.

Notes 1

This essay is based on the close scrutiny of the magazine Il Selvaggio as it has been entirely reprinted in the 1977 facsimile edition Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943 (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1977). This one consists of six volumes (Vol. 1: 1924–1925; Vol. 2.1 1925–1926; Vol. 2.2: 1926–1928; Vol. 3: 1929–1932; Vol. 4: 1933–1936; Vol. 5: 1937–1943) grouping all the issues published between July 1924 and June 1943, including also the second versions of the censored ones. The volume numbers of Il Selvaggio refer to the years of publication of the journal. The pages in the 1977 compilation have been consecutively numbered and the numeration begins anew in each of the six volumes. The items in the list of references and notes therefore use this re-numbered pagination and not the numbers of the original individual issues. An extended version of this essay has been published as Michela Rosso, ‘Il Selvaggio 1926– 1942: Architectural Polemics and Invective Imagery’, Architectural Histories, 4, 1 (2016), pp. 1–42.

2

148

Mino Maccari, Mino Maccari, con testo critico di Roberto Longhi e ‘Fogli da un taccuino’ di Mino Maccari (Florence: Edizioni U, 1948); Carlo Ludovico Ragghianti, ‘La frusta del Selvaggio’, in C. L. Ragghianti, Il Selvaggio di Mino Maccari (Venice: Neri Pozza, 1955), pp. 9–66; Luigi Cavallo (ed.), Indice del Selvaggio (Florence: Galleria Michaud, 1969); Alberto Asor Rosa, ‘Selvaggismo e novecentismo. La cultura letteraria e artistica del regime’, in Storia d’Italia. Dall’Unità a oggi (Turin: Einaudi, 1975), pp. 1500–520; Luciano Troisio, Le riviste di Strapaese e Stracittà, Il Selvaggio, L’Italiano, 900 (Treviso: Canova, 1975); Italo Cremona, ‘Ricordi del Selvaggio a Torino e Roma’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1977), pp. IX–X; Indro Montanelli and Marcello Staglieno, Leo Longanesi. Con una scelta di scritti di L. Longanesi (Milan: Rizzoli, 1984); Jeffrey Schnapp and Barbara Spackman, ‘Selections from the Great Debate on Fascism and Culture’, Critica Fascista 1926–1927. Stanford Italian Review, 8, 1–2 (1990), pp. 235–72; A. M. Sciascia, Arte e politica dopo il ’22: Il Selvaggio (Caltanissetta: Salvatore Sciascia Editore, 1993); William Adamson, ‘The Culture of Italian Fascism and the Fascist Crisis of Modernity. The Case of Il Selvaggio’, Journal of Contemporary History, 30 (1995), pp. 555–75; Emily Braun, ‘Speaking Volumes: Giorgio Morandi Still Lives in the Cultural Politics of Strapaese’, Modernism/Modernity, 2, 3 (1995), pp. 89–116; A. Mezio, ‘Un contributo alla storia de “Il Selvaggio”’, in Incisioni di Mino Maccari per ‘Il Selvaggio’ 1924–1943: collezione Tito Balestra (Florence: Maschietto & Musolino, 1998), pp. 11–12; Sandra Busini, La passione politica di Mino Maccari nelle pagine de Il Selvaggio (Colle di Val d’Elsa: Grafiche Boccacci,

Words and Images of Contempt 2002); Lara Pucci, ‘Re-Mapping the Rural: The Ideological Geographies of Strapaese’, in Angela Delle Vacche (ed.), Film, Art, New Media: Museum Without Walls? (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), pp. 178–95. 3

If not otherwise indicated the translations are mine. ‘[...] l’affermazione risoluta e serena del valore attuale, essenziale, indispensabile della tradizioni e dei costumi caratteristicamente italiani, di cui il paese e insieme rivelatore, custode, rinnovatore’. Mino Maccari [Orco Bisorco], ‘Gazzettino ufficiale di Strapaese’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 21 (24 November 1927), p. 117.

4

‘Sventrami Vigliacco!’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 2 (1–14 March 1926), p. 4.

5

Mino Maccari, ‘Così sia!’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 3 (1–14 April 1926), p. 6.

6

John Ruskin, ‘Ruskin dice la sua’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 3 (1–14 April 1926), p. 7.

7

[Mino Maccari], ‘Spuntature’, Il Selvaggio, 5, 10 (30 May 1928), p. 176.

8

Mino Maccari [Orco Bisorco], ‘Gazzettino ufficiale di Strapaese’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 8 (30 April 1927), p. 61.

9

Mino Maccari, ‘Cenni di Geografia’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 4 (28 February 1929), p. 9.

10 Mino Maccari ‘Spiegazione dell’incisione’, Il Selvaggio, 6, 4 (20 December 1929), p. 61. 11 Giorgio Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo. Architettura e città 1922–1944 (Turin: Einaudi, 1989), pp. 37–53. 12 ‘Ecco Gualino che va al confino è un uomo emerito che ha molto seguìto’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 1 (30 January 1931), p. 84. 13 Mario Cennamo, Materiali per l’analisi dell’architettura moderna. Il Miar (Naples: Società Editrice Napoletana, 1976), pp. 37–43. 14 Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo, pp. 108–9; Cennamo, Materiali, p. 11. 15 Mario Lupano, Marcello Piacentini (Bari: Laterza, 1990), p. 81. 16 William Adamson, ‘The Culture of Italian Fascism and the Fascist Crisis of Modernity. The Case of Il Selvaggio’, Journal of Contemporary History, 30, 4 (1995), pp. 555–75. In particular p. 562. 17 Ardengo Soffici, ‘Bandiera Gialla. Architettura razionale’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 8 (30 May 1931), p. 115. 18 Ibid. 19 Maccari, Mino Maccari, con testo critico di Roberto Longhi, p. 12. 20 Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo, p. 108. 21 ‘Da P. M. Bardi ognun si guardi’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 5 (31 March 1931), p. 99. 22 The famous photomontage would be published in the June 1933 issue of the magazine Quadrante, with an added strip depicting Giovanni Muzio’s Palazzo dell’Arte at the Milan Triennale. 23 Cennamo, Materiali, pp. 105–6; Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo, p. 99; David Rifkind, The Battle for Modernism. ‘Quadrante’ and the Politicization of Architectural Discourse in Fascist Italy (Venice: Centro Internazionale Studi Andrea Palladio – Marsilio, 2012), pp. 35–9, 44–7. 24 Cennamo, Materiali, pp. 146, 155. 25 Luciano Patetta, L’architettura in Italia 1914–1943. Le polemiche (Milan: Clup, 1976), pp. 45–52; Lupano, Marcello Piacentini, pp. 77–81. 26 Leo Longanesi, ‘Bandiera Gialla. 1. Piacentini’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 6 (15 April 1931), p. 102. 27 ‘Partendo da una retorica concezione del romano e del barocco, lo stile piacentiniano è venuto man mano “aggiornandosi” alla recenti tendenze dell’architettura razionale tedesca e olandese, assumendo un falso carattere di tradizione e di moderno’. Ibid. 149

Laughing at Architecture 28 Leo Longanesi, ‘Bandiera Gialla. 2. Il sacco di Roma’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 8 (13 May 1931), pp. 109–10. 29 Ciucci, Gli architetti e il fascismo, pp. 81–4. 30 Longanesi, ‘Bandiera Gialla. 2’, pp. 109–10: 109. 31 Ibid. 32 Ibid. 33 Leo Longanesi, ‘Bandiera Gialla. Razionale a bordo. Macchine’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April 1933), p. 9; Mino Maccari, ‘Italklinker’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April 1933), pp. 9–11. 34 Longanesi, ‘Bandiera Gialla. Macchine’, p. 9. 35 Maccari, ‘Italklinker’, p. 9. 36 Ibid., p. 10. 37 ‘Diamo tempo 48 ore al signor Pier Maria Bardi’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April 1933), p. 12. 38 ‘Storia pubblica e storia privata’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April 1933), p. 12. 39 Edoardo Persico, ‘Per Maccari e Longanesi’, Casabella, 6, 4 (1933), pp. 24–5. 40 Leo Longanesi, ‘Il cemento disarmato’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 3 (15 May 1933), pp. 21–2. 41 Leo Longanesi, ‘Il cemento disarmato’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 4 (15 June 1933), pp. 28–9. 42 Edoardo Persico, ‘Maccarone’, Casabella, 6, 8–9 (1933), p. 48. 43 ‘I parenti poveri’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 6 (30 September 1933), p. 43. 44 Mino Maccari, ‘Il cemento disarmato. Vigilanza agli ingressi’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 6 (30 September 1933), pp. 50–1. 45 Carlo Cresti, Architettura e fascismo (Florence: Vallecchi 1989), pp. 176–88; Richard Etlin, Modernism in Italian Architecture (Cambridge, MA: MIT Press, 1991), pp. 426–36. 46 Pier Maria Bardi, ‘Il concorso per il Palazzo su via dell’Impero’, Quadrante, 2, 18 (1934), pp. 10–14. 47 Rifkind, The Battle for Modernism, pp.163–66. 48 ‘Dal vecchio al nuovo testamento’, Il Selvaggio, 11, 10 (30 September 1934), p. 126. 49 Carlo Dossi, I mattoidi: al primo concorso pel monumento in Roma a Vittorio Emanuele: note di Carlo Dossi (Rome: A. Sommaruga e C, 1884). 50 Paolo Nicoloso, Mussolini architetto. Propaganda e paesaggio urbano nell’Italia fascista (Turin: Einaudi, 2008), p. 108. 51 ‘Gazzettino’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 15 (15 November 1938), p. 79. 52 Mario Malabotta, ‘Un grido da Trieste’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 5–6 (31 August 1935), p. 192. 53 ‘Piacentini al Brasile e viceversa’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 7–8 (15 October 1935), p. 199. 54 ‘Razionalsanzioni’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 10 (31 December 1935), p. 215. 55 ‘L’itala architettura all’architetto’, Il Selvaggio, 9, 1–3 (15 March 1942) pp. 215, 179. 56 Paolo Cesarini, ‘I disegnini a ruota libera’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari (Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte, 1977), pp. XI–XIII. 57 ‘Alle fonti del surrealismo’, Il Selvaggio, 16, 5–6 (10 October 1939), p. 101.

Bibliography Adamson, W. (1995), ‘The Culture of Italian Fascism and the Fascist Crisis of Modernity. The Case of Il Selvaggio’, Journal of Contemporary History, 30, 4: 555–75. 150

Words and Images of Contempt Aintliff, M. (2002), ‘Fascism, Modernism, and Modernity’, The Art Bulletin, 84, 1: 148–69. Andreoli, A. and De Leo, F. (eds) (2006), Leo Longanesi: la fabbrica del dissenso, Rome: De Luca Editori d’Arte. Anon. (1926), ‘Sventrami Vigliacco!’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 2 (1–14 March): 4. Anon. (1928), ‘Spuntature’, Il Selvaggio, 5, 10 (30 May): 176. Anon. (1928), ‘Gazzettino ufficiale di Strapaese’, Il Selvaggio, 5, 14 (30 July): 189. Anon. (1931), ‘Ecco Gualino che va al confino è un uomo emerito che ha molto seguìto’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 1 (30 January): 84. Anon. (1931), ‘Da P. M. Bardi ognun si guardi’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 5 (March): 99. Anon. (1933), ‘Storia pubblica e storia privata’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April): 12. Anon. (1933), ‘Diamo tempo 48 ore al signor Pier Maria Bardi’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April):12. Anon. (1933), ‘I parenti poveri’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 6 (30 September): 43. Anon. (1934), ‘Dal vecchio al nuovo testamento’, Il Selvaggio, 11, 10 (30 September): 126. Anon. (1935), ‘Piacentini al Brasile e viceversa’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 7–8 (15 October): 199. Anon. (1935), ‘Razionalsanzioni’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 10 (31 December): 215. Anon. (1938), ‘Gazzettino’, Il Selvaggio, 15, 3 (15 November): 79. Anon. (1939), ‘Alle fonti del surrealismo’, Il Selvaggio, 16, 5–6 (10 October): 101. Anon. (1942), ‘L’itala architettura all’architetto’, Il Selvaggio, 9, 1–3 (15 March): 179. Anon. (1977), Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Anon. (1977), ‘L’ editore a chi legge’, in Il Selvaggio: 1924–1943, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Asor Rosa, A. (1975), ‘Selvaggismo e novecentismo. La cultura letteraria e artistica del regime’, in Storia d’Italia. Dall’Unità a oggi, Turin: Einaudi. Bardi, P. M. (1934), ‘Il concorso per il Palazzo su via dell’Impero’, Quadrante, 2, 18: 10–14 Braun, E. (1995), ‘Speaking Volumes: Giorgio Morandi Still Lives in the Cultural Politics of Strapaese’, Modernism/Modernity, 2, 3: 89–116. Briganti, G. and Sani, B. (eds) (1977), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Busini, S. (2002), La passione politica di Mino Maccari nelle pagine de Il Selvaggio, Colle di Val d’Elsa: Grafiche Boccacci. Cavallo, L. (ed.) (1969), Indice del Selvaggio, Florence: Galleria Michaud. Cennamo, M. (ed.) (1976), Materiali per l’analisi dell’architettura moderna. Il Miar, Naples: Società Editrice Napoletana. Cesarini, P. (1977), ‘I disegnini a ruota libera’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Cinelli, B. (1998), ‘I talenti di Maccari’, in Mino Maccari: l’avventura de Il Selvaggio: artisti da Colle a Roma, 1924–1943, Florence: Maschietto & Musolino. Ciucci, G. (1989), Gli architetti e il fascismo. Architettura e città 1922–1944, Turin: Einaudi. Cremona, I. (1977), ‘Ricordi del Selvaggio a Torino e Roma’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Cresti, C. (1989), Architettura e fascismo, Florence: Vallecchi. Danesi, S. and Patetta, L. (eds), (1976), Il razionalismo e l’Italia durante il fascismo, Venice: Edizioni La Biennale. Del Puppo, A. (1998), ‘Iconografia e ideologia nei “Selvaggi” di Toscana 1924–1929’, in Mino Maccari: l’avventura de Il Selvaggio: artisti da Colle a Roma, 1924–1943, Florence: Maschietto & Musolino. Dossi, C. (1884), I mattoidi: al primo concorso pel monumento in Roma a Vittorio Emanuele: note di Carlo Dossi, Rome: A. Sommaruga e C. Etlin, R. (1991), Modernism in Italian Architecture, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Guerrieri, P. (1977), ‘Strapaese’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Longanesi, L. (1933), ‘Bandiera Gialla. Razionale a bordo. Macchine’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April): 9. 151

Laughing at Architecture Longanesi, L. (1931), ‘Bandiera Gialla. 1. Piacentini’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 6 (15 April): 102. Longanesi, L. (1931), ‘Bandiera Gialla. 2. Il sacco di Roma’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 8 (13 May): 109–10. Longanesi, L. (1933), ‘Il cemento disarmato’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 3 (15 May): 21–2. Longanesi, L. (1933), ‘Il cemento disarmato’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 4 (15 June): 28–9. Lupano, M. (1990), Marcello Piacentini, Bari: Laterza. Maccari, M. (1926), ‘Così sia!’, Il Selvaggio, 3, 3 (1–14 April): 6. Maccari, M. [Orco Bisorco], (1927), ‘Gazzettino ufficiale di Strapaese’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 8 (30 April): 61. Maccari, M. [Orco Bisorco], (1927), ‘Gazzettino ufficiale di Strapaese’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 21 (24 November): 117. Maccari, M. (1929), ‘Cenni di Geografia’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 4 (28 February): 9. Maccari, M. (1929), ‘Spiegazione dell’incisione’, Il Selvaggio, 6, 4 (30 December): 61. Maccari, M. (1933), ‘Italklinker’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 2 (1 April): 9–11. Maccari, M. (1933), ‘Il cemento disarmato’, Il Selvaggio, 10, 5 (31 August): 34–5. Maccari, M. (1933), ‘Il cemento disarmato. Vigilanza agli ingressi’ , Il Selvaggio, 10, 6 (31 September): 50–1. Maccari, M. (1948), Mino Maccari, con testo critico di Roberto Longhi e ‘Fogli da un taccuino’ di Mino Maccari, Florence: Edizioni U. Malabotta, M. (1935), ‘Un grido da Trieste’, Il Selvaggio, 12, 5–6 (31 August): 192. Mezio, A. (1998), ‘Un contributo alla storia de “Il Selvaggio”’, in Incisioni di Mino Maccari per ‘Il Selvaggio’ 1924–1943: collezione Tito Balestra, Florence: Maschietto & Musolino. Montanelli, I. and Staglieno, M. (1984), Leo Longanesi. Con una scelta di scritti di L. Longanesi, Milan: Rizzoli. Nezzo, M. [1932–1943] (1998), ‘“Il Selvaggio” romano tra immagini e scritti d’artista’, in Mino Maccari: l’avventura de ‘Il Selvaggio’: artisti da Colle a Roma, 1924–1943, Florence: Maschietto & Musolino. Nicoloso, P. (2008), Mussolini architetto. Propaganda e paesaggio urbano nell’Italia fascista, Turin: Einaudi. Patetta, L. (1972), ‘La polemica del Selvaggio’, in L. Patetta (ed.), L’architettura in Italia 1914–1943. Le polemiche, Milan: Clup. Persico, E. (1933), ‘Per Maccari e Longanesi’, Casabella, 6, 4: 24–5. Persico, E. (1933), ‘Maccarone’, Casabella, 6, 8–9: 48. Piacentini, M. (1931), Il gran flagello, Il Selvaggio, 8, 2 (15 February): 86. Pucci, L. (2012), ‘Re-Mapping the Rural: The Ideological Geographies of Strapaese’, in A. Delle Vacche (ed.), Film, Art, New Media: Museum Without Walls? New York: Palgrave Macmillan. Ragghianti, C. L. (1955), ‘La frusta del selvaggio’, in C. L. Ragghianti (ed.), Il Selvaggio di Mino Maccari, Venice: Neri Pozza. Rifkind, D. (2012), The Battle for Modernism. ‘Quadrante’ and the Politicization of Architectural Discourse in Fascist Italy, Venice: Centro Internazionale Studi Andrea Palladio – Marsilio. Ruskin, J. (1926), ‘Ruskin dice la sua’, Il Selvaggio, 4, 3 (1–14 April): 7. Sani, B. (1977), ‘Il Selvaggio a Torino’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Schnapp, J. and Spackman, B. (1990), ‘Selections from the Great Debate on Fascism and Culture: Critica Fascista 1926–1927’, Stanford Italian Review, 8, 1–2: 235–72. Sciascia, A. M. (1993), Arte e politica dopo il ’22: Il Selvaggio, Caltanissetta: Salvatore Sciascia Editore. Soffici, A. (1931), ‘Bandiera Gialla. Architettura razionale’, Il Selvaggio, 8, 8 (30 May): 115. Tonelli, C. (1977), ‘Il Selvaggio, Piacentini e i razionalisti’, in G. Briganti and B. Sani (eds), Mino Maccari, Florence: Studio per Edizioni Scelte. Troisio, L. (1975), Le riviste di Strapaese e Stracittà, Il Selvaggio, L’Italiano, 900, Treviso: Canova.

152

CHAPTER 8 OSBERT LANCASTER: ARCHITECTURAL HUMOUR IN THE TIME OF FUNCTIONALISM Alan Powers

Osbert Lancaster (b. 1908) can be classified as one of ‘The Children of the Sun’, the group defined by Martin Green in his 1977 book of the same name.1 They were a frivolous, privileged elite of ‘Bright Young People’ in Britain in the 1920s, a generational phenomenon brought about as a reaction to the patriotic fervour and celebration of masculinity and anti-intellectualism that accompanied the First World War, the years of adolescence of the group (Figure 8.1). They defied the conventional attitudes of their parents by taking an informed interest in modernism in all the arts but, in most cases, they became increasingly sceptical about modernism’s wider claims to social transformation. From the start, they were drawn to explore the exotic and obsolete as a form of provocation against the nationalism, militarism and conservatism of the previous generation. The colleges of Oxford in the 1920s were the chief incubators for this tendency, and Lancaster fitted this pattern. As a practising visual artist and a writer of art criticism and travel books, Lancaster was part of this group who shaped English culture as much as the Bloomsbury Group before them. Evelyn Waugh, Cecil Beaton and John Betjeman are three of its members who are still remembered in the twenty-first century. ‘Dandy aestheticism’ is the defining quality of the ‘Children of the Sun’, and many, such as Harold Acton, Brian Howard and Cyril Connolly, were educated at Eton. Others arrived to study at Oxford University in the early and mid-1920s having staged their own revolts against convention at a variety of other ‘good schools’. In Lancaster’s case, it was Charterhouse, in Surrey, a highly conventional ‘muscular Christian’ boarding school in Gothic Revival buildings. Humour was one of their principal ways of subverting what they deemed to be inhuman, hypocritical values whose underlying motives of sadism and control had been uncovered by the work of psychoanalysts. The humour was often in the form of parody and exaggeration, role-playing and impersonation, matching what they perceived as the absurdity of the elder generation who caused the First World War with Dadaist absurdity of their own, which proposed a cult of beauty and self-discovery in place of the dark gods of patriotism, duty and war. At school, Lancaster showed promise as an artist and ‘went up’ to Lincoln College, Oxford, in 1926. His public persona, involving a prominent moustache, loud checked clothing and a monocle that he retained all his life, had already developed as a cunning appropriation of the clothing of the enemy, and Lancaster became expert in his knowledge of military uniforms as if to parody those who seriously believed in their

Laughing at Architecture

Figure 8.1 Osbert Lancaster self-portrait, from Richard Boston, Osbert, 1989. Collection John Murray.

significance. Yet his interest was also as genuine as theirs, for among the dandy aesthetes, he was in some respects quite conventional. The camp style of the group was often an 154

Osbert Lancaster

expression of barely-suppressed homosexuality, but Lancaster was heterosexual. His use of humour was generally affectionate rather than cruel, more in the manner of one of the generation’s mascots, the comic novelist Pelham Grenville Wodehouse. While ‘Children of the Sun’ typically made their fathers into figures of derision, he was actually fond of his until he was killed in the First World War. Unlike several of his contemporaries described by Green, he was neither a ‘rogue’ nor a ‘naïf ’ – in fact, a relatively normal human being despite his eccentricities. In other ways, however, Lancaster followed the pattern of influences on the ‘Children of the Sun’, especially in respect of finding mentors among figures Green describes as ‘uncles’, from the generation of their parents, who recognized in these younger men a fulfilment of their own revolt. The writer and cartoonist Max Beerbohm, a figure who had flourished in the 1890s and lived in Italy from 1910 until his death in 1956, had also been at Charterhouse and was one of the most respected ‘uncles’. In an eightieth birthday tribute to Beerbohm in 1952, Lancaster recounted the revelation of discovering Beerbohm’s work in the library at Charterhouse: ‘the Gothic rafters of the library split asunder, and from the grey Godalming clouds there descended a heavenly host, all in elaborate evening dress and the majority wearing gardenias’.2 He mentions one of Beerbohm’s best-known sequences of cartoons, Rossetti and his Circle (1922), which affectionately mocks Victorian poets and painters in a manner that Lancaster himself followed, while Beerbohm’s collection of short stories, A Christmas Garland (1911), was a succession of parodies of well-known writers that prefigures Lancaster’s own style of writing, always beautifully phrased but intended to signal to the reader that another voice is being assumed for comic effect. Architecture had never been a subject of much enthusiasm at the older English universities, or in the culture at large, at least since the earnest pursuit of Gothic in the mid-nineteenth century. For Betjeman, Lancaster and a third member of their group, Robert Byron, it became an enthusiasm, even an obsession at times, and also a subject on which they wrote and published widely.3 Their enthusiasms took them in different directions, in Byron’s case to the post-antique period of the Byzantine Empire and the Islamic lands, before taking up the defence of Georgian architecture in Britain, leading to the foundation of the Georgian Group as a rather vocal protest organization in 1937. When Lancaster was posted to Athens as a Press Attaché to the British Embassy during the Second World War, he developed an interest in classical Greek and Byzantine architecture himself, but for the most part both he and Betjeman made their greatest impact through stimulating a revival of interest in the nineteenth century, especially the then-despised Victorian period. While architecture formed part of their shared fascination with the Victorians in general, it changed from repulsion and mockery at Oxford to genuine knowledge and enthusiasm. Byron and Acton were the leaders of a proposal to mount an exhibition about the 1840s in Oxford in 1924, an event that is remembered for its being banned by the University authorities. In the years after the First World War, attitudes to the Victorians were undergoing a series of revisions, starting with the satire and caricature of Lytton Strachey in Eminent Victorians (1919), which was the mode in which the 155

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exhibition was conceived, but gradually transforming into something more daring: a project of rehabilitation. In 1928, the precocious art historian Kenneth Clark, a recent Oxford graduate who did not belong to the ‘Children of the Sun’ group although he shared some of their views, published The Gothic Revival, a book whose early chapters show Strachey’s influence but which changes its approach half way through and begins to assess its subject as a valid movement in architecture that was responsible for buildings of lasting importance. In Byron’s case, architecture was adopted as a polemical cause whether in relation to the present or from a desire to alter the interpretation of the past. Byron did not intend architecture to be ‘amusing’, to use a key word of the 1920s that was applied to interior décor and furnishings, but in the late 1930s he published magazine reviews calling into question the earnestness of modernism and its overreaching ambitions. Waugh skilfully deployed architectural backgrounds in his novels, from the modernist rebuilding of King’s Thursday in Decline and Fall (1928), to the High Victorian Gothic setting Hetton Abbey in A Handful of Dust (1934), followed by the eponymous baroque palace of Brideshead Revisited (1944), becoming more seriously engaged with each of these as the sequence developed. Among the Oxford aesthetes, Betjeman was the one whose persona and writing are a necessary background for understanding how Lancaster came to take his place in the comic discourse of architecture in the 1930s. Both were in the circles of two competing Oxford ‘uncles’, Maurice Bowra, a scholar of distinction and a major influence on widening the cultural horizons of his followers, and the academically less distinguished George Alfred Kolkhorst. It has been said that Betjeman’s way of speaking imitated Bowra’s, while Kolkhorst was simply a carnival figure of fun. Although neither of these mentors had any particular interest in architecture, Bowra’s urge to explore the unknown was combined with a sense of high-spirited blague that developed around Kolkhorst, resembling the way in which Betjeman and Lancaster explored architecture in the 1930s and later. After Oxford and a brief period spent disproving his family’s conviction that he should be a lawyer, Lancaster studied stage design at the Slade School in London, where he fell in love with another student, Karen Harris, marrying her in 1933. The requirement for stage designers to understand the periods of architecture may have underlain his continuing interest in distilling the essence of decorative styles in a slightly exaggerated manner. Already, however, his continuing friendship with Betjeman would have turned his attention to buildings. In 1930, Betjeman was offered a job as assistant editor of the Architectural Review by a slightly older contemporary, Hubert de Cronin Hastings, whose parents were friends of Lancaster’s mother. Hastings had missed going to Oxford, to his regret, but through Betjeman’s contacts was able to include several of the brilliant students he might have known there as contributors to the magazine, bringing to it a novel ethos in architectural publishing of a kind of seething rage at the state of architecture, planning and landscape at the end of the 1920s, expressed through debonair satire. The high period of the ‘Children of the Sun’ was over by 1930, owing partly to their individual development and partly to the worsening political situation following the 156

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financial crash in the USA, which affected Europe. At the Architectural Review, the comedic and serious modes coexisted through the decade. While architecture had been the subject of satire and parody throughout the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, the magazine blurred the boundaries in a new way so that readers might be continually kept guessing whether, for example, a series of photographs of a picturesque fishing port whose social life was described in detail using the names of Betjeman’s friends was in fact a real place or, as it happened, a display of detailed architectural models made by the eccentric Arts and Crafts architect Charles Wade and displayed in his garden at Snowshill Manor in Gloucestershire.4 The magazine has routinely been described as pro-modernist during the whole of the 1930s, a description that is only partially borne out by the contents, even after Betjeman left the staff in 1935. It is true that a number of exemplary buildings of the new movement were featured, but there was always a form of undercutting, especially in the back pages of the magazine, which formed a miscellany of topical news, reviews and images. Even in the opening section of the magazine, there were many articles on historical themes and travelogues that gave the opportunity to show photographs of richly ornamented buildings. This relationship between modernism and the dandy aesthete mode was a complex interplay of positive and negative, depending on individuals and their own stages of life. In the mid-1920s, before actual modern architecture was seen in Britain, it was fashionable to show enthusiasm for it, as Waugh did on several occasions, as well as Betjeman. Both changed their minds, to differing degrees, when confronted with the reality. It may have been the result of intellectual snobbery, that when this once unpopular minority cause threatened to become too widely adopted it was abandoned; however, Betjeman, who was an early recruit to the Mars Group, founded as the British chapter of CIAM in 1933, remained a member throughout the decade and only later spoke out in general terms about the destructive effect of development and the falsity of modernism’s claims to produce a better quality of life. It is difficult to draw a clear line between the satirical commentators on the outside and those on the inside who often shared their sense of humour and awareness of the absurdity of some of the movement’s more extravagant claims. As Hélène Lipstadt wrote in a pioneering survey of the period, ‘Polemic and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, in 1983, ‘being funny about architecture was a deadly serious business, an indispensable tool of the modernist conspiracy’.5 Lancaster’s views on modernism were not apparent until well into the 1930s, when they were ambivalent, as will be discussed later. His early contributions to the Architectural Review, starting in 1932, were often anonymous captions for illustrations, together with signed book reviews. His combination of drawings and text as a form of architectural parody and parable began in November 1934 with the publication of a series of single page features in the back pages of the magazine about an imaginary seaside resort, Pelvis Bay. By this point, it became clear that there was a shared enemy – the spectrum of ‘traditional’ architecture spanning from Edwardian leftovers such as Sir Reginald Blomfield whose projects for the Crown Estates were still threatening the remains of John Nash’s Regency stucco in London down to the speculative builders whose style Lancaster 157

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Figure 8.2 Osbert Lancaster, Progress at Pelvis Bay, 1936, cover. By permission of Clare Hastings.

described as ‘By-pass Variegated’. In the text of Progress at Pelvis Bay, an expanded version of the articles published in book form in 1936, Lancaster successfully captured the earnest received wisdom and confused standards of judgement that were responsible for encouraging such mediocrity at the expense both of older buildings and the opportunity for better new ones (Figure 8.2). As the reviewer ‘W. D.’ [Wesley Dougill] wrote in the Town Planning Review: Ostensibly, the book is a Guide to Pelvis Bay, and like all guide books on holiday resorts, it makes no attempt to hide under a bushel the so-called advantages and attractions of the place. Yet it is not difficult to detect that underlying its laudatory comments there is a sarcasm which is sometimes subtle and sometimes vitriolic and devastating in its implications.6 The Pelvis Bay drawings were not the first of their genre. Lancaster would have known the caricature engravings with which A. W. N. Pugin illustrated Contrasts and later tracts, if only through their resurrection in Clark’s The Gothic Revival. The ‘before and after’ style of the ‘Catholic Town in 1440’ and ‘The Same Town in 1840’ in the second edition of Contrasts looks like a precedent for Progress at Pelvis Bay, where, in the manner of time lapse photography, the seafront of ‘this well-known plague-spot

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and seaside eyesore’ as a note on the reverse of the title page describes it, perhaps lest any reader might be fooled into taking the text too literally. An example of architectural humour and satire closer to hand was Harry Stuart Goodhart-Rendel (1887–1959), an architectural ‘uncle’ to the younger generation. A man of private means and grand connections, Goodhart-Rendel switched his career from music to architecture and amassed meticulous knowledge about the Victorian period, in a spirit that mixed mockery with admiration for its genuine achievements. He was incidentally a highly original architect with a considerable portfolio of work between 1912 and his death in 1959. Clark spoke for his generation in the preface to the 1950 reprint of The Gothic Revival by calling Goodhart-Rendel, ‘the father of us all’.7 He published articles, book reviews and texts of lectures prolifically in the monthly and weekly architectural papers, but although he was well able to draw illustrations for them he only rarely included his own. An exception was an article of 1913 about houses from the Regency to the present, with the title ‘Our Fathers before us’.8 It is unlikely that Lancaster saw these particular works, although they anticipate in many points his focus on ordinary domestic architecture and the fun to be derived from portraying through imaginary reconstructions a stylistic essence that goes beyond any individual historical examples. There is no documentary record of contact between Lancaster and GoodhartRendel, but they would have had Betjeman among other friends in common in the 1930s. Betjeman in turn had met Goodhart-Rendel through Peter Fleetwood-Hesketh (1905– 1985) a student of architecture at University College London who had an interesting if dilettante career, chiefly in writing and conservation, and was part of the bohemian London circle of the ‘Children of the Sun’. Betjeman asked Fleetwood-Hesketh to make drawings for his first book on architecture, Ghastly Good Taste (1933), in the form of a fold-out panorama of ‘The Street of Taste’, showing the development of architecture as a series of caricature elevations, finishing in the present day, in a manner similar to Pelvis Bay (Figure 8.3). Betjeman claimed that this was ‘deliberately based’ on Contrasts,

Figure 8.3 Peter Fleetwood-Hesketh, ‘The Street of Taste’ , from John Betjeman, Ghastly Good Taste, 1933.

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while Fleetwood-Hesketh acknowledged the inspiration of ‘The Grand Architectural Panorama of London’ of 1849.9 He modestly believed that this work might have been the impetus for Lancaster’s much better-known productions in a similar genre, and the resemblance is striking, down to the outline drawing style and the pleasure in adding costumed figures and vehicles to the ‘Street of Taste’. Hesketh said in an interview in 1982 that he, Betjeman, Lancaster and others ‘were all concerned, in a serious way, to make architecture more amusing. When I first expressed an interest in architecture, people didn’t know what I was talking about. That was a hangover from the Edwardian period’.10 This statement encapsulates the pivot between humour and polemic that was typical of the ‘Children of the Sun’s’ generation. Although it may seem at times that they and other members of their group were enjoying a private joke among themselves, their journalism and books were a way to educate the public and so to overcome a legacy of disregard and philistinism about the built environment. The sense of urgency increased towards the end of the 1930s, in the years between the publication of Pelvis Bay and the outbreak of the war, in which Lancaster published his two other main contributions to architectural satire, Pillar to Post, or the Pocket Lamp of Architecture (1938) and Homes Sweet Homes (1939). He became one of the young authors, in a group that included Betjeman and his close Oxford friend, Christopher Hobhouse, who were published by the venerable firm of John Murray, which received a new lease of life when the sixth generation of the founding family, John Grey Murray, another Oxford contemporary, began to commission books in 1933. In 1936, Murray published Continual Dew, Betjeman’s first widely noticed collection of poems, which included many illustrations in its parody and pastiche presentation. Several of these, especially the art nouveau decorative borders around the poem Exeter, were Lancaster’s work. There was another ‘uncle’ of less direct impact on Lancaster who complemented Goodhart-Rendel’s close focus on the buildings of the past with a passionate concern for the maintenance of the man-made environment in accordance with older standards of beauty and decency. This was the architect and campaigner Clough Williams-Ellis who became one of the leading public figures in what he called ‘the Amenity Brigade’, who campaigned for better statutory protection for landscape and buildings and, in its absence, to find strategies of public persuasion to engage an audience that might ultimately provide the political influence required to achieve them. Williams-Ellis in fact owed much to figures working in the background of the Design and Industries Association, an organization set up to bring together aesthetically and socially-minded manufacturers in the promotion of good design. One of these, Harry Peach of the Dryad company of Leicester, and a younger publisher and book designer, Noel Carrington, working under Williams-Ellis’s aegis, created the Cautionary Guides to St. Alban’s (1929), Oxford (1930) and Carlisle (1930), pamphlets that highlighted advertising on the fronts of historic buildings and banal municipal gardening and street furniture. Many of these elements, combined with other desecrations of rural Britain, were collected by Carrington in the DIA Yearbook for 1930, The Face of the Land. The Pleasures of Architecture (1924), by Williams-Ellis and his journalist wife, Amabel, was intended to incite an interest in architecture in a new audience for whom the more 160

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ponderous Victorian texts were no longer appealing. It included some drawings that caricatured Victorian styles, with titles such as ‘Gas-pipe Gothic’ that anticipate Lancaster’s better-known inventions. In England and the Octopus (1928), Williams-Ellis felt the urgency of post-war change and unchecked commercial development, and produced a book that mixed satire and anger. It influenced other writers, such as Thomas Sharp, who felt similarly about the stupidity of letting go of so much beauty and tended to view the matter politically. Although they did not use the word, they viewed landscape and architecture of Britain as ‘commons’, to be shared by all, and as such the basis of a better future. Williams-Ellis was never particularly impressed by modernism, although he knew as friends some its main actors, but he was fully engaged in questions of coping with modernity and showing examples of good practice elsewhere. In the years that passed before the publication of a follow-up book, Britain and the Beast (1937), containing essays by a number of distinguished contributors edited by Williams-Ellis, the ‘Amenity Brigade’ had scored some successes in terms of individual buildings and landscapes protected for the public benefit, and the beginning of legislation against outdoor advertising and ‘ribbon development’, the practice of building small houses along existing roads that sacrificed vistas to be enjoyed from the road and blurred the distinction between town and country, all for the sake of a small short-term financial gain. The campaigners would have welcomed Progress at Pelvis Bay both for its humour and the vitriol that was remarked by Wesley Dougill. The seaside represented for them one of the greatest failures of such planning regulations as existed and more widely denoted a puritanical denial of such real pleasure as the Victorians were able to enjoy in a simple way by the ocean, due to its substitution by commercialized mass-leisure. There were undoubtedly elements of snobbery and nostalgia in this approach, but it was widespread among 1930s intellectuals of all political shades. After his two books of historical taxonomy in the years leading up to the Second World War, Lancaster returned to themes similar to Pelvis Bay in Draynflete Revealed, originally published in instalments in the Cornhill Magazine, edited by Murray, and in book form in 1949. This and its companion sequence, issued in the same volume, ‘Poet’s Corner’, are primarily satires on urban change, looking at the way that the buildings in the same view change through time, rising to a peak of perfection in the Georgian period and undergoing an accelerating decline into the early part of the twentieth century. As in Pelvis Bay, the text parodies the tones of the earnest local history guidebook, with its moments of pure speculation needed to carry the story in the absence of actual evidence, and the interpolation of poems and, in one case, music. Many of the drawings are done in the style of eighteenth-century and later portraits, showing members of the Littlehampton family, the aristocrats invented by Lancaster originally in his work as a producer of topical ‘pocket’ cartoons in the Daily Express from 1939 onwards. In a manner that reflects with disturbing accuracy the aspirations of the majority of post-war planners in Britain, Lancaster finishes the historical sequence with ‘The Draynflete of Tomorrow’ (Figure 8.4). There is, oddly, no commentary for this image, only a key to the various buildings allocated for the functions of the Welfare State, such as the ‘Municipal Offices including Community Centre, Psychiatric Clinic, Crèche and 161

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Figure 8.4 Osbert Lancaster, ‘The Draynflete of Tomorrow’ , from Draynflete Revealed, 1949. By permission of Clare Hastings.

Helicopter Landing-strip on the roof.’ This is a double cruciform block, apparently nine storeys high, which occupies large swathes of Ville Radieuse-style grass between dual carriageway roads, among which pathetic relics of historic buildings are preserved in sanitized form. The drawing can be related to prose and poetry by Betjeman that expresses a similar horror at the bleakness that could be induced by too insensitive a search for perfection. Reviewing the collection of Betjeman’s architectural writings, First and Last Loves (1952), Lancaster drew attention to the unusually angry tone of its introduction, ‘Love is Dead’, writing that when the relationship Betjeman perceived between art and its human context did not exist, and ‘when the abomination stands where it ought not, that his voice assumes a challenging denunciatory ring of which no minor prophet would be ashamed. […] Since Ruskin we have become unaccustomed to passion in writing of this sort and our responses are the poorer’.11 ‘Poet’s Corner’ carries the joke further by tracing a dynasty of second-rate poets who have lived in a Regency cottage ornée at a road junction on the outskirts of Draynflete. A great deal of the amusement of this part of the book comes from the parodies of poetry that Lancaster inserts as samples of the work of each member of the Tipple family, concluding with Guillaume de Vere Tipple, a dandy aesthete of the 1920s writing in a faux T. S. Eliot style with some elements of the Sitwells, who transforms himself into a ‘committed’ poet of the 1930s, with trench-coat and pipe, under the name of Bill Tipple, and writes vers libre without capital letters on the theme of the Spanish Civil War. The ‘Poet’s Corner’ itself is progressively encroached upon by development, becoming the premises of a tombstone 162

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maker by 1925 and by 1949 a building site between a department store and the original country pub rebuilt for the second time. Describing the latter, Lancaster puts on his civic improver’s voice, writing: ‘In 1930 Messrs Watlin acquired the Duke of York, which was at once rebuilt in a contemporary style which, although it first struck those accustomed to the brassy vulgarity of the old ‘pub’ as strangely austere, was soon generally agreed to be both socially and aesthetically an immense improvement.’12 In the foreword to Pillar to Post, Lancaster attributed the ‘lamentable state of English architecture’ to lack of knowledge and critical judgement. ‘The ordinary intelligent member of the public, when confronted with architecture, whether good, bad or indifferent, remains resolutely dumb – in both the original and transatlantic senses of the word.’13 This book and its companion, Homes Sweet Homes, were presented in the guise of information sugared with humour, as if they were aimed at older children, who have probably always provided a good audience for them. The large octavo pages of the original Murray hardbacks, each with a drawing facing a few hundred words of text (‘a small mass of information leavened by a large dose of personal prejudice’), is easily understood, while also subversively imitating the innocence of a child’s picture book.14 Behind this aim of instruction, as Lancaster makes clear, was the intention to avert a potential crisis provoked initially by a fresh wave of historical stylism in the middle market of architecture, a phenomenon passed over by most books of the time with a few harsh words but seldom analysed in detail, as Lancaster did in the thirteen spreads devoted to the twentieth century – about one third of the total. The crisis was perpetuated by the reaction in the form of modernism, which appeared to Lancaster too extreme and irrational a response. A review of Pillar to Post by Christopher Hussey, the architectural writer at Country Life magazine who conducted a public debate about the rights and wrongs of ‘the new architecture’ in its pages during the 1930s, went further than Lancaster in linking it to the politics of a particularly vocal group of modernists around 1938 who based their insistence of disregarding all questions of style in the light of their austere social democratic principles. As Hussey wrote, Besides the fallacy that ‘political rhetoric is a sufficient substitute for architectural inspiration’ (Mr. Lancaster’s phrase), we in this country are still being assured by the same architects that, among the many canons of their art, the only one that matters is ‘fitness for purpose’. A very valuable attribute indeed, but one that, to quote Mr. Lancaster yet again (his aphorisms are so apt that I can’t keep him out), used to the exclusion of all others, ‘presupposes a barrenness of spirit, to which, despite every indication of its ultimate achievement, we have not yet quite attained’.15 Lancaster pins his criticism of modernism on the final spread in the original version of the book – others being added as updates to subsequent editions. ‘Twentieth-Century Functional’ is represented by a villa whose tall corner window suggests the work of Connell, Ward & Lucas, while the ‘Lenscrete’ glass lights in the cantilevered concrete roof to the loggia below it are more suggestive of Berthold Lubetkin or one of his followers 163

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(Figure 8.5). The flat sun roof of the living room wing is accessed by an external staircase and the owners – he with the pipe and round glasses of the intellectual, she baring as much as she legally can in an early bikini – are discovered, drawn to too large a scale as if to emphasize the doll’s house quality of their house, with its steel framed furniture and cacti seen within. By 1938, Lancaster was a latecomer in satirizing this style, which had been a regular source of humour in the widely circulated Punch magazine from

Figure 8.5 Osbert Lancaster, ‘Twentieth-Century Functional’ , from Pillar to Post, 1938. By permission of Clare Hastings.

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the moment it began to appear in Britain. The accompanying text accepts the starting premise of modernism, that a reform of the language of architecture was needed and required some return to first principles. It swiftly deals with the illogical or impractical consequences of following some of the associated slogans of ‘fitness for purpose’ and ‘machine à habiter’, and concludes in an altogether positive vein, with an analogy to the short-lived Cubist Movement in art, which, Produced little of any permanent artistic worth but nonetheless provided a most valuable discipline for a number of painters, so it is to be hoped that from this bare functional style will one day emerge a genuine modern architecture that need fear no comparison with the great styles of the past.16 In common with many of his contemporaries who were willing initially to allow modernism the benefit of the doubt, Lancaster later abandoned this hope. In one sense, the whole book is structured on the pattern of its title, derived from an English phrase that implies tracking something down methodically. The cover contrasts the Greek Doric ‘pillar’ with the impoverished thin ‘post’ of the Modern Movement. In between, Lancaster mixes different modes of historical writing, from the ‘Whig interpretation of history’ that aims to show progress from one period to another, including rather defensive praise for the baroque, a style rescued from derision by Geoffrey Scott’s book, The Architecture of Humanism (1914). At the same time, the restraint of ‘Georgian (Town)’ is invoked as ‘one of the great triumphs of Georgian architecture’. Following an accepted canon of taste of the time, this high point is believed to have been extended and varied into the Regency period. In the middle of the book, the pretence that the book covers European as well as British architecture is dropped in favour of the latter. Public housing, an obsession of 1930s Modernists, is briefly considered. Jonathan Swift provides an epigraph for ‘Salubrious Dwellings for the Industrious Artisan’, facing a page showing dilapidated terraced houses in some unspecified industrial town, with a commentary that is equally Swiftian in tone. Although the coverage from this point onwards is largely of upper-or middle-class buildings, ‘L.C.C. [London County Council] Residential’ is paired with ‘Park Lane Residential’. Both are blocks of flats, of which Lancaster expresses a dislike on principles both social and architectural. The joke is that the subsidized council flats are essentially the same building, simply stripped of its scatter of ‘decorative urns and a lot of fancy tiling’, situated in a quieter neighbourhood and available at a much lower rent. A similar graphic double take occurs with the pairing of ‘Third Empire’ (i.e. Third Reich), as a name for the Nazi style of monumental building, with ‘Marxist Non-Aryan’, the expression of the politically opposite Soviet Union that, apart from the different gesturing sculpture and party symbolism, and the presence or absence of vestigial column capitals, looks exactly the same. In aesthete mode, Lancaster condemns both for their architectural inadequacies while recognizing, truthfully, that this form of ‘stripped classicism’ was applied in the 1930s regardless of political belief and never rose above mediocrity. 165

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It is bourgeois domestic architecture, however, that offers Lancaster the best opportunities for satire. In describing the ‘Art Nouveau’ cottage (in the style now known as Arts and Crafts), he anticipates his next book with an inventory of the decoration and contents within. Neo-Tudor, one of the outgrowths of the Arts and Crafts, receives three separate spreads, each pegged to a different social level. This was one of the strangest phenomena of taste in the interwar period, condemned by Lancaster for its cost and anachronism in terms of comfort, illustrated by the carefully half-timbered ‘Stockbrokers Tudor’ with its modern context of plane, pylon and fast car on the gravel drive. Historians of this period have regularly passed from the sanctioned Tudor of Edwin Lutyens to the early Modern Movement, pretending that these all-too obvious aberrations never happened, but Lancaster was more successful than polemicists such as Thomas Sharp in gently deflating their pretentions. ‘Pseudish’, denoted by white-painted brickwork in a Cape Dutch style with green pantiles, is not a style that others might have selected for the historical record, but its presence in Pillar to Post might have been owing to the fact that his parents-in-law, Sir Austin and Lady Harris, owned a house on the Isle of Wight in this style, designed by its main exponent, the architect Philip Dalton Hepworth. Its name combines Swedish (then a fashionable source for borrowing) and the quality that extends through most of the later part of the book, of false or pseudo. Lancaster clearly enjoyed these eclectic styles without exactly condoning them, while pinning his hope on further developments within modernism. Since it is concerned with interior decoration, Homes Sweet Homes allows greater critical latitude towards the changes in fashion that it records. Of the two books, this is probably the funnier one, because the subject matter is so rich. In his Preface, Lancaster pretends to take the role of ‘pure disinterested scientific investigation’.17 This may be a parodic reference to the Mass Observation Movement, started in 1936, which aimed to treat English life in the manner of an anthropologist by gathering data about people’s conversations, shopping and leisure habits and other behaviour. In its literary treatment of the subject, the text repeatedly seizes on the metonymic significance of objects in the home, describing them in words reflecting the language of the people at the time. Thus in ‘Early Victorian’, we have ‘such a surrealist variety of objects as a sand-filled paper-weight from Alum Bay, a lock of little Willy’s hair and dear Fido, stuffed and mounted’.18 Lancaster is adept in separating out several varieties of interior in French classical styles and adding others of the later Victorian decades, such as he would have known in the homes of older people when he was a child, especially an elderly neighbour in Notting Hill, Mrs Ullathorne, who had known the court of Napoleon III in France. Moving to his own times, the titles and their catalogue notes lose their humour as such styles as Curzon Street Baroque and Vogue Regency have disappeared from everyday experience, but these are still invaluable acts of naming and categorization, as accepted in the academic field as such coinages as ‘Early English’ or ‘Artisan Mannerist’. Since the book was published after the outbreak of war, it follows ‘Functional’ (a comfortless interior matching the modernist villa of Pillar to Post) with an air-raid shelter interior 166

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called ‘Even More Functional’. The text for the former shares with its precursor the view that modernism as it was known in the 1930s is not the end of a cycle, but rather the beginning, in which some of the harsher restrictions on ornament will be relaxed. In revised editions, Lancaster was able to show how this had occurred in ‘Jungle-Jungle’ (Figure 8.6), a modification of modernism into a style called, ‘for reasons which it would be too tedious, and unprofitable, exhaustively to investigate, the “New Empiricism”’.19 The companion to this style of the 1950s, with ideas derived from Marcel Breuer and a variety of other sources. It is followed by ‘Neo-Victorian’, for which his text begins, ‘The second avenue of escape from logically justified austerity led, not to the jungles of the Amazon, but straight back to great-aunt Harriet’s front parlour.’ This was a genuine movement, although still a relatively small one in which most home decorators simply mixed a scatter of ‘amusing’ Victorian pieces into essentially modernist rooms, but it was a normalization of the more radical disruption intended in the 1920s with the ‘1840s exhibition’ at Oxford.

Figure 8.6 Osbert Lancaster, ‘Jungle-Jungle’ , from Homes Sweet Homes, 1959. By permission of Clare Hastings.

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The idea of playing with styles, both in the adult world of urban planning and in the microcosm of the interior, was a principal theme in The Architectural Review, where Lancaster was appointed a member of the editorial board in 1947, together with de Cronin Hastings, James Maude Richards, Nikolaus Pevsner and Hugh Casson. This arrangement lasted into the mid-1950s, with Lancaster contributing a few articles on subjects such as the use of trompe l’oeil diamond rustication in Ireland but not playing any more obvious role. His most significant statement about the impasse of modernism’s refusal of decoration was in a broadcast talk in October 1951, printed in the Listener, with the title ‘End of the Modern Movement in architecture’. Taking the recently concluded Festival of Britain as his cue, Lancaster asked whether this would become, as the architectural community hoped, the beginning of a new and more popular form of the reforming and cleansing discipline, or whether it had in fact played itself out. ‘Does 1951 mark the final triumphant flowering, or just a further stage on the upward march, or the end of the whole thing and the beginning of something quite new? Is Mr. Hugh Casson, for example, an Alberti or a Bernini?’20 Lancaster inclined to the latter view. In this text, oddly neglected by writers on Lancaster and on the cultural conflicts in British architecture at this time, analogies were made between the earnestness of the Gothic Revival and the similar claims of moral uplift in modernism, with the difference that the Gothic Revivalists were, in his view, ‘aesthetic snobs’, while the modernists are ‘inverted snobs’. The result of this separation from a middle ground of public opinion was, however, similar. The argument reverts to Lancaster’s defining theme, that of architectural language and signification, through which he had revealed in his books that even the more absurd manifestations of style could become attractive. In the Modern Movement, the language had been reduced to so little that expression was almost impossible, and only in a few building types did the doctrine of following function fill the vacuum: If a really live and profitable movement is to develop from this beginning, then many of the most cherished illusions of the Modern Movement will have to go overboard: that frenzied rejection of the past, for instance, that ridiculous attitude of having absolutely no connection with the period next door, which has had such disastrous effects on architectural education. The aim, as stated in Pillar to Post, was to connect with the public, ‘which has for years been asking for half-timbered bread [and] is not going suddenly to be satisfied with a cantilevered stone’. This was a restatement of many of the principles contained in The Architectural Review manifesto, ‘The Second Half Century’ in 1947, which emphasized the value of artists in offering a corrective to the starved vision of architects.21 While two letters of assent were published in the Listener the following week, Lancaster’s article was repudiated with an editorial in The Architects’ Journal, claiming that ‘there are many traditionalists who would be only too ready to misread or misuse such material’.22 Lancaster’s vision of an architecture mid-way between modernism 168

Osbert Lancaster

and a stage-designer’s vision of historic styles was not entirely absent from the work of the 1950s. Lubetkin pursued his pre-war interest in surface decoration, in a manner parodied in later editions of Pillar to Post as ‘Festival Flats’, in which, ‘in a desperate attempt to relieve the monotony of the façade a terrifying ingenuity was displayed in modifying or concealing the basic chequerboard imposed by the L.C.C’s devotion to the principle of absolute residential equality’.23 The rural housing of Tayler and Green in Norfolk could be taken to represent a partial and controlled return to ornament and decoration, with a successful populist and contextual intention, but work of this quality turned out to be unusual, perhaps because most of the design talent moved towards the cluster of architectural preoccupations gathered under the title ‘The New Brutalism’ , which strangely failed to convey into architecture any of the influences of colour or decoration from nascent Pop Art that excited its followers. If we follow Lancaster’s career path according to the pattern laid out by Green in Children of the Sun, we find him conforming to type in this later period. In serving with success as a press officer in the difficult and dangerous conditions of Athens during a civil war, Lancaster had been able to turn his dandy aesthete persona to advantage, but in general, the post-war world was not on their side, especially in architecture. As Green writes of their relationship to the ideology of conformity behind the Welfare State, ‘To Children of the Sun, men like [Sir William] Beveridge seem bloodless pedagogues, sexless state functionaries, servants of system, with no life or style of their own and an unconscious hatred of life and style in others.’24 Like Betjeman, but unlike aesthetes such as Acton and Howard, Lancaster was able to ride this period of change successfully, kept economically afloat by his Daily Express cartoons, which, even in a middle-market newspaper, were allowed to spread dandyish subversion as much as its fantastical comic ‘Beachcomber’ column by J. B. Morton. Betjeman meanwhile relied on broadcasting, first on radio and later on television, to reach a grateful public. Especially in relation to the built environment, about which an increasing number of citizens felt mounting anxiety during the post-war decades, Betjeman and Lancaster between them succeeded to a large extent in exposing the empty claims of the New Jerusalem of the planners and gathering support for the conservation movement. Murray kept Lancaster’s books in print, and issued the companion volumes of Pillar to Post and Homes Sweet Homes in paperback, at a time when there was little competition in the field of architectural publishing and nothing as likely to win new converts among the young. For a combined volume, Here of All Places (1959), Lancaster added American content to widen the market, with final updates added for a new edition, A Cartoon History of Architecture, in 1974. Here the outcome of modernism simply becomes worse, and the spread on ‘High Rise’ depicts the grim comedy of a fatal gas explosion at Ronan Point flats in Newham, on the eastern edge of London, in 1968 (Figure 8.7). The year 1974 was still too early for Lancaster to have recognized the beginnings of postmodernism in England, and we do not have a record of his feelings about it. In some respects, it answered his calls for a version of modernism that engaged with history without taking it too literally, but knowledge and design skill that he would have expected were too often lacking. His influence was probably stronger on the rising generation of conservationists, 169

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Figure 8.7 Osbert Lancaster, ‘High-Rise’ , from A Cartoon History of Architecture, 1974. By permission of Clare Hastings.

many of them modelling themselves on the dandy aesthetes, who engaged in a guerrilla war with the grey suited men in authority during the 1970s and achieved remarkable successes. Lancaster accepted the invitation of Bevis Hillier to become the founding President of the Thirties Society in 1979, and although he played no active role, the combination of comedy and affection shown in his illustrations of ‘low style’ architecture of the interwar period 170

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affected the inclusive approach to its work, and was equally endorsed by those involved in listing interwar buildings in the period of ‘accelerated resurvey’ ordered by the Secretary of State for Environment, Michael Heseltine, following the demolition of Wallis Gilbert and Partners’ Art Deco Firestone Factory in 1980. It would be ironic if Lancaster were thus unwittingly responsible for the partial redemption of the styles which he set out to mock, but he would have appreciated the irony and recognized the way that historic style is not a neutral affair, since each cycle of taste can successfully turn yesterday’s progressives into today’s reactionaries, in line with his own message that while architecture as a contribution to well-being was serious, architectural styles should never be taken too seriously.

Notes 1

Martin Green, Children of the Sun: A Narrative of ‘Decadence’ in England after 1918 (New York: Basic Books, Inc., 1976). On Osbert Lancaster, see Richard Boston, Osbert: A Portrait of Osbert Lancaster (London: Collins, 1989) and James Knox, Cartoons and Coronets: The Genius of Osbert Lancaster (London: Frances Lincoln, 2008).

2

Osbert Lancaster, ‘The Seventh Man’, Listener, 1226 (28 August 1952), p. 339.

3

James Knox, Robert Byron (London: John Murray, 2003).

4

John Betjeman, ‘Wolf ’s Cove and Thirlwall Mere & District’, The Architectural Review, 71 (January 1932), pp. 8–11.

5

Hélène Lipstadt, ‘Polemic and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, AA Files, 3 (January 1983), pp. 68–76.

6

W. D. [Wesley Dougill], ‘Progress at Pelvis Bay. (Osbert Lancaster Book Review)’, Town Planning Review, 17, 3 (July 1937), p. 227.

7

Kenneth Clark, ‘A Letter to Michael Sadleir’, in Kenneth Clark, The Gothic Revival. An Essay in the History of Taste (London: John Murray, 1950), p. 4.

8

Harry Stuart Goodhart-Rendel, ‘“Our Fathers Before Us”: A Conversation on House Design’, Architect and Builders’ Journal, 38 (8 October 1913), pp. 348–50; Goodhart-Rendel, ‘“Our Fathers Before Us”’ (15 October 1913), pp. 368–69.

9

John Betjeman, ‘Introduction: An Aesthete’s Apologia’, in John Betjeman, Ghastly Good Taste, or a Depressing Story of the Rise and Fall of English Architecture (2nd edn, London: Anthony Blond, 1970), pp. XIII–XXVIII.

10 Peter Fleetwood-Hesketh, ‘Recollections of the 20s and 30s’, Thirties Society Journal, 1 (1982), p. 16. 11 Osbert Lancaster, ‘The Unfashionable Past’, Listener, 1232 (9 October 1952), p. 662. 12 Osbert Lancaster, Draynflete Revealed (London: John Murray, 1949), pp. 65–6. 13 Osbert Lancaster, Pillar to Post (London: John Murray, 1938), p. 80. 14 Osbert Lancaster, ‘Order to View’, in Lancaster, Pillar to Post, p. XI. 15 Christopher Hussey, ‘What is Architecture?’, Observer (30 October 1938), p. 9. 16 Lancaster, Pillar to Post, p. 80. 17 Osbert Lancaster, Homes Sweet Homes (London: John Murray, 1939), p. 9.

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Laughing at Architecture 18 Ibid., p. 36. 19 Ibid. (enlarged and rev. edn, 1959), p. 60. 20 Osbert Lancaster, ‘End of the Modern Movement in Architecture’, Listener, 1181 (18 October 1951), pp. 638–40. 21 The Editor, ‘The Second Half Century’, The Architectural Review, 101, 601 (January 1947), pp. 21–36. 22 The Editors, ‘But Not Lying Down’, The Architects’ Journal, 114, 2955 (18 October 1951), p. 459. 23 Lancaster, Pillar to Post (2nd edn, London: John Murray, 1956), p. 96. 24 Green, Children of the Sun, p. 313.

Bibliography Anon. (1947), ‘The Second Half Century’, The Architectural Review, 101, 601 (January): 21–36. Anon. (1951), ‘But Not Lying Down’, The Architects’ Journal, 114, 2955 (18 October): 459. Betjeman, J. (1932), ‘Wolf ’s Cove and Thirlwall Mere & District’, The Architectural Review, 71 (January): 8–11. Betjeman, J. (1970), ‘Introduction: An Aesthete’s Apologia’, in J. Betjeman (ed.), Ghastly Good Taste, or a Depressing Story of the Rise and Fall of English Architecture, second edition, London: Anthony Blond pp. XIII–XXVIII. Boston, R. (1989), Osbert: A Portrait of Osbert Lancaster, London: Collins. Clark, K. (1950), ‘A Letter to Michael Sadleir’, in K. Clark (ed.), The Gothic Revival. An Essay in the History of Taste, London: John Murray Fleetwood-Hesketh, P. (1982), ‘Recollections of the 20s and 30s’, Thirties Society Journal, 1: 16. Goodhart-Rendel, H. S. (1913), ‘“Our Fathers Before Us”: A Conversation on House Design’, Architect and Builders’ Journal, 38 (8 October): 348–50. Goodhart-Rendel, H. S. (1913), ‘“Our Fathers Before Us”: A Conversation on House Design’, Architect and Builders’ Journal, 38 (15 October): 368–9. Green, M. (1976), Children of the Sun: A Narrative of ‘Decadence’ in England after 1918, New York: Basic Books. Hussey, C. (1938), ‘What is Architecture?’, Observer, (30 October): 9. Knox, J. (2003), Robert Byron, London: John Murray. Knox, J. (2008), Cartoons and Coronets: The Genius of Osbert Lancaster, London: Frances Lincoln. Lancaster, O. (1938), Pillar to Post, London: John Murray. Lancaster, O. (1939), Homes Sweet Homes, London: John Murray. Lancaster, O. (1949), Draynflete Revealed, London: John Murray. Lancaster, O. (1951), ‘End of the Modern Movement in Architecture’, Listener, 1181 (18 October): 638–40. Lancaster, O. (1952), ‘The Seventh Man’, Listener, 1226 (28 August): 339. Lancaster, O. (1952), ‘The Unfashionable Past’, Listener, 1232 (9 October): 662. Lancaster, O. (1956), Pillar to Post, second edition, London: John Murray. Lancaster, O. (1959), Homes Sweet Homes, enlarged and revised edition, London: John Murray. Lipstadt, H. (1983), ‘Polemic and Parody in the Battle for British Modernism’, AA Files, 3 (January): 68–76. W. D. [Wesley Dougill] (1937), ‘Progress at Pelvis Bay. (Osbert Lancaster Book Review)’, Town Planning Review, 17, 3 (July): 227.

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CHAPTER 9 IRRATIONAL INTERIORS: THE MODERN DOMESTIC LANDSCAPE SEEN IN CARICATURES Gabriele Neri

In the 1920s and 30s, when architectural trends married the figurative research of the avant-garde to the logic of standardization and industrial production, Central Europe experienced a dramatic revolution in the history of housing models. The aim was to give substance to a new idea of society. The straight lines, glass walls and flat roofs of Le Corbusier’s Villa Savoye, Ernst May’s New Frankfurt public housing, Walter Gropius’s Bauhaus and the Weissenhof Estate in Stuttgart were not, in fact, merely the icons of a new architectonic style but set the pace for a new way of living, one that seriously challenged the premises of the past. These urban developments had a resounding impact on both society and the media. Indeed, in their battle to promote a new architecture the modern architects deployed the tools of mass communication even before construction work began. These exceptional masters of the art of publicity used the logic and techniques of mass media to seize the advantage, creating a mythography of posters, slogans, photographs, documentary films and other materials to advertise and justify their revolutionary theories. The media played a key role in popularizing architectural modernism but soon spotted the many contradictions and shortcomings of the new wave of urban development, both small and large scale. The loudest criticism came from the satirical graphic artists. This heterogeneous yet organic group of contemporary cartoonists fed a constant stream of skits to the satirical, specialized and even the mainstream press, many of which brilliantly captured the major impact of the new architecture on society, and often doing a much better job of documenting it than other types of critics. In fact, modern architecture became the prime target of many cartoonists, whose work inadvertently helped to form a solid counterpoint against the official propaganda. Of the many issues that sparked this disruption of the architectural status quo, what most fired the cartoonists’ imagination was the radical reinterpretation of the domestic space. By venturing into this highly sensitive psychological terrain dense with cultural values, anthropological meanings and, not least, political and economic issues, the new architecture challenged the public to rejig their perceptions of the ‘home’.

Almost nothing While the satire of the belle époque ridiculed and lambasted the interior designers for their grandiose productions and formal quirks – a typical example being W. O. J. Niewenkamp’s famous caricature for Lustige Blätter in 18991 – the rationalists played

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on the opposite side of the net, paring down the formal canons of aesthetics until they became the targets of mockery and criticism. Paradoxically, the rationalist designers once again used the basic concept of the ‘total work of art’ developed by William Morris and then art nouveau but this time turned it on its head to create Gesamtkunstwerk by subtraction in which the overcrowding of forms was replaced by the tension of beinahe nichts, the ‘almost nothing’ philosophy of Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, which many thought would lead to a dangerous erosion of the language of architecture. Erwin Piscator (1893–1966), Berlin’s then famous stage director, had no such qualms, however, and hired Marcel Breuer to remodel his apartment, which the designer stripped of all traces of ‘bourgeoisification’, i.e. stuccoes, mouldings, decorations, etc., to create the denuded rooms that the rationalists claimed were key to healthy, modern living. Nevertheless, not everyone was of the same open mind as Piscator. For example, the surrealists decried the suppression of all signs of domesticity and the inherent psychological connotations, considering it unacceptable precisely because the subjective dimension of the inhabited space, the role of the subconscious and the logic of accumulation are its primary raison d’être – meant as a signal stratification of symbolic more than functional home values. According to Tristan Tzara (1896–1963) – who lauded the idea of an intrauterine architecture similar to the womb and the prenatal cavern – the modern home was la negation complète de l’image de la demeure (the absolute negation of the image of the house), the sorry result of l’esthétique de castration dite moderne (that aesthetic of castration called ‘modern’) and of the agressivité autopunitive qui caractérise les temps modernes (aggressive self-punishment that characterizes modern times).2 Jean Arp (1887–1966) felt the same aversion and said so in no uncertain terms in a writing composed in 1934, in which he compared the ornamental opulence and vitality of the ‘Elephant Style’ to the repressed aesthetic of the ‘Bidet Style’.3 Analysing the satirical imagery and jargon of the time reveals how the criticism of the surrealists reflected public opinion: the world of modernist interiors became, in fact, a recurrent theme for the cartoonists of the era, who wanted to expose the frustrating and alienating pauperism that had travelled light years away from the stereotype of the traditional hearth and home, progressively casting off the previously embedded symbolic objects and forms that gave life to its psychological and affective meanings. In 1929, for instance, Simplicissimus, the satirical German weekly founded in 1896, published a Wilhelm Schulz (1865–1952) cartoon titled ‘Neues Wohnen’ (New Living), depicting the psychodrama of a wife frustrated by the excessive minimalism of the modern architecture imposed by a husband anxious to stay on-trend. Schulz caricatures the bare interior of the house with no dresser to display the porcelain, no crystal chandelier to fill the void and no curtains to dress the windows. In other words, there is nothing to relate to, nothing to admire and nothing to clean. With a woeful look, the lady of the house turns to gaze out of the window, lamenting to her husband that ‘The view of the garden is my only solace!’4 The cartoonist’s message was clear: removing all signs of the traditional middle-class home merely to stay abreast of the times empties it of all meaning, sometimes even functional, depriving it of any aesthetic personality. Hence, the only comfort was to be found by looking outside, at the offering of the natural environment. 174

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An Oskar Garven (1874–1951) illustration from a 1931 edition of the German newspaper Kladderadatsch (Figure 9.1), shows two in-laws entering the ultra-modern apartment of a newly wedded young couple who were fully embracing the new lifestyle.5 Mum and Dad gape in shock at the rectangular room completely bare of carpet, pictures and furniture, punctuated only by a thin wire with a small light bulb on the end hanging from the ceiling. A frameless, curtainless window lets in the light and, except for the contemporary must-haves of a potted plant and two small cacti, nothing is allowed to mar the room’s geometrical rigour. The young husband is reading a newspaper sitting comfortably in a tubular metal chair, which together with a stool are the only visible pieces of furniture. In contrast, his wife is shown with her legs up in the air as she vigorously works out in what is clearly a jibe at the new role given to physical exercise. The flabbergasted look on the faces of the in-laws shows that modern architecture was also a generational issue.

Figure 9.1 ‘Erster Besuch der Schwiegereltern im trauten Heim des jungen Paares’ (First visit of the in-laws to the young couple’s home sweet home), Oskar Garven, Kladderadatsch, 12 April 1931. 175

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A scathing lampoon by Thomas Theodor Heine (1867–1948) published in Simplicissimus in 1927, puts a different spin on Adolf Loos’s vitriolic diatribe against over-ornamentation. The cartoon shows a prisoner chained to the wall of a peculiar cell where a well-padded sofa takes the place of the iron cot, a decorated pitcher is swapped for the chamber pot and vases of flowers stand on rococo shelves, while the mouse on the floor and the bars on the window serve to remind the reader of the building’s true purpose. Loos’s outrage at the art nouveau and Vienna Secessionists’ obsession with hyper-decoration drove him to proclaim that ‘The day will come when the furnishing of a jail cell by court upholsterer Schulze or Professor van de Velde will be considered a harshening of the prison sentence.’6 Mocking the over-zealous reduction in the aesthetic favoured by certain architects, the cartoon suggests otherwise, the caption reads, ‘The new Bauhaus style has eliminated everything that distinguishes a home from a prison. In the interest of an ordered prison, therefore, we must now cram them with ornaments.’7 Simplicissimus followed this up a year later with a mordant variation by Heine, in which an ‘Architect of Dessau’ wearing a long white coat and wielding a pair of sharpened secateurs is bent on chopping off the ears of all his family: his wife, his parents, his inlaws, his children and even his dog. In the background, a large glass window tells us that we are inside the Bauhaus edifice built by Walter Gropius, while a nurse of some kind (possibly a student) carries the amputated parts away on a tray. According to the caption, this is an action of the war waged by Bauhaus against ornament that sees even ears as a useless frill. In a word, the title reads, ‘Sachlichkeit!’8

Living in Stuttgart: Alfred Gastpar In the late 1920s an extraordinary series of unpublished cartoons attributed to Dr Alfred Gastpar (1873–1944), Stadtarzt (town physician),9 appeared in Stuttgart. These cartoons, probably used by Gastpar during his lectures, directly targeted the Weissenhof and, above all, one of the maxims written by Mies van der Rohe to explain that type of architecture: ‘The battle for the new home is a battle for new ways of living.’10 Indeed, Gastpar titled the cartoon series ‘Neue Lebensformen’, demonstrating his intimate knowledge of architecture and the architectural debates that were doing the rounds at the time.11 One of the plates (Figure 9.2) illustrates an interesting section of a modern house that parodies the domestic life envisaged by the German architect (‘Neueste Lebensform von Mies v. d. Rohe’) and his peers. The sketch is an obvious dig at the canons of modern architecture. The first thing we note is that the building is raised above the ground to keep the damp at bay; the second is that there is a man with a ladder trying awkwardly to climb to the various floors in which different scenarios of modern life are played out. The mini-kitchen on the tiny first floor is shown as a room in which a person can only lie down: hence the title Liege Küche (couch kitchen). It directly calls to account the principles of Existenzminimum. At the same time, the day zone of the house is at the top, in line with the thinking of Le Corbusier, who in 1928 had written: 176

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Figure 9.2 Alfred Gastpar, ‘Neue Lebensformen’ (New ways of living), Stuttgart, 1927: ‘The latest ways of living by Mies van der Rohe: the roof-garden-pool with the attached house. No rising dump. Minimum kitchen. No furniture. Can be turned to any wind direction, therefore air, light and sun are completely according to need.’

The ancestral plan is turned upside down: the living areas are not at the bottom but at the top, close to the roof garden. The house is in the air, raised high above the ground on pilotis, healthier. Light is everywhere, because reinforced concrete has given us the free plan the free facade: the windows are free, always situated on the wide walls of the rooms and these act as reflectors. Currently, there is a new desire for light in the house, and this is a great victory.12 The upper floor houses two rooms: a living room, in which we see two people squatting on the floor – furniture is not suitable for such houses, explains the caption – and a small bedroom that sleeps up to four people, one on top of the other, not in plush beds but in simple hammocks. Again to save space, a rudimentary toilet is situated on one of the balconies, which, in reality, is just a hole in the concrete floor for people to relieve themselves, but at least the toilet paper is hung on the wall. The flat roof, endowed with a Dachbad (deep pool) for swimming or even fishing, is the main feature of the house. The cartoon uses exaggeration to emphasize how the inhabitants had to adapt to the design quirks of modern architecture, with its pilotis, roof garden, concrete structure, lack of ornamentation, optimization of space, etc. The fact that they are all naked reflects how the people associated the new architecture with the idea of ‘loose living’. 177

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Another of Gastpar’s satirical sketches again casts technology in a bizarre leading role by showing the housewife how to use a jet of hot air emitted by the floor to balloon her skirts and so lift her up into the air to the desired height for her cleaning operations, where she can even get at the hard-to-reach cobwebs that gather in the corners of the ceiling. This was Gastpar’s interpretation of the floor heating system installed in the Weissenhof house designed by the Dutch architect Mart Stam. More curious still is the plate that depicts a paediatrician sewing small suction pads like those of frogs onto the fingertips of a new-born baby (Froschsaugnäpfen). The caption clarifies that the idea is to enable the children to get the most use from the glass walls of modern architecture. In the background, two babies are already up and away, climbing a large glass wall of the Weissenhof as if they were geckos. The satirical lens shined by Gastpar on Le Corbusier’s steel-framed two-family house perfectly captures the irony of the architect’s hallmark interior design features. The first plate (Figure 9.3) shows the so-called Corbusierspiel (Game of Le Corbusier), also called das Kamel im Nadelöhr (the camel in the eye of the needle), where we see a naked man in the foreground towing his friend on a rope towards the very narrow space that separates two walls. The huge effort involved is clear from the grim expression on the man’s face as he raises his arms to the ceiling and seems to hold his breath in order to navigate this strange but unavoidable hallway. The satirist is clearly alluding to the corridor designed by Le Corbusier that was so narrow it was often compared to a train corridor. Another Gastpar caricature shows a lady trying to close the door of one of the wardrobe beds that the Weissenhof houses loved so much because these contraptions enabled the day zone to be rapidly transformed into a night zone, and vice versa. What astonishes here is that there is a man still in the bed, strapped in so as not slide off as it is tilted, inferring that the poor guy will be spending the night head down in the closet. It is interesting to note that Gastpar went on to leverage his standing as chief medical officer to request a scientific analysis of certain of the Weissenhof buildings in order to understand the effects on the public health of features such as the heating system, the large windows and the free layout arrangements, but also the levels of dampness and noise.13 As the lampoons show, the good doctor clearly thought that modern architecture would have dire and far-reaching consequences. Home or aquarium? The points made by the above caricatures were mirrored in a vignette published in the Frankfurter Nachrichten in 1928 (Figure 9.4), in which three people are sat hunched around a table inside a very small, rectangular-shaped room eating a frugal dinner. What strikes the reader most though is the fact that rainwater is pouring through the ceiling, forcing each diner to juggle an umbrella with one hand and their cutlery with the other. Meantime, the cat wisely takes shelter under the table. The artist assigns the fault to two things: the shape of the house, which has a flat instead of a traditional pitched roof that would ordinarily drain the rainwater, and the method of construction, which, as the caption tells us, is made of the prefabricated 178

Modern Domestic Landscape Seen in Caricatures

Figure 9.3 Alfred Gastpar, ‘Neue Lebensformen’ (New ways of living), Stuttgart, 1927: ‘The “Le Corbusier Game”, aka “He has to come through this hollow alley”, aka “The Camel in the needle eye”’. panels patented and produced by Ernst May, Stadtbaurat of Frankfurt, since 1926.14 However, May’s claims of the efficacy of his construction system faced a number of setbacks, which, especially at the beginning, swayed the perceptions of the public in much the same way as those of the artist. Other details shown in the cartoon indicate how 179

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Figure 9.4 Anonymous, ‘Untitled’ , Frankfurter Nachrichten, 1928.

the inhabitants of the new Siedlungen suffered from the plague of damp, represented on the floor in the foreground by a motley crew consisting of a snake, a frog, a snail and some fungi, inferring that the building’s not very healthy conditions of humidity were a veritable breeding ground for flora and fauna. The caption aptly expresses the many doubts on the habitability of the apartments: ‘Home or aquarium?’15 Further study of the caricatures reveals also the deeper issues that gave the aesthetic and technical design features an even harder time. For example, many of the cartoons that jeered at Walter Gropius and Bauhaus16 stirred the unvoiced political opposition to modern architecture, which eventually spoke out and led to the closing of the famous school in 1933. The same can be said about the famed satirical photomontage that appeared in 1933–1934, in which the Weissenhof quarter was transformed into an Araberfdorf, an Arabian village complete with camels and turbans.17 The aim was to explicitly blacken the reputation of modern architecture18 and was symptomatic of a general shift to the political far right. In such cases, satire was used as a subversive tool of propaganda to arouse xenophobic feelings. These seemingly harmless cartoons were part of a larger media campaign that associated the Neues Bauen and its architects and admirers with bolshevism. This behaviour grew year by year, in lock step with Hitler’s ascent to power.

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Modern Domestic Landscape Seen in Caricatures

How to live in a flat The 1930s then saw the latecomer Great Britain jump on the modern architecture train, although the journey was far from smooth. Traditionalist resistance to the Dutch and German Rationalism, the work of Le Corbusier and Soviet architecture was in full and forceful flow, leading the local authorities to impose major revisions on several modern projects. However, this wariness was not limited to form alone. The arrival of highrise buildings divided into separate living quarters, i.e. flats, reweaved the fabric of the country’s traditional housing landscape, which till then had been built of independent single-family homes, usually with a garden or standing on a small patch of land. This disruption in living patterns went very much against the grain of the British people, who eyed the new-fangled developments with doubt and suspicion. However, help was not far away, thanks to the acclaimed cartoonist William Heath Robinson (1872–1944) and illustrator K. R. G. Browne, authors of the book How to Live in a Flat, which offered the British people timely guidance on how to adjust to the housing revolution.19 This outstanding work, published in 1936 – one year after Tecton completed High Point I, the multi-story block of flats – was abundantly accompanied by illustrations that put an ironic spin on the cramped spaces and formal oddities of modern design and architecture. In fact, while the traditional house had a separate room for each function (dining room, smoking room, billiard room, ballroom, etc.), and hence a certain degree of privacy, the modern flat was too small for such luxuries and the flatdweller had to deal with it as best they could using the ‘self-help’ book. Among the space-saving tricks the two satirical geniuses came up with were: the ‘Dibedroom’, a single area that doubles up as dining room and bedroom thanks to a wall on wheels and a folding wardrobe bed; the ‘Babedroom’, a bath and bed combination enabled by an ingenious pulley; and suspending furniture, which roped in the ceiling as useable surface space. The illustration of the kitchen is a superb take on the attempt to apply Taylorism to this area of the home since the time of Christine Frederick by, literally, transposing a Frankfurt-designed kitchen into the heart and hearth of Great Britain. Heath Robinson depicts a cooking area in which everything is designed to exploit every inch of space:20 the keyword is foldaway, from the table to the sink, while the built-in chest of drawers can, if necessary, be transformed into an impromptu baby’s cot. The hooks on the ceiling enable pots and pans of all sizes, and even the broom, to be hung there, the question is how to reach them. No problem, the authors have thought of that too, hidden away amid the clutter of fixtures and fittings, a vertical ladder can be seen that the newly christened ‘flatwife’ – no longer housewife – can use to access every available surface space.

Tubular metal furniture As noted earlier, one of the most ground-breaking developments of the modern interiors’ age was tubular metal furniture. The use of steel tubing – till then the stuff of gas pipes,

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bicycle frames and airplane seats – by Marcel Breuer, Mart Stam, Mies van der Rohe and Gerrit Rietveld combined with the enterprising spirit of certain brands to make modern furniture for modern settings.21 The steel tubes made the furniture lighter, and thus easier to carry and move around, especially compared to the heavy solidness of traditional leather armchairs, while offering the industrial advantages of production and rapidity of assembly and disassembly. The lightweight steel frames of the furniture opened the home to light, which travelled freely between chair seat, backrest and legs to satisfy the modernist yearning for light and air. Despite the fact that the Model B3 or ‘Wassily Chair’ and its many interpretations of the 1920s or mid-1930s chimed with the spirit of the new architecture, the public found it rather strange, even hard to stomach, especially in a domestic environment. The tubular furniture sparked a heated debate equal to those ignited by the flat roof and the glass curtain walls, with the views of both its supporters and detractors documented by the contemporary media. The specialized press, home of the supporters, praised the novelty of this type of standardizable, efficient and modern furniture. For example, in Italy Alberto Sartoris expressed his feelings about the metal furniture thus: ‘sleekness of design, lightness of object, precision of surface, light effects’,22 from which properties it perforce derives that ‘contrary to those who say it is hard and cold compared to the woods and velvets of times past, the metal aesthetic is vivacity and joyfulness itself ’.23 On the other side, the satirists stepped up to the plate to counter this blatant shaping of public opinion, issuing an array of sketches and cartoons that cleverly identified the weaknesses of these products and manipulated them in a comic fashion. One of their pet hates was the ‘strangeness’ of the material. Indeed, the MR 10/3 or ‘Weissenhof Chair’ designed by Mies inspired one satirical artist to depict the sinuous profile of the backrest continuing its tubular journey until it morphs into a trombone shape – the Stahlstuhlophon – thus enabling the musician to play his instrument (or ‘blow his horn’ as the satirical crowd would say) while sitting comfortably on his chair. Other cartoonists who laughed at the sight of such chairs produced skits in which the tubing was connected to the radiator pipes to impart some warmth to the icy steel. ‘I find the tubular metal furniture far too cold in winter so I plumb it into the heating system!’ one man confides to his friend.24 The cartoons not only exposed the original use of the metal tubes, usually as gas pipes, but also touched the raw nerve of their use in furniture: their coldness, not just in terms of temperature (cold to the touch) but also appearance (cold to sight). Erich Schilling crafted an intriguing cartoon for Simplicissimus (24 November 1930) entitled ‘Zeitgemäße Umwandlung’ (Trasformations in step with the times).25 In the foreground we see a living room furnished with metal tubular tables and chairs, the exact ones presented by Mies van der Rohe and Mart Stam at Stuttgart’s Weissenhof in 1927 but three years down the line, and the homeowner, a distinguished gentleman who likes to keep up with modern trends yet is also highly tuned to their fickleness. In that period, 1880s women’s fashion styles (der Geschmack der achtziger Jahre) were enjoying a comeback in the form of bustiers, bodices and dresses with trains but clashed terribly with his ‘Bauhaus-style furniture’, making it look outdated. The man therefore 182

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decided to update the ‘total look’ by adding a layer of Renaissance-type ornaments. Like architecture, metal furniture – often called Bauhausmöbel – was considered by many to be a fashion fad, just like Jugend and its ilk. The same issues were also picked up by the American cartoonists, who started gathering satirical steam in the 1940s. The punchiest cartoon was Richard Taylor’s for The New Yorker in 1941, which shows a woman trying to get to serious grips with her tubular chair after one of the legs suddenly starts to spout water and leak like a bathroom pipe. But instead of a designer, the woman calls a plumber, who can only shake his head in despair. Humour and irony aside, the sketch offers an interesting perspective of the context in which the chair is set, which is not in the apartment of a couple of young leftie intellectuals of the Weimar Republic but in the living room of a wealthy American man who hangs abstract paintings on his walls and also places a visually compelling cactus on his windowsill.26 Indeed, this style of furniture ended up losing its status as an avant-garde must-have when it made the list of modern design bestsellers. One final take-away image on the tubular metal theme is symbolic of the resistance that challenged its fledgling role in the world of furniture. Unwittingly, the source itself was Bauhaus, the school that first took the experimental forms in this direction: a photograph taken on a Bauhaus balcony in Dessau in the 1920s immortalizes a newborn baby girl sat on a prototype of Marcel Breuer’s Klappsessel B4 chair. Her name is Britte and she is the daughter of Hinnerk and Lou Scheper, two of the Bauhaus School’s students. The shot beautifully captures the silhouette of the tubular frame, which, in turn, communicates with the transatlantic liner-type tubular parapet of the balcony as their shadows entwine in a game of diagonals that give the composition movement, almost like an abstract painting. New architecture and new design seem to meld into one, but Britte is too young to understand this and, crying desperately, is clearly uncomfortable, just like the desperately weeping ‘Bauhaus Baby’ condemned to lie in an icy metal tubular cradle in the caricature published in Der Querschnitt in 1931.27

The house that glass built The flat roof, de-ornamentation, straight lines and tubular metal furniture of modern architecture in the 1920s and 1930s was not complete without the liberal use of glass. So this translucent material, the worthy complement of air and hygiene, also became a chapter in the book of modernist mythology, mainly as a result of the underlying ideology, which the publishing world fully conveyed. The transparency tenet became so embedded in people’s minds they believed it a necessary condition of modern living. This sparked a polemic inversion of past trends and, in the words of Walter Benjamin: ‘To live in a glass house is a revolutionary virtue par excellence. It is also an intoxication, a moral exhibitionism that we badly need. Discretion concerning one’s own existence, once an aristocratic virtue, has become more and more an affair of petit bourgeois parvenus.’28 183

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To better capture the wildly controversial effects of the glass myth on public opinion, and for an interesting take on how an entirely different set of values later ousted such ideological content, we have to cross the ocean and fast-forward a bit in time. The transparency aesthetic, in fact, found very fertile terrain in post-Second World War America. In the late 1940s, two iconic buildings that used glass in a totalizing way were built on the East Coast: Farnsworth House in Plano, Illinois, designed by Mies van der Rohe (1945–1951), and the Glass House of Philip Johnson in New Canaan, Connecticut (1949–1950). A slew of other glass cages also started to appear on the West Coast, including the renowned Stahl House designed by Pierre Konig (1960), later used as the movie set for numerous films and commercials. Although such dwellings were reserved for the privileged few, the average American was still able to get a notional taste of life in a modern glass house. Prefabricated components and the repurposing of many arms-related industrial activities meant that sliding glass doors or large glass panels could extend the ‘glass house’ dream to more modest houses. The picture window was a symbol of well-being and modernity, filling the room with much more light than the traditional window, making it appear visibly more spacious, while also, for example, helping the housewife to keep an eye on the kids playing outside. Nevertheless, the calibrated voyeurism of Julius Shulman shows that the longing for transparency was far from unilateral and that the price of seeing out was that others could see in. This was especially true when the transparency of glass left its isolated seclusion to move to the middle of the suburban lot, where only a few metres separated the houses. While this popularized the ‘transparent house’, the loss of privacy threatened by overly permeable interiors and exteriors made it a red-hot news topic, sparking a flood of satirical cartoons in the newspapers and magazines that provide us with another insightful lens on American family life.29 Indeed, a cartoon by Anatol Kovarsky published in The New Yorker in 1949 sees the artist ridicule the picture window that dominates the living room of a man’s house, destroying his peace of mind.30 Once the source of bucolic vistas like the garden next door, the only thing the man can see through his window now is a gang of workmen building a new house that will forever ruin his privacy. Transparency is also scorned in a famous Alan Dunn (1900–1974) cartoon (Figure 9.5), in which a husband and wife, woken abruptly during the night, are alarmed to see a homeless man peering through the window, the glass house having spiked his curiosity.31 Mies van der Rohe used the same lens in his celebrated collages, where a panoramic view of American nature is interrupted only by fine vertical lines that allude to slender metal columns, like those of Resor House, Wyoming (1937–1939), seen as unattainable mirages by the American suburbanites and perhaps not only them, given that, as Edith Farnsworth revealed in an interview, living in an overly transparent Mies house greatly unsettled her: ‘Do I feel implacable calm? The truth is that in this house with its four walls of glass I feel like a prowling animal, always on alert. I am always restless. Even in the evening. I feel like a sentinel on guard day and night. I can rarely stretch out and relax.’32 184

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Figure 9.5 Alan Dunn, from The Last Lath, 1947.

Unité d’habitation Among the many other examples of famous architecture to fall under the fire of the satirists was the Unité d’habitation of Marseille, designed and built by Le Corbusier in 1946 to 1953, which became a landmark for the organization of internal space. Although many people today hail it as a brilliant solution to collective living, the Unité d’habitation had to swim through turbulent seas during the years of its construction. As analysed by Anatole Kopp, this was the Bataille de Marseille courageously fought by Le Corbusier against the blazing guns of the opposing army. The many comments included one by the President of the Executive Committee of Hygiene of the Collegio dei Medici della Senna, who opined that these ‘boxes’ (referring to the housing units) would exude an unhealthy air, even going as far as to say that their rigid, uniform lines could trigger ‘psychological and neuropathic consequences’. This led France to create the National Association for General Aesthetics and file a law suit to claim 20 million francs in damages with a demand that the building be demolished, citing as its motivation ‘the inconveniences of moral order that go against the French aesthetic’. The journal Architecture française made much of the issue too when it published the complete report of the Executive Committee for Hygiene, which had raised profound

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doubts on the Unité d’habitation and other modern works at its annual meeting in 1947, although this was clearly a pre-emptive strike given that the building had not yet been constructed. The most criticized aspects included the presumed darkness of the apartments and the communal areas as a result of the excessive depth of the fabricated body, which would have forced the inhabitants to live in a place that needed constant (and costly) electric lighting. The same report also highlighted other threats, such as the risk of the shops located in the centre of the building attracting and being invaded by the rodents ‘which are rife in the district’. This contextual ‘battleground’ helps us to better understand the caustic wit of the article published in the satirical weekly Le Canard enchaîné in 1954, which was accompanied by an epic lampoon of the Swiss architect – dubbed l’éxcité radieuse (the radiant thrill) – standing before his creation.33 The piece reports a visit to the Unité that had the precise aim of seeing ‘how architecture can unshackle itself from the Fine Arts’ (Bonne occasion de voir ce que peut une Architecture dégagée des Beaux-Arts!). The centrepiece of the story was the similarity of the Le Corbusier cell to a prison cell: in fact, the resident who acted as tour guide – defined as ‘one of those who has still not upped sticks’ (un de ceux qui n’ont pas encore f … u le camp de la baraque) – told the journalist that he had ‘a residential cell in Sing-Sing’ (une cellule d’habitation à Sing-Sing), referring to the maximum security prison on the outskirts of New York City. The article then goes on to make an amusing yet highly detailed analysis of the interiors. ‘This penitentiary building’ – continues the description, referring to the criticism of the Executive Committee for Hygiene – ‘shines with modernity, except for, naturally, the fact that many corners [are so shrouded in darkness] it is impossible to see a thing’ (cet immeuble pénitentier reluit de modernisme; sauf, naturellement, dans les nombreux coins où l’on n’y vouit goutte). The irony was extended to the duplex arrangement of the apartment – ‘the housewife will soon get fed up of running up and down the stairs to get to the children’s bedrooms’ (la ménagère se lassera vite de le pratiquer pour accéder à la chambre des enfants) – it scorned, and, above all, to the kitchen area designed by Charlotte Perriand, which was given no walls to separate it from the rest of the house: ‘The kitchen that ought to be the lady of the house’s refuge is now the complete opposite given that the kitchen opens onto the living room, from where all the guests can watch the cook prepare dinner. Well, at least we’ll see what’s on the menu!’ (si la cuisine n’était précisément le contraire d’un refuge, grande ouverte qu’elle est sur la pièce commune, avec possibilité, pour les invités, de voir le cordon bleu touiller la cuistance).

A counter-history of architecture This brief review of modern architecture concludes with several questions. What do the cartoons really tell us? Of what use can they be to the history of architecture? What value do they add to the more traditional historical documents? The first noteworthy aspect of this ‘genre’ is the target audience. By attracting a much wider following than the small group of experts that read the specialized press, the cartoons open a remarkable window on the relationship between architecture and 186

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society at large, highlighting issues with far deeper undercurrents. The job of using a few sketched lines and words to transmit a message accessible to almost everyone implies a finely tuned work of analysis that in most cases goes well beyond simple mockery and jest to focus the public’s attention on the matters deemed most troublesome, if not downright disconcerting, in a brilliant yet highly effective way. That the cartoons appeared in widely read satirical magazines and mainstream newspapers with the potential to reach a far bigger audience than the books and manifestos of the architects significantly raises the level of interest, it sheds light on the fundamental role that each cartoon played in forming society’s overall perception of architecture and the professional figure of the architect: a partial and overblown image, for sure, but one that sticks with us today. The cartoons cited here merely dip into the shallows of a much deeper thesaurus that, up to now, has never been studied systematically34 but which contains a wealth of graphic reflections on the architecture and other topics that caught the satirical community’s eye from the mid-1800s onwards. The cartoons address not only interiors but also the role of the public architect in our cities; the high-rise-to-suburb evolution of the modern city; the social role of the architect; the transitory nature of architectonic styles; the sociological resistance to the change in consolidated housing models; and, very often, the relationship between architecture and politics. In fact, the editorial frames in which the drawings sprang to life voiced factious and politically oriented opinions, equal to any written article or essay, albeit often prompted by highly questionable motives. To better understand the relationship between architecture and society we must factor the economic, social and political interplays of this huge thesaurus into the bigger analytical picture. An organic analysis is not only justifiable and necessary but would use the cartoon legacy to chart a ‘counter-history’ of architecture. A history that, while having nothing of the objective – the caricature by definition transforms, exasperates and exaggerates real facts – would inform an alternative history to challenge the various myths floated by official historiography. Such a counter-history would be especially useful today given the even bigger impact of the Internet and the new digital technologies on the media communication of architecture.

Notes 1

W. G. J. Niewenkamp, ‘Ein ganz modernes Schlafzimmer von Van der Bloede’, Lustige Blaetter (1899). This cartoon depicts an art nouveau interior turned into a domestic nightmare: the bedroom’s furniture comes to life and threatens a baby in his sinuous Jugendstil cradle.

2

Tristan Tzara, ‘D’un certain automatisme du Goüt’, Minotaure, 3–4 (December 1933), p. 84. All translations are made by the author.

3

Jean Arp, ‘The Elephant Style versus the Bidet Style’ [1934], in Mary Ann Caws (ed.), Manifesto. A Century of Isms (Lincoln: University of Nebraska Press, 2000), p. 292.

4

Wilhelm Schulz, ‘“Der Blick in den Garten ist mein einziger Trost!” Neues Wohnen’, Simplicissimus, 27 (30 September 1929), p. 324.

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Oskar Garven, ‘Erster Besuch der Schwiegereltern im trauten Heim des jungen Paares’, Kladderadatsch, 12 April 1931, p. 3.

6

‘Und ich sage dir, es wird die zeit kommen, in der die einrichtung einer zelle vom hoftapezierer Schulze oder vom professor Van de Velde als strafverschärfung gelten wird’. Adolf Loos, ‘An den Ulk’, in Adolf Loos, Adolf Loos: Sämtliche Schriften in zwei Bänden – Erster Band, herausgegeben von Franz Glück (Vienna and Munich: Herold, 1962), p. 288.

7

‘Der Neue Bauhausstil hat alles beseitigt was Wohnungen von Gefängnissen unterscheidet. Im Interesse eines geordneten Strassvollzugs ist es daher erforderlich nunmehr die Gefängnisse mit Ornamenten zu versehen’, Thomas Theodor Heine, Simplicissimus, 19 (8 August 1927), p. 250.

8

Thomas Theodor Heine, ‘Sachlichkeit!’, Simplicissimus, 24 (10 September 1928), p. 303.

9

Alfred Gastpar was physician of the Stuttgart health authorities from 1899 to 1938.

10 ‘Das Problem der neuen Wohnung ist im Grunde ein geistiges Problem und der Kampf um die neue Wohnung nur ein Glied in dem großen Kampf um neue Lebensformen’. Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, ‘Preface’, in Deutscher Werkbund, Catalogue of the Werkbund exhibition (Stuttgart: 1927). 11 Stadtarchiv Stuttgart, Alfred Gastpar, ‘Neue Lebensformen’, glass plates, Stuttgart, 1927. The first plate reads: ‘nach Mies van der Rohe. Motto: Der Kampf um die neue Wohnung ist ein Kampf um neue Lebensformen. Illustriert von einem Zeitgenossen. Werkbundausstellung Stuttgart 1927’. There is a total of eleven plates. 12 ‘On a retourné le plan ancestral: la réception est en haut, près du toit-jardin, non en bas. La maison est en l’air, sur pilotis, loin du sol, plus saine. La lumière est partout, car le ciment armé nous a donné avec le plan libre, la façade libre: les fenêtres sont libres, elles touche toujours aux murs latéraux des chambres et ceux-ci agissent comme des réflecteurs. Il y a maintenant un nouvel appel de lumière et c’est une grande conquête’, Le Corbusier, Une maison, un palais (Paris: G. Crès et Cie, 1928), pp. 58–60. 13 See Stadtsarchiv Stuttgart, 202 – Gesundheitsamt – no. 523, Manuscript. 14 Christian Borngräber, ‘Dispute attorno a un pannello’, Rassegna, 16, 24 (December 1985), pp. 67–75. 15 This cartoon has been republished, ibid. 16 Hans-Maria Lindloff, ‘Dessauer Bauhaus-Krach’, Kladderadatsch, 4 March 1928, p. 10. 17 ‘1940 Stuttgart Weissenhofsiedlung’, Araberdorf, postcard (Stuttgart: Schwaäbischer KunstVerlag Hans Boetticher, c. 1934). 18 The Weissenhof literature reports different dates for this image. Cf. for example Karin Kirsch, Die Weissenhofsiedlung (Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt, 1987), pp. 206–7. 19 William Heath Robinson and K. R. G. Browne, How to Live in a Flat (London: Hutchinson & Co, 1936). 20 Ibid., p. 111. 21 Anty Pansera (ed.), Flessibili splendori. Il mobile in tubolare metallico. Il caso Columbus (Milan: Electa, 1998). 22 Alberto Sartoris, ‘Sveltezza della linea, leggerezza dell’oggetto, precisione delle superfici, effetti di luce’, La Casa Bella, 35 (November 1930), p. 20. 23 Ibid. 24 ‘Im Winter find mir die Stahlmobel zukalt, – ich habe die drum an die Zentralheizung anschliessen lassen’, quoted in Peter Lepel and Oliver Spies, Über Reklame. Werbemittel der Embru-Werke bis 1950 (Rüti: Embru-Werke AG, 2011), p. 121. 188

Modern Domestic Landscape Seen in Caricatures 25 Erich Schilling, ‘Zeitgemässe Umwandlung’, Simplicissimus, 35 (24 November 1930), p. 419. 26 Richard Taylor, The New Yorker, 28 June 1941. 27 Eugen Croissant, ‘Bauhaus Baby’, Der Querschnitt, 7 (July 1931), p. 457. 28 Walter Benjamin, ‘Surrealism’, quoted in P. Demetz (ed.), Reflections: Essays, Aphorisms, Autobiographical Writings (New York: Harcourt Brace Jovanovic, 1978), p. 180. 29 Cf. Beatriz Colomina, Domesticity at War (Barcelona: Actar, 2006). 30 Anatol Kovarsky, The New Yorker, 11 June 1949. 31 Alan Dunn, The Last Lath (New York: F. W. Dodge Corporation, 1947), p. 7. 32 Edith Farnsworth, quoted in J. A. Barry, ‘Report on the American Battle between Good and Bad Modern’, House Beautiful, May 1953, p. 270. 33 Jérome Canard, ‘Le Corbusier ou l’exciteé radieux’, Le Canard enchaîné, September 1954. 34 I tried to do that during my post-doctorate research (2010–2015) carried out in different countries (Australia, USA, Europe, Russia), published in Italy as: Gabriele Neri, Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno (Macerata: Quodlibet, 2015).

Bibliography Borngräber, C. (1985), ‘Dispute attorno a un pannello’, Rassegna, 16, 24 (December 1985): 67–75. Colomina, B. (1994), Privacy and Publicity. Modern Architecture as Mass Media, Cambridge, MA: MIT Press. Colomina, B. (2006), Domesticity at War, Barcelona: Actar. De Senger, A. (1931), Le Cheval de Troie du bolchévisme, Bienne: Editions du Chandelier. Dunn, A. (1931), Rejections, New York: A. A. Knopf. Dunn, A. (1947), The Last Lath, New York: F.W. Dodge Corporation. Dunn, A. (1971), Architecture Observed, New York: Architectural Record Books. Gubler, J. (2012), Nazionalismo e internazionalismo nell’architettura moderna in Svizzera, Mendrisio and Cinisello Balsamo: Mendrisio Academy Press – Silvana Editoriale. Gülker, B. A. (2001), Die verzerrte Moderne. Die Karikatur als populäre Kunstkritik in deutschen satirischen Zeitschriften, Münster: LIT verlag. Heath Robinson, W. and Browne, K. R. G. (1936), How to Live in a Flat, London: Hutchinson & Co. Heinrich-Jost, I. (1982), Kladderadatsch. Die Geschichte eines Berliner Witzblattes von 1848 bis ins dritte Reich, Cologne: Informationspresse Leske. Hiles, T. W. (1996), Thomas Theodor Heine. Fin-de-siécle Munich and the Origins of Simplicissimus, New York: Peter Lang. Kirsch, K. (1987), Die Weissenhofsiedlun, Stuttgart: Deutsche Verlags-Anstalt. Laurent, M. (2005), Le Canard enchaîné. Histoire d’un journal satirique (1915–2005), Paris: Nouveau Monde Éditions. Le Corbusier (1928), Une maison, un palais, Paris: G. Crès et Cie. Neri, G. (2015), Caricature architettoniche. Satira e critica del progetto moderno, Macerata: Quodlibet. Otto, E. (2005), Tempo, Tempo! The Bauhaus Photomontages of Marianne Brandt, Berlin: Jovis. Pansera A. (1998), Flessibili splendori. Il mobile in tubolare metallico. Il caso Columbus, Milan: Electa. Pommer, R. and Otto, C. F. (1991), Weissenhof 1927 and the Modern Movement in Architecture, Chicago, IL and London: University of Chicago Press. Saint, A. (1983), The Image of the Architect, New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press. 189

Laughing at Architecture Sbriglio, J. (1992), Le Corbusier. L’unité d’habitation de Marseille, Marseille: Parenthèses. Schuster, F. (1941), ‘Heimatschutz im Lichte des Humors’, in F. Schuster (ed.), Schwäbisches Heimatbuch 1941. Im Auftrag des Bundes für Heimatschutz in Württemberg und Hohenzollern herausgegeben von Felix Schuster, Stuttgart: Verlag von J. F. Steinkopf. Sironi, M. (2012), Ridere dell’arte. L’arte moderna nella grafica satirica europea tra otto e novecento, Milan: Mimesis. Tafuri, M. (1973), Progetto e utopia. Architettura e sviluppo capitalistico, Bari: Laterza. Thévenet, J.-M. and Rambert, F. (2010), Archi & BD. La ville dessinée, Blou: Monografik èditions. Van der Hoorn, M. (2012), Bricks and Balloons. Architecture in Comic-Strip Form, Rotterdam: 010 Publishers. Vincentz, C. R. (1933), Bausünden und Baugeldvergeudung, mit 55 Bilddokumenten von Bauwerken der sogenannten modernen Sachlichkeit, Hannover: Deutsche Bauhütte, Zeitschrift der deutschen Architektenschaft.

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CHAPTER 10 FROM ‘LITTLE RUSSIA’ TO ‘PLANET OF THE APES’: NICKNAMING TWENTIETH-CENTURY MASS HOUSING IN BELGIUM Evert Vandeweghe

Social housing is to be considered one of the most important realizations of the twentiethcentury welfare state. In Belgium, this materialized in the form of approximately half a million houses, mainly in small, undistinguished neighbourhoods, but also in some more experimental quarters. However, because of their architectural, functional and social uniformity, these housing projects often stood in sharp contrast with the existing fragmented, cumulative landscape. Moreover, due to their blatantly paternalistic character – stimulating modern living practices encompassing hygiene, privacy and social interaction – these neighbourhoods sometimes proved to be alienating for the inhabitants, as well as for the surrounding residents. The official toponymy which was created by the local authorities and social housing companies for these districts often underpinned their top-down, paternalistic character. It usually referred to the political figures and organizations responsible for their construction, as well as to nature (trees, flowers, birds, etc.), culture (writers, artists, etc.) or – more explicitly – to moral qualities that were sought (or found lacking) in the inhabitants of the new neighbourhood. This happened, for instance, in an interwar housing quarter of the town of Aalst where streets were named after such words as ‘thrift’, ‘diligence’, ‘prosperity’ and ‘providence’. However, next to these official names, there was a large group of nicknames for such districts. That the central square of the mentioned quarter in Aalst (officially ‘People’s Square’ or Volksplein) was quickly renamed ‘Jackass Square’ (Ezelsplein) (and is still commonly known under that name) is an illustration of the (self-)mockery that these names could entail. These names have mostly been discarded as a negative phenomenon. Some of them do indeed seem blatantly condescending towards these neighbourhoods and their inhabitants (referring to their poverty, race, or alleged promiscuity, criminality, etc.), which is the reason why many social housing companies tried (and still try) to erase them. Yet, a lot of these names also reveal a unique insight into the public perception of the underlying architectural and planning concepts of the housing districts and thus offer an interesting point of departure for an alternative, critical reading of some of the most important episodes in twentieth-century architecture and urban planning in Europe. Moreover, it seems that many of these nicknames constitute not only an expression of resentment but also an act of empowerment by those who are all too often seen as merely passive subjects. For, as geographer Peter Jordan rightly states: ‘Naming is conceived as having the power of defining the identity of a place.’1

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In this paper, I will mainly discuss names that describe, comment or discuss the physical environment of the housing districts, while I will leave out those that belittle their inhabitants (although superimpositions between these two categories are frequent).2 In the first two paragraphs I will introduce the historiography on this subject, deal with some questions of research methodology, as well as with the specific context of social housing in Belgium. The article’s main part consists of an overview of nicknames whose meanings can be related directly or indirectly to the physical environment of the social housing. One case study (‘The Planet of the Apes’ in Ostend) will be looked at in more detail, before making a short preliminary conclusion.

Research context, methodology and historiography This research forms part of a broader study on the heritage value of twentieth-century social housing in Flanders – conducted at the Flanders Heritage Agency (2011– 2016). Starting with more than 1,500 neighbourhoods, dating from the beginning of the century until 1985, some 300 nicknames for these quarters were retrieved from encounters with the social housing agencies, inhabitants and surrounding residents, in publications (mainly memorial books published by the social housing agencies) and especially on the Internet.3 It is clear that this is only a fraction of the possible research material, since nicknames are often used only orally, and most of them vanish after some decades, without ever being put in writing.4 For this reason (and because most of the social housing was realized after the Second World War), most of the retrieved names date from the second half of the twentieth century. Given the scope of the broader study, the analysed names are mainly located in Flanders (the northern region of Belgium) but since social housing was a nationwide affair in Belgium until 1989, some relevant examples from Brussels and the Walloon provinces were also retained. Linguistically, the names under consideration can be considered as micro-toponyms with a local significance. In addition, the relation between the quarters and the names is not always one to one. Some names were used for several neighbourhoods, while some neighbourhoods have different names. Furthermore, most of the toponyms are double names, they exist next to an ‘official’ name that is issued by the local government or the social housing department. However, the difference between an official and a nickname is not absolute. Many official names were originally nicknames and some of the nicknames in this study have acquired official status – for example, ‘Far West’ is, since 2001, the official name of a social quarter in Vilvoorde. The decisive selection criterion for the analysed names was thus not their unofficial status but their presumed bottomup creation. Typical of such names is the fact that they are mostly descriptive, whereas official, top-down created names are mostly symbolic.5 In this study, attention was not only paid to the etymology – the original, correct meaning of the toponyms – but also to later interpretations, as these give insight into the changing reality and public image of the neighbourhood. 192

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Already in 1990 geographer Allan Pred, in his study of everyday language in late nineteenth-century Stockholm, highlighted the importance of place nicknames, stating that, ‘folk humour of irony, irreverence, social inversion, and bawdiness prevailed to such a degree that official place names were only seldom employed’.6 A quick survey on the Internet reveals that the phenomenon of nicknaming social housing is internationally widespread. Famous examples in Great Britain include ‘The Tower of Terror’ for the ‘brutalist’ Trellick Tower in London (1972) and ‘San Quentin’ for the Park Hill complex in Sheffield (1961), referring to the infamous American prison. In Berlin, interwar social apartments are known as ‘The Red Front’ (Rote Front) because of their bright red gables and the involvement of a socialist municipality. More recently (in 2012), a renovated social housing complex in Amsterdam (The Netherlands) became internationally known as ‘The Halal Houses’ (De Halal Huizen), because the renovation included modifications that met with demands of the Muslim inhabitants such as separate taps for ritual cleansing and sliding doors between the kitchen and living room, enabling a more strict partition between men and women.7 However, despite the omnipresence of such place nicknames, relevant research is quite difficult to retrieve.8 Most toponymic research regards the early modern period and focuses on linguistic aspects of toponyms, or on their etymological (original) meanings. Research into modern toponyms, on the other hand, is often limited to official denominations and the accompanying political-ideological connotations. Only recently has some research been conducted into recent, bottom-up place names, especially in regions which were characterized by oppression and liberation (such as Eastern Europe and Africa).9 From 2001 to 2004, UNESCO issued three publications on the terminology of the city, in which some attention was paid to toponomy.10 The publication, edited by Hélène Rivière d’Arc, contains a tome on the contrast between official and unofficial names with papers on postwar suburbs in Prague and Genoa, consisting mainly of social housing.11 Another relevant contribution by anthropologist Abderrahmane Moussaoui regards the administrative and everyday toponyms in Algeria.12 In 2007, the journal Onoma devoted an issue to urban toponomy, with a methodological contribution by linguist Jean-Claude Bouvier and an analysis of popular toponyms for a park in Birmingham by linguist Mat Pires.13 Clarification is also provided by the compilation Critical Toponymies (2009), in which emphasis was laid on power relations in toponomy, especially the paper by geographer Garth Andrew Myers on place nicknames in Zanzibar.14 And in 2012, linguist Terhi Ainiala published a paper on slang toponyms and social identity of the inhabitants of Helsinki.15 In most of these publications, nicknames for social housing are mentioned but are not their central focus. One exception is an article by anthropologist Christina Birdsall-Jones (2013) on the use of the name ‘The Bronx’ for social quarters in Australia.16 For Belgium and Flanders, the phenomenon is mentioned in historical overviews of social housing but only very briefly.

Social housing in Belgium: An overview The roots of social housing in Belgium are, as in many other countries, to be found in nineteenth-century industrialization and the resulting poor housing conditions.17 Since 193

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the Belgian government remained reluctant to intervene, the first initiatives came from ‘enlightened’ industrialists, such as Jean-Baptiste André Godin, who tried to hold on to their workers by providing slightly better housing. Towards the end of the century, some municipalities of larger towns also decided to provide social tenements. However, it was only in 1919 that a national society for social housing was established. This decentralized organization worked by supporting hundreds of local housing companies, with the participation of the local, provincial and national government, as well as private individuals such as local industrialists. Partly because of this decentralization, most social housing in Belgium remained fairly small-scale, with neighbourhoods of around a hundred houses on average. Initially, the national society focused on urban environments, but from the 1960s it also started building in the countryside. In total, some 300,000 houses were built between 1920 and 1980, which, in comparison with neighbouring countries such as the Netherlands, remains relatively limited. The first large building campaign addressed the large housing shortage at the end of the First World War, and it was explicitly directed at a wide social group. Best known are the garden quarters, which are still considered by many as the ultimate in social housing in Belgium. By the mid-1920s, however, budgets were already drastically cut. Thus, the projects from the 1930s seem like a step backward, with workers’ houses in densely built streets and apartment buildings in larger towns like Brussels, Antwerp and Liège. Quantitatively, social housing increased in Belgium after the Second World War. A lot of social tenements were built, although the Catholic governments prevailing in most of the municipalities and other local bodies preferred to subsidize private home-ownership. In the 1950s and 60s, this translated into low-rise quarters with traditional brick family homes and bungalows for the elderly, as well as small-scale modernist high-rise quarters. These high-rises were initially only erected in cities, but gradually this model trickled down to smaller towns and municipalities. Housing projects were sometimes criticized, partly because of the political affiliation of many social housing companies that had promoted them. Architect Renaat Braem for example – undoubtedly the most important architect of social housing in post-war Belgium – published two caricatures in 1954, one of the ‘Catholic’, traditional ideal of the low-rise family home and one of the ‘socialist’ modern high-rise, both as seen by the other party (Figure 10.1).18 With this he criticized the politicized and oversimplified debate on this question. Though Braem became known for high-rise social housing, he pleaded in this and later articles for a combination of high- and low-rise, based on the needs of the people.19 Since the mid-1960s, the rejection of traditional quarters, as well as of modernist high-rises, led to some innovative low-rise quarters, which combined communal (green) space with a high density of buildings. A decade later, the ‘town’ and the ‘street’ were rediscovered as a qualitative living environment susceptible to renovation and infill development, offering opportunities for residential areas with slow traffic. In addition, experts during this period started to promote a less paternalistic type of social housing, including the participation of the inhabitants in the decision-making process. However, this participation often remained rhetorical or very superficial. As one of the architects involved put it: ‘With public consultation, as an architect, you simply had to learn how 194

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Figure 10.1 ‘Het leven in de hoogbouw, gezien door eenzijdige partijgangers van de laagbouw. Het leven in de laagbouw, gezien door eenzijdige partijgangers van de hooghouw’ (Live in the high-rise, as seen by one-sided partisans of the low-rise and vice versa), in Renaat Braem, ‘Over de wooneenheid Kiel-Antwerpen’, Bouwen en Wonen, 1954. to take everyone for a ride […]. It was not about residents getting what they wanted, but making sure they wanted what they got.’20

A view from the ground: Nicknaming social housing One way in which the inhabitants expressed their feelings of dissatisfaction towards their social housing was through their living practice. An example of this can be found in ‘Little Russia’, one of the rare modernist garden towns built in Belgium after the First World War. It was built between 1921 and 1928 by a local housing company for industrial workers. The architect Huib Hoste was responsible for the characteristic ‘cubist’ architecture with concrete gables, influenced by the Dutch movement De Stijl. Landscape architect Louis Van der Swaelmen designed the lay-out of the quarter, applying garden-city principles such as communal back gardens. Many inhabitants, however, quickly reorganized these houses by introducing the then widespread custom of the back-kitchen as a main living quarter. This meant extending the minimal, rationalist kitchen with a porch and moving the entrance to the rear of the house, which was made possible thanks to the communal back gardens and footpaths.21 Another form of individual re-appropriation of the social housing on the part of the inhabitants was the rejection of its official toponymy. Again, the example of ‘Little Russia’ is significant. Initially described as Cité Industrielle de Selsaete, it was quickly renamed ‘Little-Russia’, a name that lives on to this day. It refers to two Russians who were involved in the construction of this quarter: engineer Dimitri Peniakoff (1865–1925), who was the director of the neighbouring aluminium factory, and Alexis Veretennicoff (1860–1927), a deposed governor of Ukraine (condescendingly called ‘Little Russia’ at that time) who came as a fugitive to Zelzate and became the building surveyor of the 195

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quarter. Though these people were not responsible for the appearance of the quarter, many inhabitants thought their involvement was to blame for the alienating living environment.22 The name was also used to criticize the quarter’s isolated location: unlike many other garden towns in Belgium, ‘Little Russia’ was not envisaged as the extension of an existing town but as the first step of an industrial linear city. Furthermore, it was cut off from the neighbouring community by a canal, a railway and a motorway. Finally, the name ‘Little Russia’ also referred to the alleged socialist conviction of its inhabitants (Figure 10.2).23 In Belgium ‘Little Russia’ remains in many respects – location, lay-out, architecture – an exceptional social quarter, which is the reason why it is, partly, listed as a monument. However, to what extent can this type of nicknaming be considered representative? Largely so, it seems. Of the approximately 300 names that were retrieved, a majority did contain to some extent a commentary on the physical environment of the quarter. These included, first of all, some generic names such as ‘The Quarter’ (De Wijk) or ‘The Worker’s Quarter’ (De Cité), which seem to convey a feeling of disrespect emphasizing the segregated character of the neighbourhood, cut off from the existing village or town. This is evidenced even further by the addition of adjectives that referred to the specific function like ‘The Social Quarter’ (De Sociale wijk) or to its relatively young age compared to the existing town, such as ‘The New Town’ (De Nieuwe Stad or Nieuwstad) or ‘The New Quarter’ (De Nieuwe Wijk), regularly renamed ‘The Old New Quarter’ (De Oude Nieuwe Wijk) when a new social quarter was built in the vicinity.

Figure 10.2 ‘Little-Russia’ , Zelzate. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

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Figure 10.3 ‘Korea’ , Lokeren. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Kris Vandevorst.

Another important target of place nicknames was the specific location of the quarter. Sometimes this was positive. Two interwar social quarters for example, in Pepinster and Leuven, were called ‘Matadi’ because they were built on a picturesque hilly landscape, just like the Congolese town. More often, however, this reference implied a criticism of the quarter’s remote location, such as ‘The Olympic Village’ (Het Olympisch Dorp) in Beerse (1978). This is also the case for names that recall faraway places of unrest and lawlessness – in particular war zones.24 Examples are given by ‘Far-West’ used both in Vilvoorde (1921–1930) and Ronse (1930s), or by names referring to African colonies like ‘Katanga’ , ‘Morocco’ and ‘Algeria’ employed in Mechelen for quarters built in the interwar period, ‘Siberia’ in Turnhout (1949) and Roeselare (1950), and ‘Korea’ , which was used for more than a dozen social quarters in the 1950s (Figure 10.3). For some, these names hinted at the turbulent or ill-mannered character of the residents and the lack of governmental control, but they were also frequently interpreted as a critique of the far-removed location of these quarters, a direct result of the search for cheap building lots.25 In addition, the frequent names of ‘Korea’ and ‘Siberia’ referred to the problematic building processes of these quarters, because of the visual resemblance of the incomplete quarter to a war zone. Given the acute housing shortage after the Second World War and the lack of fine-tuning between building and infrastructure, many inhabitants were forced to live on a muddy building site for years, without decent roads. Contemporaries quickly associated this with images of war zones in Korea or prison camps in Siberia, known from newspapers.26

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The unusual lay-out of certain social quarters gave rise to several nicknames. In the Netherlands, one of these (‘The Cauliflower-neighbourhood’, De Bloemkoolwijk) even became a common noun, referring to a certain type of social quarter from the 1970s, characterized by a finely forked street pattern with cul-de-sacs.27 In Belgium too, a lot of toponyms refer to the lay-out of the social quarters. A name like ‘The Blocks’ (De Blokken) was repeatedly used for districts planned on a checkerboard lay-out, as in Ninove (1925). The lay-out of continuous housing facing a private courtyard also inspired varying names like ‘The Circle’ (De Cirk) in Ghent (1908) or ‘The Round’ (De Ronde) in Bruges (1925), and ‘Melrose Place’ in Harelbeke (1990s) recalling the similar appearance of the set of the eponymous TV series. In some cases, references to this kind of lay-out had an explicitly sour undertone; ‘Buchenwald’ in Waarschoot (1947) explicitly alluded to the resemblance that the gate displayed to that of the concentration camp but it also, more implicitly, criticized the contrast between this cluster of simple workers’ housing and the wealthy houses of the patrons in the vicinity.28 ‘Smurf ’s Village’ (Het Smurfendorp) in Turnhout (1984) was a sneer at the forced (and failed?) cosiness and social interaction initially intended by the planners, referring to the popular TV cartoon figures that live in an idealized village community (Figure 10.4).29 Of course, the quality of the architecture also inspired nicknames, and one of the most manifest ways in which these quarters diverged from the surroundings was in their architectural uniformity. A first example of such names are those that include the number of houses, such as ‘The Forty Houses’ (De Veertig Huizen) in Waregem (1924) or ‘The Hundred Houses’ (De Honderd Huizen) in Roeselare (1920). Those names seem to emphasize the repetitiveness of the architecture, conceived as a unified whole rather than in terms of individual buildings. Furthermore, such house-numbering names often

Figure 10.4 ‘Smurf ’s Village’ , Turnhout. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Karina Van Herck.

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included Biblical allusions, such as ‘The Twelve Apostles’ (De Twaalf Apostels) in Ghent (1930), adding a humoristic contrast between the solemnity of the reference and the often very mundane character of the housing. Similarly, the tedious and repetitive architectural features of the housing estates inspired nicknames like ‘The Barracks’ (De Barakken), for example for a social quarter in Wevelgem (1951), and names referring to prisons such as ‘Siberia’ or, more recently, ‘Guantanamo’.30 In other cases this kind of criticism was less explicit. An example of this is ‘Dallas’, a name used for several quarters in Hulshout, which hinted directly at the alleged promiscuity of the inhabitants by referring to the eponymous TV series. A closer look, however, reveals that this was also a criticism of the uniformity of the architecture, causing the inhabitants after work to mistakenly enter the wrong house!31 The uniformity of appearance, as the use of one prevailing colour for the buildings, was a frequent criticism voiced by nicknaming. Dozens of quarters, especially from the 1950s, are in fact known as ‘The White Quarter’ (De Witte Wijk).32 When this white colouring was combined with a more modern outlook (i.e. a flat roof), this prompted the use of African and Middle Eastern place names such as ‘Congo’ or ‘Morocco’ (Maroc) as for Kapelleveld in Sint-Lambrechts-Woluwe (1926), which was designed by the same architects as ‘Little-Russia’ in Zelzate, ‘Casablanca’ in Leuven (1955) designed by modernist Léon Stynen, or ‘Little-Jerusalem’ (Klein-Jeruzalem) in Beringen (1976), though this last name is also used to refer to the foreign origin of many inhabitants (Figure 10.5).33 The flat roof of single-family houses further inspired names like ‘The

Figure 10.5 ‘Little-Jerusalem’ , Beringen. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

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Platforms’ (De Platformkes) in Zelzate (1925), ‘The Flintstones-quarter’ (Flintstoneswijk) in Genk (1965) and ‘The Matchboxes’ (De Sulferdozen) or ‘Legoland’ in Ostend (1984). Middle- and high-rise apartment buildings with flat roofs, for example at ‘t Kiel in Antwerp (1922–1939), were often referred to as ‘The Blocks’ , which also expresses their populous and compact character as opposed to individual houses.34 Regularly, this designation was combined with another characteristic of the architecture as for ‘The Limb-’ or ‘Poleblocks’ (De Pootblokken) in Antwerp (1954), referring to the modernist pilotis of Braem’s high-rise. Furthermore, two names were retrieved for large-scale apartment buildings which refer to Russia: ‘Kremlin’ for a monumental ensemble in Brussels (1954)35 and ‘Moscow’ for a functionalist estate in Ghent (1969). Both these names undoubtedly also pointed out the politicized nature of housing in this period.36 The use of non-traditional materials (like the concrete gables in ‘Little Russia’) inspired quarter names such as ‘The Monobloc’ in Nieuwpoort (1920), referring to the experimental concrete blocks which were used in this garden quarter and which were also used decoratively in the front gables. Buildings which are characterized by the visual use of concrete were repeatedly named ‘The Bunkers’, for example a low-rise senior district in Ostend designed by Group Planning (1972), while names such as ‘The Ranch’ and ‘Cowboy Village’ in Ternat (1995–1997) and Kuurne (1989) can be explained by the use of wood in the gables.37 In some cases, this reference to materials was explicitly pejorative, such as ‘The Cardboard Blocks’ (De Kartonnen Blokken) in Sint-Jans-Molenbeek, Brussels (1967), but this remains quite limited, certainly in comparison with other countries.38 References to the interior or the lay-out plan of the houses are also quite rare. One example is the ‘The Swedish Quarter’ (De Zweedse Wijk) in Antwerp (1958), which refers to the fact that architect Braem was inspired by Swedish duplex apartments.39 Other nicknames have more vague connotations. A first example of this can be observed in names that refer to metropolitan areas that are internationally known as problematic. A foreign example of this are the social quarters in Australia which were named ‘The Bronx’, a name which was also used for certain social quarters in Belgium, for example in Lokeren (1970s). According to anthropologist Birdsall-Jones, these names mostly stigmatized the residents by alluding to social problems, such as unemployment and criminality. Sometimes, however, they were also interpreted as a criticism of the lay-out and architecture of the quarter, which were held accountable for these social problems, for example, in East Fairfield (Villawood, late 1970s), a low-rise quarter with an experimental architecture (duplex apartments) and lay-out (Radburn) that morphologically contrasted with the neighbouring quarters.40 In different places like Antwerp, Ghent, Wevelgem and Genk, names were also inspired by the 1970s Chicago riots.41 In the case of Genk, the name ‘Little Chicago’ (Klein Chicago) was used, according to a contemporary journalist, not only as a direct reference to the street violence and vandalism but also to the barracks-like lay-out of the quarter and the poor building quality, which was deemed partly responsible for the criminal behaviour.42 Some other names evoked feelings of alienation and desperation, especially in the case of large-scale modernist quarters. An early example of this is an apartment complex in Ghent (1929–1931), officially called ‘Scheldeoord’ (Residence at the Scheldt, the Scheldt 200

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Figure 10.6 ‘Planet of the Apes’ , Ostend. Flanders Heritage Agency, photo: Evert Vandeweghe.

being the nearby river) but quickly renamed ‘Scheldemoord’ (Murder at The Scheldt) because of the dreary living conditions. Probably one of the most emblematic examples in a survey of nicknames of late twentieth-century mass housing is provided by ‘The Planet of the Apes’, a high-rise quarter in Ostend, dating from 1975 and officially named ‘The New Town’ (De Nieuwe Stad), after the building contractor (Figure 10.6). According to the residents association this name – which is inspired by the science fiction film and TV series of a primitive society of monkeys in a desert-like landscape – is still used by the inhabitants of Ostend and the residents themselves, though its interpretation varies. According to some residents, it is a racist reference to the many foreigners who inhabit it, while others state that it originally referred to the many children who lived there. Most of the 400 apartments were indeed intended for families, and children are referred to as ‘apes’ (apejoenk) in the local dialect.43 According to the housing company, this name came from a journalist who (wrongly) felt excluded from the invitation to the inauguration of these apartments and used it to indicate the supposedly alienating character of this architecture, which – in his opinion – led to psychological illness (‘appartementitis’) and even suicide.44 Significantly enough, the name came to be commonly used in architectural historiography, further corroborating the image of the culture shock and alienation that the inhabitants must have suffered in the new living environment.45 201

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Although this may hold true to some extent, further considerations should be added that take into account the specific context of Ostend. This town suffered relatively heavy war damage during the Second World War and its reconstruction was largely modernist. In addition, it is the most important coastal town of Belgium and thus forms part of what has become known as the ‘Atlantikwall’, the endless line of high-rise holiday apartments alongside the Belgian coast. As such, Ostend became by the mid-1970s one of the few towns in Belgium where high-rise was not exceptional and not associated in the first place with social housing. Jean Devos, one of the architects of ‘The Planet of the Apes’, designed several high-rise holiday apartments that look very similar to this social housing complex.46 Furthermore, the plans for this complex were initially positively received in the local newspapers, stressing the high building quality and the provision of green spaces and playgrounds, often lacking in the holiday apartments.47 However, in the mid-1970s, the first critical voices against modernist high-rise buildings began to appear in the local press.48 Criticism focused in particular on the lack of playgrounds and green spaces for children in Ostend. In ‘The Planet of the Apes’, the original plan had indeed been altered and the playgrounds were replaced by a large garage complex with a small playground on top. It is in this context that the name ‘The Planet of the Apes’ first appeared, illustrated by a cartoon.49 As such, it seems that this name was not so much a commentary on the odd, alienating character of this specific social housing complex but, rather, forms part of a more general criticism of modernist high-rise constructions in Ostend and more specifically of the forced economic logic that compromised many of these projects.50 For ‘The Planet of the Apes’, this criticism did have some effect – plans to extend the quarter with additional high-rise buildings were replaced by an extensive low-rise social quarter that, nevertheless, was also rapidly renamed (as ‘Legoland’ or ‘The Matchboxes’).51

Conclusion It is clear that the case of ‘Little Russia’ is no exception. Many social housing projects in Belgium received nicknames. It is very difficult, though, to trace who was at the origin of these names. It seems that they were often the result of interplay between the residents, neighbours and the popular media. Furthermore, the cases of ‘Little Russia’ and ‘The Planet of the Apes’ show that, although these names were used for different quarters and could accumulate different meanings over time, their genesis was often very specific. The case of Ostend and its ‘Planet of the Apes’ in particular indicates that the specific historic context has to be taken into account for a correct understanding of place nicknames. Whatever their original meaning, it is clear that these nicknames were often used to voice displeasure about the imposed environment of the social quarter, its location, lay-out or architecture. Often they focused on those aspects that diverged from what was considered the norm, which in Flanders equals suburban ribbon development with private detached brick homes under saddle roofs, each one different from its neighbours. Remarkably, it is precisely these nicknames that have sometimes contributed to the emergence of a neighbourhood identity. To illustrate this, we shall return one last time

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to ‘Little Russia’. Although this social quarter is increasingly abandoned and threatened by infrastructural works, the survival of its name seems ensured, as it lives on in its (former) inhabitants who proudly keep referring to themselves as Little Russians (Ruslanders).

Notes 1

Peter Jordan, ‘Place Names and Space-related Identity’, Oslo Studies in Language, 4 (2012), pp. 117–31.

2

For a more general overview of popular toponyms for social housing in Flanders (including those that comment on the inhabitants), see: Evert Vandeweghe, ‘Van Klein Rusland (1925) tot ‘t Smurfendorp (1984): volksnamen voor sociale wijken in Vlaanderen’, Volkskunde, 1 (2016), pp. 21–43.

3

Searches were conducted on Google by combining general terms (for example, ‘social quarter’ and ‘nickname’) as well as specific nicknames (for example, ‘social quarter’ and ‘Korea’), in Dutch as well as in French.

4

Rob Rentenaar, Vernoemingsnamen: een onderzoek naar de rol van de vernoeming in de Nederlandse toponymie (Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse akademie van wetenschappen, 1984), pp. 49–52.

5

Jean-Claude Bouvier, ‘Le langage de la toponymie urbaine – Approche méthodologique’, Onoma, 42 (2007), pp. 25–8; and Terhi Ainiala, ‘Use of Slang Toponyms in Helsinki’, in Nicolas Pepin and Elwys De Stefani (eds), Eigennamen in der gesprochenen Sprache (Tübingen: Francke, 2010), pp. 101–5.

6

Allan Pred, Lost Words and Lost Worlds: Modernity and the Language of Everyday Life in Late Nineteenth-Century Stockholm (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1990), p. 121.

7

Anna Holligan, ‘Netherlands “Halal Homes” Ignite Religious Row’, BBC News, The Netherlands, 12 December 2012.

8

I would like to thank Bram Vannieuwenhuyze (amongst others) for pointing me in the right direction.

9

Bouvier, ‘Le langage’, p. 24.

10 Hélène Rivière d’Arc (ed.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires urbains: préparé dans le cadre du programme de l’UNESCO gestion des transformations sociales (MOST) (Paris: UNESCO, 2001); Christian Topalov (ed.), Les divisions de la ville (Paris: UNESCO, 2002); and Paul Wald and François Leimdorfer (eds), Parler en ville, parler de la ville. Essais sur les registres urbains (Paris: UNESCO, 2004). 11 Laurent Bazac-Billaud, ‘Jihozápadní Mĕsto, Prague 13, Lužiny: réflexions sur des enjeux de la dénomination d’un espace incertain’, in Rivière d’Arc (ed.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires, pp. 149–69; and Antida Gazzola, ‘La banlieue ouest de Gênes. Dénominations officielles et officieuses’ in Rivière d’Arc (ed.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires, pp. 171–85. 12 Abderrahmane Moussaoui, ‘Entre langue administrante et designations ordinaires: nommer et categorizer les lieux urbains en Algérie’, in Wald and Leimdorfer (eds), Parler en ville, pp. 77–90. 13 Bouvier, ‘Le langage’, p. 33 and Mat Pires, ‘Investigating Non-universal Popular Urban Toponyms: Birmingham’s Pigeon Park’, Onoma, 42 (2007), pp. 132–33.

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Laughing at Architecture 14 Garth Andrew Myers, ‘Naming and Placing the Other: Power and the Urban Landscape in Zanzibar’, in Lawrence D. Berg and Jani Vuolteenaho (eds), Critical Toponymies. The Contested Politics of Place Naming (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), pp. 85–100. 15 Ainiala, ‘Use of slang toponyms’, pp. 101–5. See also: Heikki Paunonen, Jani Vuolteenaho and Terhi Ainiala, ‘Industrial Urbanization, Working-class Lads and Slang Toponyms in Early Twentieth-century Helsinki’ , Urban History, 36, 3 (2009), pp. 449–72. 16 Christina Birdsall-Jones, ‘The Bronx in Australia: The Metaphoric Stigmatization of Public Housing Tenants in Australian Towns and Cities’, Journal of Urban History, 39, 2 (2013), pp. 315–30. 17 This chapter is based on: Marcel Smets, De ontwikkeling van de tuinwijkgedachte in België: Een overzicht van de Belgische volkswoningbouw in de periode van 1830 tot 1930 (Brussels: Mardaga, 1977); Bruno De Meulder, Pascal De Decker and Karina Van Herck et al., ‘Over de plaats van de volkswoningbouw in de Vlaamse ruimte’, in Pascal De Decker, Eric Van Mele and Marc Demalsche (eds), Huiszoeking. Een kijkboek sociale woningbouw (Brussels: Ministerie van de Vlaamse Gemeenschap, 1999), pp. 10–86; and Willy D’Have (ed.), Bouwstenen van sociaal woonbeleid, de VHM bekijkt 50 jaar volkshuisvesting in Vlaanderen. Deel 1 (Brussels: VHM, 1997). 18 Renaat Braem, ‘Over de wooneenheid Kiel-Antwerpen’, Bouwen en Wonen, 2 (January 1954), pp. 57–65. 19 The two original drawings of these caricatures (preserved at the Archives d’Architecture Moderne in Brussels) were even more explicit in this criticism by including a lot of political symbols (Nazi and Catholic in the low-rise drawing, socialist and communist in the highrise drawing) which were removed for publication. 20 Carel Weeber in Martien De Vletter, De kritiese jaren zeventig. The Critical Seventies (Rotterdam: NAi, 2004), p. 100. 21 Marcel Smets, ‘Huib Hoste en Louis Van der Swaelmen. “Klein Rusland” te Zelzate, een flexibele structuur’, Openbaar Kunstbezit Vlaanderen, 13 (1973), pp. 121–24. A similar appropriation of a modernist workers quarter by the inhabitants occurred in the ‘Cité Frugès’ that Le Corbusier designed near Bordeaux (in Pessac) between 1924 and 1926. See also Philippe Boudon, Pessac de Le Corbusier (Paris: Dunod, 1969). 22 Smets, De ontwikkeling van de tuinwijkgedachte in België, p. 127; Bruno De Meulder, ‘Wonen in Oost-Vlaanderen in de kijker’, in Hendrik Ollivier (ed.), Met licht geschreven, foto’s uit een eeuw dagelijks leven (Gent: Provinciebestuur van Oost-Vlaanderen, 1994), pp. 134–35. 23 Marie-Anne Wilssens, Van Heppeneert tot Klein Rusland: 25 wandelingen door markante wijken in Vlaanderen (Leuven: Davidsfonds, 2010), pp. 182–83. 24 Rentenaar, Vernoemingsnamen, p. 153. 25 For example in Kasterlee (Venheide) where residents were mainly soldiers and miners, see Geelse Bouwmaatschappij 1947–1997 (Geel: GBM, 1997), p. 82. 26 Rentenaar, Vernoemingsnamen, pp. 49–55; Willy Van Poucke, Formosa (Baarn: De Prom, 1997), p. 26. 27 Martijn Ubink and Thijs Van Der Steeg, Bloemkoolwijken: analyse en perspectief (Amsterdam: SUN, 2011), pp. 10–14. 28 Pieter De Reu, ‘De groei van een stedelijke textielindustrie op het Oost-Vlaamse Platteland: Waarschoot, van textieldorp naar katoenbastion’, Tijdschrift voor Industriële Cultuur, 119, 29 (2012), p. 25.

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Nicknaming Mass Housing in Belgium 29 Francis Deckx, Weesgegroet. Meer dan een gewone wijk (Turnhout: Projectvereniging Erfgoed Noorderkempen, 2010), p. 85. 30 Jules Vansteenkiste, De volkswoningen en hun bewoners (Roeselare: School voor Maatschappelijk Dienstbetoon, 1959), pp. 125, 180–81. 31 Geelse Bouwmaatschappij, p. 89. 32 The many references to the colour red in popular names for social quarters, especially during the interwar period (for example ‘The Red Corner’, ‘The Red City’ and ‘The Red Campaign’), refer to the alleged left-wing political conviction of the inhabitants and/or social housing companies. 33 This is also the case in the Netherlands (Rentenaar, Vernoemingsnamen, pp. 68, 206 and 260–61). 34 Sven Steffens, ‘Volksnamen in de stad gisteren en vandaag: het geval Sint-Jans-Molenbeek’, Brussels studies, 9 (2007), pp. 8–9. 35 This name was also used for a similar project in the Netherlands (Gorinchem), dating from 1956. 36 ‘Moscow’ was originally a popular name dating from the early nineteenth century, referring to the stay of Russian soldiers after the defeat of Napoleon in Waterloo. However, it acquired an additional meaning after the construction of the social housing block in 1969. 37 75 jaar Gewestelijke Maatschappij voor Volkshuisvesting 1922–1997 (Sint-Pieters-Leeuw: s.n., 1998), pp. 98–100. 38 Steffens, ‘Volksnamen’, pp. 8–9; Bazac-Billaud, ‘Jihozápadní Mĕsto’, pp. 149–69; and Moussaoui, ‘Entre langue administrante’, pp. 88–9. 39 The project called Housing unit Kiel can be viewed in the National Inventory of Architectural Heritage at https://inventaris.onroerenderfgoed.be/dibe/geheel/26553 (accessed 27 January 2015). 40 Birdsall-Jones, ‘The Bronx in Australia’, pp. 315–30. 41 François Leimdorfer, Dominique Couret, Jérémie Kouadio N’Guessan, Christelle Soumahoro and Christine Terrier, 2002, ‘Nommer les quartiers d’Abidjan’ , in Christian Topalov (ed.), Les divisions de la ville (Paris : Editions de la Miason des sciences de l’homme / Editions Unesco, 2002), pp. 313-46; Moussaoui, ‘Entre langue administrante’, pp. 86–8; Rentenaar, Vernoemingsnamen, p. 14. 42 ‘“Nieuw Sledderlo’’ of “Klein Chicago”?’, Het Belang van Limburg (27 January 1978), n.p. 43 Roland Desnerck et al., Oostends woordenboek (De Haan: Desnerck, 2006), p. 48. 44 De Gelukkige Haard: Vijftig Jaar, Oostende (Oostende: De Gelukkige Haard, 2001), pp. 20–2. 45 Bruno De Meulder, ‘Wonen tussen de gemeenplaats van de “fermette” en het stigma van het woonblok. Naoorlogse stedenbouw en huisvesting in de versplinterde Vlaamse ruimte’, in D’Have (ed.), Bouwstenen van sociaal woonbeleid, p. 304. 46 Nieuwsblad van de kust, 20 December 1973, p. 64. 47 Nieuwsblad van de kust, 25 August 1972, pp. 1, 3; 22 November 1973, p. 13; 2 May 1974, p. 11. 48 Nieuwsblad van de kust, 20 December 1973, p. 21; 2 September 1976, pp. 6, 8; De Stoeten Ostendenoare, 2 September 1975, pp. 6–8; 8 April 1976, pp. 1–5; 1 August 1976, p. 11. 49 Nieuwsblad van de kust, 1 July 1976, p. 10; 8 July 1976, p. 9. 50 For example: De Stoeten Ostendenoare, 2 September 1978, p. 8. 51 De Stoeten Ostendenoare, 2 September 1976, p. 17.

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Bibliography Ainiala, T. (2010), ‘Use of Slang Toponyms in Helsinki’, in N. Pepin and E. De Stefani (eds), Eigennamen in der gesprochenen Sprache, Tübingen: Francke. Bazac-Billaud, L. (2001), ‘Jihozápadní Mĕsto, Prague 13, Lužiny: réflexions sur des enjeux de la dénomination d’un espace incertain’, in H. Rivière d’Arc (ed.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires urbains: préparé dans le cadre du programme de l’UNESCO gestion des transformations sociale (MOST), Paris: UNESCO. Birdsall-Jones, C. (2013), ‘The Bronx in Australia: The Metaphoric Stigmatization of Public Housing Tenants in Australian Towns and Cities’, Journal of Urban History, 39, 2: 315–30. Boudon, P. (1969), Pessac de Le Corbusier, Paris: Dunod. Bouvier, J.-C. (2007), ‘Le langage de la toponymie urbaine – Approche méthodologique’, Onoma, 42: 23–38. Braem, R. (1954), ‘Over de wooneenheid Kiel-Antwerpen’, Bouwen en Wonen, 2 (January 1954): 57–65. D’Have W. (ed.) (1997), Bouwstenen van sociaal woonbeleid, de VHM bekijkt 50 jaar volkshuisvesting in Vlaanderen. Deel 1, Brussels: VHM. De Meulder, B. (1997), ‘Wonen tussen de gemeenplaats van de “fermette” en het stigma van het woonblok. Naoorlogse stedenbouw en huisvesting in de versplinterde Vlaamse ruimte’, in W. D’Have (ed.), Bouwstenen van sociaal woonbeleid, de VHM bekijkt 50 jaar volkshuisvesting in Vlaanderen. Deel 1, Brussels: VHM. De Meulder, B., De Decker, P. and Van Herck, K., et al. (1999), ‘Over de plaats van de volkswoningbouw in de Vlaamse ruimte’, in P. De Decker, E. Van Mele and M. Demalsche (eds), Huiszoeking. Een kijkboek sociale woningbouw, Brussels: Ministerie van de Vlaamse Gemeenschap. Gazzola, A. (2001), ‘La banlieue ouest de Gênes. Dénominations officielles et officieuses’, in H. Rivière d’Arc (ed.), Nommer les nouveaux territoires urbains: préparé dans le cadre du programme de l’UNESCO gestion des transformations sociale (MOST), Paris: UNESCO. Jordan, P. (2012), ‘Place Names and Space-related Identity’, Oslo Studies in Language, 4: 117–31. Moussaoui, A. (2004), ‘Entre langue administrante et designations ordinaires: nommer et categorizer les lieux urbains en Algérie’, in P. Wald and F. Leimdorfer (eds), Parler en ville, parler de la ville. Essais sur les registres urbains, Paris: UNESCO. Myers, G. A. (2009), ‘Naming and Placing the Other: Power and the Urban Landscape in Zanzibar’, in L. D. Berg and J. Vuolteenaho (eds), Critical Toponymies. The Contested Politics of Place Naming, Farnham: Ashgate. Paunonen, H., Vuolteenaho, J. and Ainiala, T. (2009), ‘Industrial Urbanization, Working-class Lads and Slang Toponyms in Early Twentieth-century Helsinki’, Urban History, 36, 3: 449–72. Pires, M. (2007), ‘Investigating Non-universal Popular Urban Toponyms: Birmingham’s Pigeon Park’, Onoma, 42: 131–54. Pred, A. (1990), Lost Words and Lost Worlds: Modernity and the Language of Everyday Life in Late Nineteenth-Century Stockholm, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Rentenaar, R. (1984), Vernoemingsnamen: een onderzoek naar de rol van de vernoeming in de Nederlandse toponymie, Amsterdam: Koninklijke Nederlandse akademie van wetenschappen. Rivière d’Arc, H. (ed.) (2001), Nommer les nouveaux territoires urbains: préparé dans le cadre du programme de l’UNESCO gestion des transformations sociale (MOST), Paris: UNESCO. Smets, M. (1973), ‘Huib Hoste en Louis Van der Swaelmen. “Klein Rusland” te Zelzate, een flexibele structuur’, Openbaar Kunstbezit Vlaanderen, 13: 121–24. Smets, M. (1977), De ontwikkeling van de tuinwijkgedachte in België: Een overzicht van de Belgische volkswoningbouw in de periode van 1830 tot 1930, Brussels: Mardaga.

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Nicknaming Mass Housing in Belgium Steffens, S. (2007), ‘Volksnamen in de stad gisteren en vandaag: het geval Sint-Jans-Molenbeek’, Brussels studies, 9: 1–12. Topalov, C. (ed.) (2002), Les divisions de la ville, Paris: UNESCO. Ubink, M. and Van Der Steeg, T. (2011), Bloemkoolwijken: analyse en perspectief, Amsterdam: SUN. Vandeweghe, E. (2016), ‘Van Klein Rusland (1925) tot ‘t Smurfendorp (1984): volksnamen voor sociale wijken in Vlaanderen’, Volkskunde, 1: 21–43. Wald, P. and Leimdorfer, F. (eds) (2004), Parler en ville, parler de la ville. Essais sur les registres urbains, Paris: UNESCO.

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CHAPTER 11 SAUL STEINBERG’S ‘GRAPH PAPER ARCHITECTURE’: HUMOROUS DRAWINGS AND DIAGRAMS AS INSTRUMENTS OF CRITIQUE Christoph Lueder

From New York’s Park Avenue to central Hong Kong an abstract architecture popped up, shorn of location in place and time, an architecture of amnesia. It is practically impossible to remember as far back as the 1960s, but then there were many attacks on what Norman Mailer called these ‘empty landscapes of psychosis’. They were mounted […] by writers such as Lewis Mumford, by The New Yorker artists such as Saul Steinberg and by urban critics such as Jane Jacobs. Charles Jencks, ‘Post-modernism and the Revenge of the Book’1 One must build attractive traps. […] Humour is a very good trap. Laughter disarms and opens the way for instinct. It is like hiccups, yawns. When you try to repress a yawn, it comes out of your ears. Yawning is animal criticism – dogs yawn. Saul Steinberg2 Charles Jencks described a series of analogous attacks against a post-war architecture of amnesia and abstraction, articulated across disciplines by a writer, a critic and an artist. His narrative is problematic as well as interesting. It is problematic insofar as Lewis Mumford, Jane Jacobs and Saul Steinberg did not articulate the unequivocal critique that he suggested, but it is interesting in acknowledging art and specifically humorous drawings and diagrams as instruments of architectural critique, matching writing in authority and significance. Saul Steinberg developed his ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ over several iterations between 1950 and 1954. His drawings predate widespread use of the term ‘graph paper’ to deride the façades of corporate modernism, indeed they predate or are contemporaneous with two of the most memorable New York skyscrapers exemplifying and popularizing gridded glass façades. The United Nations Secretariat by Wallace Harrison, Oscar Niemeyer and Le Corbusier was completed in 1952, and the Seagram building by Ludwig Mies van der Rohe and Philip Johnson was completed in 1958. Steinberg’s first version of ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ was published in the New York-based arts and culture magazine Flair in September 1950,3 alongside further collages depicting scaled

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up objects in urban context, and then reappeared (Figure 11.1) in a special issue of The Architectural Review [AR], entitled ‘Man Made America’, that was sharply critical of US post-war urban development.4 Questioned by the editors of the AR on what ‘the US might tell the old world’, Steinberg singled out three points: ‘(a) giantism […] which, although a disease, reveals a certain bigness of view (foreign to the British) […] (b) a

Figure 11.1 Saul Steinberg, ‘Untitled’ , 1950, published in The Architectural Review, 1950. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society.

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curious transatlantic art, neuter, non-fertilizing […] which arises from the crossing of European avant-garde aesthetics with American technological genius, (c) The One Idea […]. Consistency almost approaching insanity’.5 Steinberg’s verbal appraisal supports the critique that his diagrammatic drawings convey but also exposes his underlying fascination with American ‘bigness of view’. Given that Steinberg was an artist rather than a writer, it is remarkable that the editors of the AR lauded him as ‘the most witty, perceptive and devastating critic in the world’.6 In 1953, Steinberg published his first, and only, written critique of architecture, on Henry-Russell Hitchcock’s MoMA exhibition ‘Built in U.S.A’.7 He denounced the exhibition as ‘an optimistic survey of a few handsome works selected from an enormous field of nonsense’, and, in accompanying drawings, shifted attention on ‘the underworld of post-war architecture’.8 No drawings from his ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ series were published with this article. Instead, it is accompanied by a photograph of a Brazilian water tower enclosed with a gridded ‘false’ façade that strikingly resembles the then recently completed UN Secretariat building in New York. Steinberg’s comment ‘Which function for what form?’ criticizes the arbitrary relationship between programme and form, but not the abstract quality of the gridded façade.9 Perhaps more than any categorical critique, Steinberg’s enjoyment of visual juxtaposition and association becomes palpable. The AR’s attack on ‘Man Made America’ drew a sharp rebuttal from Douglas Haskell, the editor of the Architectural Forum, who described Steinberg’s drawings as ‘captive US artillery’.10 Haskell then invited Jane Jacobs to guest edit a special issue of the Architectural Forum in 1956 that responded to the AR with a detailed survey of the American scene.11 In her editorial Jacobs articulated a set of ideas that she subsequently developed and presented as a fully formed thesis in her 1961 book The Death and Life of Great American Cities.12 However, she did not refer to Steinberg’s work. Jacobs’s book launched an attack on a group of urban planners and commentators that she named ‘Decentrists’, and that included Mumford.13 She accused the Decentrists of failing to understand how metropolitan cities operate, and mistakenly advocating for decentralization and dispersal into smaller units. Her counterargument proposed that urban density and programmatic mixture create possible urban ways of living, she lamented the Decentrists’ disregard for the street as the basic unit of urbanism. Mumford’s response was published in 1962 in The New Yorker under the title ‘Mother Jacobs’ Home Remedies’.14 Jacobs had advocated for the street as the site of ‘a mixture of social and economic activities at every hour of the day’; Mumford dismissed this notion, arguing that Jacobs reduced the city to ‘an organization for the prevention of crime’.15 Likewise, Mumford and Jacobs widely varied in their appraisal of modern architecture. Far from dismissing post-war modernism as an abstract architecture of amnesia, Mumford’s views were nuanced. He condemned the UN Secretariat with its gridded glass façade as ‘a type of building that to distant peoples is a stock emblem of the things they fear and hate – our slick mechanization, our awful power, our patronizing attitude.’16 However, in ‘The Lesson of the Master’ of 1958 he emphatically endorsed Mies’s Seagram building as ‘a somber, unsmiling, yet not grim […] muted masterpiece’ 211

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and commended its architect and client for setting the building back from Park Avenue to create a plaza that ‘maintains the human scale […] its emptiness [being] a part of its serenity’.17 Jacobs too acknowledged the Seagram in itself as ‘a masterpiece of modern design’ but criticized Park Avenue for ‘a total effect of chaotic architectural wilfulness, overlaid on boredom’.18 Steinberg, Jacobs and Mumford had, at different times, lived in Greenwich Village,19 and it influenced their works and writing. Their critiques of post-war modernist urbanism use dissimilar approaches and means. Jacobs and Mumford discussed the visual appearance of cities within the context of their views on urban organization, whereas Steinberg’s critique used inherently visual means. The work of the three critics offers little evidence to substantiate Jencks’s narrative of an attack on ‘abstract architecture’. Indeed, Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ has been read as juxtaposition of ‘life and animation’ residing in the ‘messy brownstone façades and groups of passers-by’ against a ‘rational grid’ that is ‘dead and empty’.20 However, it also powerfully evokes the fascination with a ‘certain bigness of view’ that Steinberg acknowledged. Alongside its contextualization within the architectural and urban critique of their time, the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ needs to be understood within the processes and instruments of visual thought and discourse that Steinberg refined over the course of his education and career.

‘Graph Paper Architecture’: Sources, materials and themes Steinberg has linked many preoccupations and themes of his drawings to his childhood in Romania. Born in 1914, he grew up in Bucharest, as a child playing in his father’s small cardboard box factory and in the spacious courtyard that was shared by numerous craftsmen, amongst them his uncle, who was a sign painter. In conversation with his lifelong friend Aldo Buzzi, Steinberg denied any professional artistic training; rather, he claimed to have ‘learned to draw by drawing’.21 He maintained that his drawing style remained unchanged since he was a child, explaining that ‘he had trained himself to retain the attitude of a child who looks at the external world and sees things as if for the first time’.22 The purposeful childlike quality and disarming visual humour of his drawing style allowed Steinberg to put his viewers at ease, while simultaneously manipulating pictorial space in complex ways and alluding to art-historical styles. Steinberg has cited holding as a child the wooden question marks used by his father for printing as a key experience that led him to think and draw the abstract and the concrete in idiosyncratic ways.23 Other childhood memories even more directly informed the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’. He was fascinated with the school materials that his uncle’s stationery shop had in stock, the various sorts of paper in the notebooks, such as graph paper for mathematics.24 In 1933 Steinberg moved to Milan to study architecture at the Regio Politecnico, staying for almost seven years. The courses he took included disegno dal vero; it was here that Steinberg drew from life for the first time, bringing ‘a revelation’ as he had previously 212

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only drawn from ‘fantasy’ and ‘imagination’.25 The drawing curriculum concluded with architectural drawings, plans, sections, elevations and perspectives of buildings. Steinberg later was to fruitfully exploit the Politecnico’s didactic progression of line drawing, from freehand to ruled or guided by graph paper. His perspectives were idiosyncratic and manipulated pictorial space, their distorted lines foreshortened or enlarged spatial depth in a manner reminiscent of the paintings of De Chirico.26 Steinberg later mockingly referred to this style as ‘Milanese Bauhaus’.27 Steinberg’s preoccupations with style, as well as his extraordinary command of pictorial space and perspectival manipulation have their roots in his architectural education.28 In 1938, the persecution of Jews in Mussolini’s Italy forced Steinberg to leave his post as cartoonist at Settebello, a satirical newspaper. Following his graduation from the Politecnico in the spring of 1940 and loss of his legal right to reside in Italy he managed to flee to Santo Domingo in 1941, arriving in New York City in 1942. Five key themes, rooted in Steinberg’s childhood and architectural education, are instrumental for understanding his ‘Graph Paper Architecture’: the abstract versus the concrete; contrasting lines: freehand, ruled and gridded; free association and strategic usage of styles – ‘seeing as if in quotation marks’;29 and manipulation of pictorial space.

Abstract versus concrete Steinberg understood abstract and concrete as ways of perceiving and representing objects, rather than as properties residing in the objects themselves. Therefore, he regarded any sign on paper, a number, question mark, word, musical note or abstract symbol as a ‘reality’ and drew it as a tangible object. His diagram of a cat peering into a number five, which is drawn as a cupboard containing three pears and two apples, is but one of many instances of visual diagrams and games that destabilize the usual relation between what is abstract and what is concrete.30 What we conventionally define as abstract is regarded by Steinberg as the substitution of a dead preconception for a living perception. Conversely, concrete is what is seen with fresh eyes, as if for the first time.31 Steinberg has emphasized that his ‘line wants to remind constantly that it is made of ink’,32 thereby counteracting pictorial illusion. The art historian Ernst Gombrich has reminded us that, though Steinberg constantly discloses the illusion he never fully convinces us beacuse ‘pictorial representation […] is a function of our understanding and it takes an enormous effort to inhibit our understanding and only see ink’.33 In this sense many of Steinberg’s drawings are dual diagrams, firstly diagramming their subject matter while secondly explaining the processes of drawing and cognition. The ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ is sustained by this tension, here too effort is needed to suppress pictorial illusion in order to only see graph paper. The sheet of graph paper is at its most ‘concrete’ in the versions published in The Architectural Review and Galerie Maeght catalogue (Figure 11.2), which left visible labels, punch holes and grid line colour (Figure 11.3). 213

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Figure 11.2 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Building’ , 1950. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, New York, published in Derrière le miroir, May 1977.

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Figure 11.3 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ , 1954. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, Collection of Leon and Michaela Constantiner.

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Freehand, ruled and gridded Steinberg first used graph paper for a published drawing in 1947, for a portrait that appeared with a feature article on Le Corbusier in The New Yorker (Figure 11.4).34 He drew from memory, knowing Le Corbusier from shared meals at Del Pezzo restaurant

Figure 11.4 Saul Steinberg, ‘Portrait of Le Corbusier’ , The New Yorker, 3 May 1947. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society.

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in Greenwich Village and from other social occasions.35 In a note to the editor, he explained that he chose graph paper ‘because it looks like [Le Corbusier’s] architecture, neat, orderly, transparent, logical’.36 In parts of the drawing, such as the table, Steinberg’s lines seek guidance from the grid, much in the way that an architect might use graph paper. Other parts, such as the face and body, are drawn with freehand lines that project the radii of the human hand and thereby act as an antithesis to the rectangular array of Euclidian coordinates.37 The dichotomy between freehand or handwritten, versus guided or ruled line pervades Steinberg’s oeuvre. It is the subject of a diagram reproduced at the end of Steinberg’s 1960 compilation, The Labyrinth, that demonstrates no fewer than eleven ways of connecting two points, A and B.38 The drawing expresses alternative lifelines, contrasting exploratory and inventive freehand lines against ruled lines that are rational and efficient, geometrically pure, uniform and decisive. Steinberg argued that, to understand the world, the artist needs to investigate lines of ‘geometric travels, tracks without surprises’ as well as ‘neurotic or insane’ trajectories.39 On other occasions, Steinberg disclosed his empathy for grids. Referring to a series of ‘fake Mondrians’ that he had painted, he explained that ‘you have to impersonate Mondrian in order to understand him’.40 Through embracing humour and play, ambiguity and empathy, Steinberg’s visual imagination creates space for the viewer to inhabit, in-between contrasting lines of thought kept in counterbalance.

Association and style

The main thing to find out is what sort of technique the crocodile employs to show itself, and I found out that while, let’s say, the lion is a baroque animal and some others – the hog, the fox – are maybe Gothic, the crocodile is Aztec. An extinct art. It has the rigidity of extinction, and it fits the discipline of the crocodile. […] The sides of the crocodile are disguised as-well, as crossword puzzles. The scales are made in a variety of dark green and light gray and sepia and so on, and they alternate and make some sort of a vertical and horizontal system of words. Which works all right, for a magic animal to have riddles and puzzles on the sides. Saul Steinberg41 With characteristic humour and lightness of touch, Steinberg revealed two techniques of association that are crucial to his working process and that pertain to his ‘Graph Paper Architecture’. First, imaginative visual association – linking crocodile scales to crossword puzzles, animal skin to printed paper – enabled him to perceive and conceive buildings through graph paper, at a time before the term ‘graph paper façades’ was widely used. Later, in a 1959 article on glass curtain walls, the Architectural Forum decried a ‘kind of graph-paper monotony that is beginning to spread from one end of Main Street to the 217

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other’.42 This article followed completion of the UN Secretariat in 1952 and the Seagram building in 1958, which were instrumental in popularizing flat, gridded, steel and glass, high-rise building façades.43 Conceiving associations through visual means and visually judging whether they might ‘work all right’ enabled Steinberg to anticipate rather than merely reproduce. Second, Steinberg associated the subjects of his drawings with pictorial styles and arthistorical periods – the lion with the baroque, the crocodile with the Aztec. Critics have noted Steinberg’s ‘tendency to see everything in quotation marks’.44 Accordingly, he has defined his work as ‘literary’, that is, ‘derived from art history and from reproductions of nature as seen in art, more than in reality’.45 In drawings such as ‘[Untitled]’ (1954) (Figure 11.5), usage of art-historical styles as a technique that the subject ‘employs to show itself ’ is clearly evident. Arguably, graph paper might be understood as such a technique, one that post-war modern architecture employed to show itself, evidenced, for example, in Steinberg’s portrait on graph paper of Le Corbusier discussed earlier. Another such technique is Steinberg’s manipulation of pictorial space. In many of his streetscapes Steinberg organized pictorial space by arranging staggered sequences of flat surfaces in parallel to the picture plane. Steinberg’s layered pictorial space resonates with, or perhaps even refers to, the architect Mies van der Rohe’s collages for Resor House of 1938, and for Museum for a Small City Project of 1941 to 1943.46

Figure 11.5 Saul Steinberg, ‘Untitled’ , 1954. The Saul Steinberg Foundation, Artists Rights Society, published in The Discovery of America, 1992.

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Pictorial space: The sidewalk ballets of Jacobs and Steinberg The role of pictorial space and its manipulation in Steinberg’s work, and its instrumentalization as a tool of visual – rather than verbal – discourse, may be better understood by contrasting Steinberg’s drawings of street scenes against Jane Jacobs’s narrative of a the ‘sidewalk ballet’ she observed in Greenwich Village.47 Jacobs devoted five pages of The Death and Life of Great American Cities to detailed description of the comings and goings, daily greetings and ritual farewells on Hudson Street in Greenwich Village over the course of a day and night. Her narrative is marked by change over time, the arrival and departure of residents, schoolchildren, shopkeepers, customers and visitors, and by changing viewpoints, from pedestrian, motor scooter rider and taxi passenger to spectators in shops and looking down from windows. It is these ‘eyes on the street’ that perform important duties, stepping in whenever a person on the street is threatened, either subtly by forming a wary but distant semicircle around intruders, or by taking direct action. For Jacobs, the ‘sidewalk ballet’ is the true art form of the city. Rather than choreographed, it is enacted by individuals and ensembles whose distinctive roles ‘miraculously reinforce each other’.48 It constitutes ‘a marvellous order for maintaining the safety of the streets and the freedom of the city’.49 The stage-like quality of Jacobs’s ‘sidewalk ballet’ resonates with an analogous quality of Steinberg’s street scenes set in Greenwich Village and other New York streets. Jacobs’s ‘sidewalk ballet’ is a resilient urban machine, capable of defusing intrusion and threat with measured collective response. By contrast, Steinberg’s streetscapes constitute fragile systems, at the cusp of disintegrating into a plethora of incongruous drawing styles and isolated characters (Figure 11.5).50 Steinberg’s protagonists are not governed by a preconceived desirable social order, rather, their relationships are mediated by treatments of pictorial space. Steinberg is more interested in how people and buildings present themselves and how we perceive them, less so in how people should behave and perhaps least in how an ideal city should be organized. Jacobs used shifts in narrative perspective in a film-like manner to link a series of urban episodes. As still images, Steinberg’s street scenes at first sight appear to be conceived from a static vantage point. However, Steinberg’s interest in perspectival shifts is apparent already in the competing vanishing points of his early ‘Cubist’ perspectives. Some of those early drawings betray the influence of De Chirico,51 later drawings, such as ‘View of the World from 9th Avenue’ achieve surprising effects through shifting their vanishing point without this becoming apparent at first sight. Steinberg’s drawings evoke movement through a variety of pictorial devices. He created a particular type of pictorial space by arranging flat picture planes in space, one behind the other in parallel order. This technique appears in many of the street scenes published in The Discovery of America, as well as in ‘[Untitled]’ (Figure 11.5).52 As mentioned earlier, Mies van der Rohe’s collages relied on the same pictorial technique in order to represent the flat, layered interior space of Resor House and the Museum for a Small City Project. Mies arranged sculptures, murals and views through glass screens as a staggered sequence of flat, overlapping surfaces parallel to the picture 219

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plane. While Mies’s collages suggest the viewpoint of an upright human figure, Steinberg often preferred to work with a higher vantage point. This allowed him to increase pictorial depth as well as the number of parallel picture planes. Each plane contains a part of the scene, such as pedestrians on a sidewalk, traffic lanes, another sidewalk scene, a line of buildings and a further scene on the horizon. Steinberg has described his elevated vantage point as ‘the ideal view, the rarest and most noble one, the view of the man on horseback’.53 Intriguingly, Steinberg’s elevated vantage point corresponds not only to that of spectator onto theatre stage but also to Jane Jacobs’s ‘eyes on the street’, to the view from her idealized citizen watchman’s apartment window. However, the contrasts between Jacobs and Steinberg are striking. Jacobs’s narrative voice guides the reader through a series of perspectives, continuously interpreting the social significance and public security implications of the scenes that the reader encounters. Steinberg’s layered pictorial space defines no vanishing points and therefore no fixed viewpoint. Viewers may let their attention travel in space, moving from one flat pictorial surface to another. No picture plane is privileged over another, and lateral movement within each of the planes is unencumbered. Thus, Steinberg allows meaning to emerge gradually during a shared ‘voyage between perception and understanding’ in which author and viewer are complicit.54

Eyes on the street – frontality, the noble view and the high-rise view Steinberg’s systems of pictorial space changed as his interests shifted. In the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ he dislocated the vantage point from ‘the ideal view’. At mid-level skyscraper height, the elevated viewpoint serves to preserve the Miesian frontality and flatness of the gridded façade. It avoids the perspectival effect that would have resulted from a lower vantage point and gaze upward at a looming façade. As a consequence, people and street scenes are reduced in scale and detail, thereby eliminating much – not all – of the personality and individuality of the characters in Steinberg’s typical streetscapes. The new vantage point no longer was able to perform the duties that Jacobs assigned to the ‘eye on the street’, it became disengaged from street-level activities. Furthermore, the first versions of the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ filled the urban stage with a dominant gridded field and displaced all urban activities to its margins (Figures 11.1 and 11.2). Viewers are denied the ability to let their attention travel amongst picture planes and incidents.

Working process and publication context Steinberg developed his ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ over a series of iterations and variations between 1950 and 1954, using calendarial graph paper, millimetre paper and ledger paper. The first version of the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’, using calendarial graph paper and published in September 1950 in Flair, was placed alongside photographs of 220

Saul Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’

desk lamps arranged as if they were street lights and furniture that Steinberg drew over to recontextualize it as buildings.55 The photoworks and ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ critiqued what Steinberg termed the ‘giantism’56 of American urbanism, but equally, they rouse wonderment at surprising juxtapositions and at Steinberg’s ability to evoke, with few lines, new worlds in which familiar objects take on new meaning. Perhaps most of all, they convey Steinberg’s fascination with ‘a certain bigness of view’.57 The critical edge of the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ became more acute when they were republished in December 1950 in The Architectural Review (Figure 11.1) alongside written essays by the editors and their guest authors, who included Henry-Russell Hitchcock. Steinberg continued to pursue the theme of the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ through further iterations, in his book The Passport (1954)58 and on the cover of Robert Frank’s Les Américains (1958).59 In another variation, titled ‘Graph Paper Street’ (1954),60 Steinberg used coloured pencil for the street scenes. The conceptual play between abstract and concrete, latent in the grey scale reproduction of the 1950 version in The Passport, became more prominent when the same version was reproduced in colour and with greater detail in 1977 in Derriere le Mirroir (Figure 11.2),61 accompanying a retrospective exhibition at the Galerie Maeght, Paris. The sheet of graph paper is presented as a concrete object, with punch-holes, labelling and page borders. The calendarial graph paper (‘Dietzgen One Year by Weeks’) was chosen with care, its rectangular grid and organization into four columns and eighteen rows evoke the mullions, vertical posts and horizontal rails of a glass and steel façade. The careful choice of graph paper, the subtle variations and contextualizations recall Steinberg’s dictum: ‘Of course, parody is not an attack: you cannot parody anything you can’t love.’62 A variation of 1950, entitled ‘Graph Paper Building’,63 replaced the calendarial graph paper with standard millimetre paper used by architects. Instead of using the entire sheet of graph paper to draw on, Steinberg cropped the graph paper and collaged it onto a larger sheet of paper. Thus he curtailed the overwhelming presence of the grid and released city and street from the constraining margins of the graph paper sheet. For a subsequent iteration in 1954, ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ (Figure 11.3),64 Steinberg used ledger paper, placed upside down, so that the larger dimensions of the column headers suggest large plate glass windows at entry level. This version further tilted pictorial balance from graph paper building towards city. Finally, for his 1954 ‘Park Avenue Collage’65 he used sheet music paper alongside ledger paper to depict two contrasting buildings collaged into a drawn city. A line drawing of 1957, ‘[Untitled] (Three Frontal Buildings)’,66 dispenses with graph paper altogether and limits itself to a single, continuous line but continues the compositional exploration of verticals, horizontals and grids. Steinberg’s 1960 cover for the New Yorker,67 of which Francesca Pellicciari has suggested it might depict either the UN Secretariat or the Seagram building,68 provides a coda to the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ series. By 1960, built reality had finally caught up with Steinberg’s speculative vision.69 Steinberg shifted emphasis from the gridded structure of glass façades to their reflective properties, returning to an interpretation Mies van der Rohe had articulated in 1922: ‘the most important thing about using glass is not the effects of light and shadow, but the rich 221

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play of reflection’.70 Perhaps even more than in Mies’s aesthetic interpretation, Steinberg may have been interested in popular perception of ‘the underworld of architecture’. His 1960 drawing heralds yet another imminent wave of corporate urbanism, namely the generic reflective plate glass office buildings that became a ubiquitous cliché in the 1960s and 70s. Steinberg was acutely conscious that drawings are understood differently depending on their publication context.71 He acknowledged that the printed image was important to him,72 and closely monitored the reproduction process.73 According to his longtime studio assistant Anton Van Dalen, ‘he would hold [the print proof] like it was on a silver tray’.74 Changing publication contexts shifted the emphasis of the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ from compositional to critical and conceptual, a parallel, and not necessarily linked, series of shifts resulted from Steinberg’s creative exploration of the theme.

Playing with the voyage between perception and understanding The playwright and artist Friedrich Dürrenmatt has remarked, ‘Saul Steinberg I don’t admire, I do not have the time. Amongst contemporaries there is no admiration, only compassion: We all are caught in the same shit!’75 Dürrenmatt may have been alluding to Steinberg’s remarks about ‘the complicity of the contemporaneous’.76 Such complicity most readily plays out between Steinberg and his regular New York readers,77 extending to architectural critics able to recognize, for example, references to Jean-Nicolas-Louis Durand’s use of graph paper in architectural education at the École Polytechnique in Paris from 1795 onwards, intended to rationalize the design process,78 and to art historians able to decode the plethora of art-historical styles and regimes of representation that Steinberg invoked in drawings such as ‘[Untitled]’ (Figure 11.5), or the resonances of Steinbergian pictorial spaces with the flat, layered space of Mies van der Rohe’s collages of the 1940s. Steinberg did not prefigure all possible readings. Instead, he emphasized that ‘his own interpretations of his drawings are not the only ones possible’ and maintained that he ‘regards the spectator as his collaborator’.79 The Steinbergian cosmos is rife with a plethora of references and symbols that invite deciphering by educated readers, analogous to the references and footnotes of a written thesis. Steinberg’s ‘tendency to see everything in quotation marks’80 reinforces this notion. However, such a reading of Steinberg’s oeuvre insufficiently accounts for his fundamentally visual mode of operation. Unlike the linear narrative and argumentative chains of written text, Steinberg’s diagrammatic reasoning on paper allows viewers’ attention to travel between pictorial planes and graphic incidents, while discovering meaning arising from visual logic and visual humour. Aiming at ‘something else beyond the perception’,81 Steinbergian pictorial space frames and propels a ‘voyage between perception and understanding’,82 which author and reader jointly embark on. Steinberg reminded viewers that ‘you yourself must do the interpreting’ and that ‘interpretation probably does not give us the truth, but the act of interpretation saves us’.83 222

Saul Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’

Deceived by their ostensible directness, some commentators have reduced the ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ to a polemic attack on modernist architecture. More than in polemics, Steinberg was interested in building ‘attractive traps’, emphasizing that ‘humour is a very good trap. Laughter disarms and opens the way for instinct’.84 Read by means of visual instinct and visual logic, Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ gradually reveals layers of meaning that profoundly resonate with architectural modernism, its visual conventions as well as with popular experience of the modernist city. Rather than a hostile attack from without, Steinberg articulated a nuanced and emphatic visual critique from within modernism.85

Acknowledgement I would like to thank Sheila Schwartz, Research & Archives Director, The Saul Steinberg Foundation, New York, for her valuable advice.

Notes 1

Charles Jencks, ‘Post-Modernism and the Revenge of the Book’ , in Kester Rattenbury (ed.), This Is Not Architecture: Media Constructions (London: Routledge, 2002), p. 175.

2

Saul Steinberg quoted in Pierre Schneider, ‘Steinberg at the Louvre’, Art in America, 55, 4 (July–August 1967), p. 82.

3

Saul Steinberg, ‘The City’, Flair, 1, 8 (September 1950), pp. 75–90.

4

Saul Steinberg, ‘Recapitulation’, The Architectural Review, special issue ‘Man Made America’, 108, 648 (December 1950), pp. 371–75.

5

‘Conclusion’ (Saul Steinberg interviewed by the editors of The Architectural Review), The Architectural Review, 108, 648 (December 1950), p. 415.

6

Commentary by the editors accompanying a drawing by Saul Steinberg, ibid., p. 344.

7

Saul Steinberg, ‘Built in USA. Postwar Architecture 1945–52’ , Art News, 51, 10 (February 1953), pp. 16–19. The text is signed by Steinberg, but the style suggests editorial supervision. See: Francesca Pellicciari, ‘Critic Without Words. Saul Steinberg e l’architettura’ (unpublished diss., Istituto Universitario di Architettura di Venezia, 2005), p. 224.

8

Ibid.

9

Steinberg travelled in Brazil in 1952 and the photo of the water-tower very likely is his. The tone of his unedited manuscript of February 1953 for the Art News article is tentative, whereas the published comment on functionalism seems conclusive, suggesting editorial influence. Manuscript reprinted in Pellicciari, ‘Critic Without Words’, pp. 498–99.

10 Douglas Haskell, ‘Reply to England’, Architectural Forum, 94, 4 (April 1951), pp. 158–59. 11 Jane Jacobs, ‘What City Pattern?’, Architectural Forum, 105, 3 (September 1956), p. 103. 12 Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (New York: Random House, 1961). 13 Ibid., p. 227. 14 Lewis Mumford, ‘Mother Jacobs’ Home Remedies’, The New Yorker, 38 (1 December 1953), p. 160.

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Laughing at Architecture 15 Ibid. 16 Lewis Mumford, ‘United Nations Assembly’, The New Yorker, 29 (14 March 1953), p. 73. 17 Lewis Mumford, ‘The Lesson of the Master’, The New Yorker, 30 (13 September 1958), p. 141. 18 Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, p. 227. 19 Mumford had lived in Greenwich Village in the early 1920s, Jacobs from the late 1930s to 1968, and Steinberg moved there in 1960. In 1960, Mumford favourably reviewed Steinberg’s book The Labyrinth. See: Deidre Bair, Saul Steinberg, A Biography (New York: Doubleday, 2012), pp. 335, 657. A thank you note that Mumford wrote to Steinberg, dated 22 October 1965, indicates a cordial relationship between them (Beinecke Rare Book & Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT. YCAL Box 1). I have not found any correspondence between Steinberg and Jacobs. Jacobs had probably seen Steinberg’s drawings in ‘Man Made America’. See: Peter L. Laurence, Becoming Jane Jacobs (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016), pp. 201–5. 20 Iain Topliss, ‘Saul Steinberg, The Lifeline from A to B’, in Iain Topliss (ed.), The Comic Worlds of Peter Arno, William Steig, Charles Addams and Saul Steinberg (Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2005), p. 222. 21 Saul Steinberg and Aldo Buzzi, Reflections and Shadows (New York: Random House, 2002), p. 69. First published in Italian as Riflessi e ombre (Milan: Adelphi, 2001). 22 Saul Steinberg and Aldo Buzzi, extract from Reflections and Shadows entitled ‘How I Draw’, transcript at The Saul Steinberg Foundation. 23 Jean Van Den Heuvel [Jean Stein], ‘Straight from the Hand and Mouth of Steinberg’, Life, 59, 24 (10 December 1965), p. 64. 24 Steinberg and Buzzi, Reflections and Shadows, p. 17. 25 Bair, Saul Steinberg, A Biography, p. 43. 26 Saul Steinberg, ‘Galleria Vittorio Emanuele II a Milano, 1951’, in Harold Rosenberg (ed.), Saul Steinberg (New York and London: Knopf, Whitney Museum, 1978), p. 78. 27 Mario Tedeschini Lalli, ‘Descent from Paradise: Saul Steinberg’s Italian Years (1933–1941)’, in Cristiana Facchini (ed.), ‘Modernity and the Cities of the Jews. Issues in Contemporary Jewish History’, Journal of Fondazione CDEC, 2 (October 2011), p. 325, www.questcdecjournal.it/focus.php?id=221 (accessed 11 August 2016). 28 ‘Steinberg never practiced as an architect, but the training counted. His fascination with buildings is obvious; few other artists are as sensitive to the built environment, and none can do such unexpected things with pictorial space.’ Iain Topliss, ‘Complicity’, in Andreas Prinzing (ed.), Saul Steinberg. The Americans (Cologne: Snoeck Verlag, 2013), pp. 159–85. 29 Adam Gopnik, ‘What Steinberg Saw’, The New Yorker, 34 (13 November 2000), p. 142. 30 ‘Children learn the meaning of a number as an abstraction. Two apples and three pears make five, but in spite of all explanations we still suspect that inside the number five there are two apples and three pears.’ Steinberg, quoted in Grace Glueck, ‘The Artist Speaks’, Art in America, 58, 6 (November-December 1970), p. 112. The drawing of a cat peering into a number five was used as the cover of 18 July 1970 issue of The New Yorker. 31 Topliss, The Comic Worlds, pp. 234–35. 32 Rosenberg, Saul Steinberg, p. 19. On the same subject, see Italo Calvino, ‘The Pen in the First Person’, in Saul Steinberg (ed.), Still Life and Architecture (New York: The Pace Gallery, 1982), un-paginated. 33 Ernst H. Gombrich, ‘The Wit of Saul Steinberg’, Art Journal, 43, 4 (Winter 1983), pp. 377–80. 224

Saul Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ 34 Joel Smith, ‘Illuminations, or The Dog in the Postcard’, in Saul Steinberg (ed.), Illuminations (New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press, 2006), p. 50. 35 Ibid. Social plans with Le Corbusier appear throughout Steinberg’s 1946–1958 appointment books, YCAL Box 3, cited ibid., p. 244. 36 Ibid., p. 239. The New Yorker Records, Manuscript Division, MssCol 2236, New York Public Library, Box 455. 37 Le Corbusier used graph paper for life drawings in Algiers, as noted by Jean de Maisonseul. See: Stanislaus von Moos, Elements of a Synthesis (Rotterdam: 010 Publishers, 2009), p. 281. 38 The drawing was later reproduced in Rosenberg, Saul Steinberg, p. 243, with comments by Steinberg. 39 Ibid. 40 Steinberg, quoted in John Gruen, The Artist Observed (New York: A Cappella Books, 1991), p. 163. 41 Glueck, The Artist Speaks, p. 116. 42 ‘The Monotonous Curtain Wall’, Architectural Forum, 111, 4 (October 1959), p. 143. 43 In 1978, Joseph Masheck noted that Steinberg’s 1950 graph paper building drawing ‘is funny all over again in the context of recent criticism of International-Style Modernism in architecture’, recognizing the differences between its reception in 1950 and 1978. Joseph Masheck, ‘Saul Steinberg’s Written Pictures’, Art Forum, 16, 10 (Summer 1978), p. 26. 44 Gopnik, ‘What Steinberg Saw’, p. 142. 45 Steinberg, quoted in Gruen, The Artist Observed, pp. 167, 170. 46 For a discussion of Mies van der Rohe’s collages and montages see: Martino Stierli, ‘Mies Montage, Mies van der Rohe, Dada, Film und die Kunstgeschichte’, Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 74, 3 (2011), pp. 401–36. 47 Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities, p. 50. 48 Ibid. 49 Ibid. 50 In the 1970s, during the Vietnam War and a time of social upheaval, Steinberg populated Bleecker Street in Greenwich Village with bizarre psychedelic scenes juxtaposing police, drug addicts and costumed loners. Saul Steinberg, ‘Bleecker Street’ (1970), in Saul Steinberg (ed.), The Discovery of America (New York: Knopf, 1992), p. 114. 51 For an account of Steinberg’s reception of De Chirico, see: Smith, ‘Illuminations’, p. 236. 52 See for example Steinberg, The Discovery of America, pp. 24–7, 47, 56, 65–9, 73, 100–1, 114–15, 117–21, 129, 132, 134, 139, 162, 165–66, 171, 178, 180. See also: Steinberg, ‘Built in USA’, p. 18 bottom. 53 Steinberg and Buzzi, Reflections and Shadows, p. 53. See also: Robert Hughes, ‘The Fantastic World of Steinberg’, Time Magazine, 111, 17 (17 April 1978), p. 35. 54 Van den Heuvel, ‘Straight from the Hand and Mouth of Steinberg’, p. 59. 55 Steinberg, ‘The City’, pp. 75–90. 56 The term ‘giantism’, describing a pathological yet fascinating urban condition, reappears in Steinberg, ‘Built in USA’, p. 16. 57 ‘Conclusion’ (Saul Steinberg interviewed by the editors of The Architectural Review), p. 415. 58 Saul Steinberg, The Passport (New York: Hamish Hamilton, 1954), un-paginated.

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Laughing at Architecture 59 Robert Frank, Les Américains (Paris: Robert Delpire, 1958). For this version Steinberg cropped the upper and lower part of the version published in The Passport, added buildings on the right-hand margin, and split it between the front and back covers. Accordingly, the emphasis shifts from the isolated high-rise façade to a somewhat more continuous street elevation. 60 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Street, 1954’. Ink, pencil, and coloured pencil on graph paper, 34.3 × 27.6 cm. Saul Steinberg Papers, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, inv. 5158. 61 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Building’ (1950). Ink on graph paper, 30.5 × 23 cm. Published in Derrière le miroir, 224 (May 1977), p. 21. 62 Steinberg, quoted in Robert Hughes, ‘The Fantastic World of Steinberg’, p. 32. 63 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Building’ (1950). Ink and collaged graph paper on paper. 40.6 × 22.2 cm. Published in Rosenberg, Saul Steinberg, p. 49. 64 Saul Steinberg, ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ (1954). Ink on and collaged ledger paper on paper, 36.8 × 29.2 cm. Published in Saul Steinberg (Paris: Delpire Éditeur, 2008), p. 69. 65 Saul Steinberg, ‘Park Avenue Collage’ (1954). Pencil on collaged sheet music and ledger paper, 70.8 × 45.1 cm. Published in Steinberg, The Discovery of America, p. 46. 66 Saul Steinberg, ‘[Untitled]’ (Three Frontal Buildings, c. 1957). Ink on paper. Published in The New Yorker, 8 (13 April 1957), p. 42. Republished in Saul Steinberg, The Labyrinth (New York: Harper, 1960). 67 Saul Steinberg, ‘Cover’, The New Yorker, 7 (2 April 1960). 68 Pellicciari, ‘Critic Without Words’, p. 326. 69 Blake has claimed that Steinberg’s ‘charming drawings anticipated almost everything that would soon be translated into real buildings, often by several decades’. Blake’s statement is generous and may be an exaggeration, but Steinberg’s graph paper architectures did precede the widespread proliferation of gridded glass and steel façades. Peter Blake, ‘Cartoon Critic’, Architecture, 9 (1999), pp. 106–9. Emmanuel Petit has also pointed out that Steinberg’s graph paper architecture predates the Seagram building. Emmanuel Petit, ‘The Architect’s Satirical Alter Ego: Caricature As “Embodied Critique” of Architecture in the 20th Century’, in Guido Beltramini and Howard Burns (eds), L’architetto: ruolo, volto, mito (Venice: Marsilio, 2009), p. 295. 70 Ludwig Mies van der Rohe, ‘Hochhaus Projekt für Bahnhof Friedrichstrasse in Berlin’, Frühlich, 1 (1922), p. 122. 71 ‘People who see a drawing in The New Yorker will think automatically that it’s funny because it is a cartoon. If they see it in a museum, they think it is artistic; and if they find it in a fortune cookie, they think it’s a prediction’. Van den Heuvel, ‘Straight from the Hand and Mouth of Steinberg’, p. 66. 72 Steinberg in conversation with Adam Gopnik, 1986, among Steinberg’s papers at the Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University YCAL Box 78, as ‘Talk with Adam Gopnik’. Transcription of interview provided by The Saul Steinberg Foundation, p. 8 in the transcription. 73 ‘He usually schedules his appointments with the editors so that they leave him time to discuss fine points of reproduction with Carmine Peppe and his successors, and when a cover is being scheduled, he is constantly on the phone monitoring its progress.’ Lee Lorenz, The Art of The New Yorker 1925–1995 (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 1995), p. 82. 74 Anton van Dalen, quoted in Sarah Boxer, ‘An Assistant Tells All, Finally and Gracefully’, The New York Times, 153, 52,767 (22 February 2004), section 2, p. 39.

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Saul Steinberg’s ‘Graph Paper Architecture’ 75 Friedrich Dürrenmatt, ‘Preface’, in Tomi Ungerer (ed.), Babylon (Zürich: Diogenes Verlag, 1979), p. 5. 76 Rosenberg, Saul Steinberg, p. 30. See also: Topliss, ‘Complicity’, pp. 159–85. 77 The strong bond between Steinberg and The New Yorker’s readers is exemplified by the reaction to Steinberg’s advertising work, ‘sophisticated readers lapped them up as if they were part of the magazine’s visual content rather than a commercial adjunct’. Bair, Saul Steinberg, A Biography, p. 279. 78 Masheck, ‘Steinberg’s Written Pictures’, p. 26. Steinberg would likely have encountered such uses of graph paper at the Politecnico in Milan, though this is not certain. The architectural drawings that Thomas Jefferson executed on graph paper are an alternative reference. Durand and Jefferson may have derived their uses of graph paper from the squared paper used by silk weavers to record patterns, which they both encountered in Paris. Peter Collins, ‘The Origins of Graph Paper as an Influence on Architectural Design’, Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians, 21, 4 (December 1962), pp. 159–62. 79 Rosenberg, Saul Steinberg, p. 30. 80 Gopnik, ‘What Steinberg Saw’, p. 142. 81 Van den Heuvel, ‘Straight from the Hand and Mouth of Steinberg’, p. 66. 82 Ibid. 83 Schneider, ‘Steinberg at the Louvre’, p. 82. 84 Ibid, p. 83. 85 Documents cited in this essay are kept in the following archives: Archives SSF – The Saul Steinberg Foundation, New York. The Foundation is the repository for artworks by Steinberg, as well as original archival material and copies of documents related to the artist. TNYR – The New Yorker Records, held at New York Public Library, Manuscripts Division, MssCol 2236. YCAL – Yale Collection of American Literature, Beinecke Rare Book and Manuscript Library, Yale University, New Haven, CT. Steinberg bequeathed his papers, sketchbooks and smaller works of art to YCAL. The Saul Steinberg Papers cited in this article are held at Uncat MSS 126, November 2000 Acquisition. Box numbers refer to this collection. The Steinberg Papers at the Beinecke are currently being catalogued and reorganized. Box numbers were current as of 2014.

Bibliography Bair, D. (2012), Saul Steinberg, A Biography, New York: Doubleday. Boxer, S. (2004), ‘An Assistant Tells All, Finally and Gracefully’, The New York Times, 153, 52,767 (22 February): 39. Calvino, I. (1982), ‘The Pen in the First Person’, in S. Steinberg (ed.), Still Life and Architecture, New York: The Pace Gallery. Glueck, G. (1970), ‘The Artist Speaks’, Art in America, 58, 6 (November–December): 110–17. Gombrich, E. H. (1983), ‘The Wit of Saul Steinberg’, Art Journal, 43, 4 special issue on Caricature (Winter): 377–80. Gopnik, A. (2000), ‘What Steinberg Saw’, The New Yorker, 34 (13 November): 140–47. Gruen, J. (1991), The Artist Observed, New York: A Cappella Books. Hughes, R. (1978), ‘The Fantastic World of Steinberg’, Time Magazine, 111, 17 (17 April): 32–6. Jacobs, J. (1961), The Death and Life of Great American Cities, New York: Random House. Jencks, C. (2002), ‘Post-Modernism and the Revenge of the Book’, in K. Rattenbury (ed.), This is not Architecture: Media Constructions, London: Routledge.

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Laughing at Architecture Lorenz, L. (1995), The Art of The New Yorker 1925–1995, New York: Alfred A. Knopf. Masheck, J. (1978), ‘Saul Steinberg’s Written Pictures’, Art Forum, 16, 10 (Summer): 26–30. Mumford, L. (1953), ‘Mother Jacobs’ Home Remedies’, The New Yorker, 38 (1 December): 148–79. Mumford, L. (1953), ‘The Sky Line, United Nations Assembly’, The New Yorker, 29 (14 March): 69–73. Mumford, L. (1958), ‘The Lesson of the Master’, The New Yorker, 30 (13 September): 128–36. Pellicciari, F. (2005), ‘Critic Without Words. Saul Steinberg e l’architettura’, unpublished diss., Istituto Universitario di Architettura di Venezia. Petit, E. (2009), ‘The Architect’s Satirical Alter Ego: Caricature As “Embodied Critique” of Architecture in the 20th Century’, in G. Beltramini and H. Burns (eds), L’architetto: ruolo, volto, mito, Venice: Marsilio. Petit, E. (2013), Irony, or, the Self-critical Opacity of Postmodern Architecture, New Haven, CT, and London: Yale University Press. Rosenberg, H. (1978), Saul Steinberg, New York and London: Knopf/Whitney Museum. Schneider, P. (1967), ‘Steinberg at the Louvre’, Art in America, 55, 4 (July–August): 82–91. Smith, J. (2006), ‘Illuminations, or The Dog in the Postcard’, in S. Steinberg (ed.), Illuminations, New Haven, CT and London: Yale University Press. Steinberg, S. (1953), ‘Built in U.S.A. Postwar Architecture 1945–52’, Art News, 51, 10 (February): 16–19. Steinberg, S. and Buzzi, A. (2002), Reflections and Shadows, New York: Random House. Tedeschini Lalli, M. (2011), ‘Descent from Paradise: Saul Steinberg’s Italian Years (1933–1941)’, in C. Facchini (ed.), ‘Modernity and the Cities of the Jews, Quest. Issues in Contemporary Jewish History’, Journal of Fondazione CDEC, 2 (October 2011): 312–84. Topliss, I. (2005), The Comic Worlds of Peter Arno, William Steig, Charles Addams and Saul Steinberg, Baltimore and London: Johns Hopkins University Press. Topliss, I. (2013), ‘Complicity’, in A. Prinzing (ed.) Saul Steinberg. The Americans, Cologne: Snoeck Verlag. Vanden Heuvel, J. [Jean Stein] (1965), ‘Straight from the Hand and Mouth of Steinberg’, Life (10 December): 59–70.

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CHAPTER 12 THE MODERN CITY THROUGH THE MIRROR OF HUMOUR: A DIFFERENT PORTRAIT Olivier Ratouis

The urban modernity that emerged in the 1950s and 60s was accompanied by a new lifestyle known as ‘Americanization’. It was unfurled under the banner of progress and accompanied by a ‘rationalized’ use of objects and the material environment. This story has been written mostly by historians of architecture – particularly of urban-related matters. However, a lot of the story – which is a happy one, as it spoke of hope after the hardships of the Second World War – still remains to be told. Do such positive images in glossy architecture reviews really reflect the apprehension experienced by passengers on this great modernist adventure? In employing such an image, we think of the work of journalist Marc Bernard on France’s largest social housing complex, Sarcelles. Bernard presents it ‘as a travel narrative, not through space but through time, together with the description of a future world with its new morals and comforts and the escapism bound up in such a great change in habits’.1 That said, modernism first appeared as a strange universe.2 We need to come up with other angles and materials for investigating its other aspects and for tackling it not from the standpoint of designer, architect or industrialist, but from that of the ‘rationalized’, ‘Americanized’ user. In order to do this we will use the vectors of mass culture (comic books, cinema, magazines), which, surprisingly, accord a large measure of importance to the spaces of modern architecture and urbanism not merely as decorative elements but as objects in themselves. It is therefore instructive to contrast scenes of the film Mon Oncle (My Uncle) released in 1958 with the Paris Match photo reportage on ‘The Kitchen of Tomorrow’ at the 1957 Ideal Homes’ Exhibition, and the Tintin comic book strip ‘for young people from 7 to 77 years old’ with ads published in the magazine Art & Décoration. There is a rich vein of humour here. Laughter comprises an individual and collective form of both detachment from and appropriation of this new dynamic that was shaking up the established order.3 It shed a fascinating light on the rationality governing urban thinking. By holding up a different type of mirror, it presents a different portrait of the city of the future and of modernity, and allows us to get inside this strangeness.

Laughter: A lens for observing the shock of urban modernity Laughter may be considered a precious resource for the historian. It appears to represent a pointer towards change and the indication of a potential break. Just like emotion more

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generally, it can help to make sense out of something by highlighting an event or a moment. Laughter is a break or pause in the narration or movement of a story. The concept of a break is part of modern life. The major cities that emerged in Europe in the late nineteenth century were accompanied by clashes, collisions and knocks. In their studies of Berlin and Paris, the philosophers Georg Simmel and Walter Benjamin both refer to ‘shocks’ when describing what the inhabitants of these cities experienced. In Benjamin’s view, a common type of experience encountered by several generations was succeeded by an individual non-transmissible experience made up of shocks endured.4 Living experiences were changing and becoming the focus of new art forms that flourished along with the development of major cities. Historians of culture and the theatre in particular highlight what may be understood as a ‘policy of emotions’. The early twentieth century would witness a domestication of the Paris public who were deemed to be too unruly through a rationalist redevelopment of entertainment venues.5 Certain Broadway comedy writers sought to organize entertainment more effectively around the anthropological reflexes of the public (laughter, fear, tears) by seeking out the ‘mechanics of emotion’, to use the expression of Peppino Ortoleva.6 Thence, a dual dynamic was at work: increasing stimulation of the city dweller and electric stimulation of the senses, both channelled into more civilized and paying activities. In 1947, Max Horkheimer and Theodore Adorno denounced nascent mass culture as reifying insofar as it reduced works to commodities and social relations to exchanges of such commodities. They preferred their own term – ‘culture industry’ (Kulturindustrie) – which stressed the ambiguities of the concept of mass culture which could be understood as a vehicle for authentic culture. Moreover, ‘culture industry’ seizes the reader’s imagination by cobbling together two terms perceived as antithetical in the 1940s: culture, synonymous with creative liberty, and industry, associated with rationalisation and planning.7 The culture industry endlessly cheats its consumers out of what it endlessly promises […]. The culture industry does not sublimate: it suppresses. […] In each performance of the culture industry the permanent denial imposed by civilisation is once more inflicted on and unmistakably demonstrated to its victims. To offer them something and to withhold it is one and the same.8 Domesticating laughter does not mean it is less present: it shifts around and relies on other media. We are already familiar with the important role of the joke in the Soviet Union and in numerous situations of social and political oppression. The second industrial revolution in the wake of the Second World War featured mass modernization. Traditionally, we pit popular culture against modernism that validates practices and elitist pursuits. How does modernity become a theme of the popular culture that it usually keeps at a distance?9 Mass consumption opened up new channels for the spread of modernization. One of the key vectors of this culture revolved around drawn forms, particularly in comic 230

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books, although certain authors question the assimilation of comic books as a form of popular literature or even what we may call ‘popular art’. In Harry Morgan’s view, comic book codes are as complex as those of any literary form but they were learned early and benefit from long-standing familiarity. However, Morgan underlines two features of this literature: permanent exaggeration (‘pulpitude’ – ‘pulpiness’) and the fact that ‘depiction is always linked to the narrative imperative’.10 This last point refers to the bande dessinée (comic strip), which gives form and structure to the narrative: the shape of the strip itself. Morgan prefers to speak of ‘popular fiction’, including its different forms of expression (cinema, advertising, etc.). Consequently, the humour present in popular cultural expressions is incorporated into the narrative forms: the gag – present on the stage (music-hall), the screen (cinema) and in drawn fictions (comic book strips, humorous drawings) – is a brief, concise narrative, sometimes stripped down to the bare bones. Funny stories work too. In doing so, humour in its popular cultural forms re-introduces modern events into the narration. What the humour allows us to see is less the rationalization – which is flagged up by its own actors – but the shock encountered by individuals in urban modernity. Consequently, humour and laughter assume an exceptional quality that we will attempt to understand as magnifying glasses and tools for observing modernity. Here we draw upon and generalize one of Roberto Nepoti’s ideas about Jacques Tati’s film Playtime, which hit the screens in 1967 and in which the comic genre functions per se as a machine à observer: a ‘machine for seeing’ the ‘machine for living’, Le Corbusier’s view of the dwelling.11 Moreover, Jacques Tati explains the following with regard to his film: ‘There are guys who are prisoners of modern architecture because architects have forced them to move in straight lines; opening a night club or a cabaret in which the work has not yet been finished suddenly enables individual personalities to wrest back control.’12 In the film, the fact that the night club is unfinished when it opens to the public leads people to free themselves. At the ‘Royal Garden’, in a chic setting, guests dance and have fun amidst the decor that collapses. Tati affirms the strength of architecture on human comportment. Laughter that springs from this scene of Playtime offers the viewer an original perspective to observe these behaviours with exceptional acuity.

Techniques of humour in popular culture: The 1950s and 60s Two major perspectives may be used to analyse the 1950s and 60s, the very specific historical context of these decades sets them apart from the interwar period. First, the visual accumulation of modernism culminated in a renewal of cultural stereotypes. More than anywhere else, this revealed the image as a social construct. Partially interchangeable photos were constantly reproduced in magazines, on billboards in public spaces and on screen, before being rearranged, cut, split up and reassembled. Thanks to mass culture and the shift towards ‘the multiple era’ that began in the nineteenth century, the stereotype became dominant as it constantly harked back to mass production. 231

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Secondly, space was designed from a functional perspective, leading to the allocation of space in the city, at work and in dwellings to predetermined functions – this was also a gender-based allocation, particularly within the home. Here, the stereotype resulted in the fragmentation of overall processes and longer-term dynamics. It snaps the present moment and composes the details. The works – films as well as comics but also advertisements and posters – seize these pieces and assemble them. The social and urban landscape that is drawn on the screen or in the paper is close, and even very close, to the social reality in which the spectator is bathed. Thanks to its power to put together these fragments of social reality, the narrative dimension of works presents a broader depiction of the period. Popular culture became the witness of and – sometimes acerbic – commentator and participator of this turning point covering the 1950s and 60s. In Tati’s film, Mon Oncle (My Uncle), the modern Arpel Villa was put together from an authentic collage made by one of Tati’s assistants, the painter Jacques Lagrange who considered it to be a parody of the International Style: ‘Using scissors and glue, I put together a collage from architecture journals. I took objects from everywhere: portholes, ridiculous pergolas, winding paths to make the place look bigger, etc. It was a hotchpotch of architecture.’13 Take another example. The ‘Spirou’ album, Les pirates du silence (The pirates of silence), written and drawn by André Franquin in 1958, took place in a modern, fifties-style place known as ‘Incognito-City’. It was designed by the comic artist Will (Willy Maltraite) using collages taken and assembled from various different media. Using a technique commonly employed by Brussels comic creators, he explained that he put together freely-adapted fragments that stimulated his imagination, ‘without ever becoming a slave to the document’.14 The practice of collage in the popular culture of the 1950s and 60s responds to the diffusion of this technique in the arts in general. It is well suited to the comic genre that spotlights and magnifies disparate features – as caricature does. In a broader sense, perhaps we need to adopt the perspective of Hans-Christian Christiansen and Anne Magnussen,15 and consider popular culture less as a stable totality that results in conformism and a need for reassurance, as Horkheimer and Adorno contended, and more as heterogeneous, unstable and littered with oppositions. It is then easier to understand why laughter, and emotions in general, have all their strength in the popular culture.

Laughter and everyday life Modernism gradually penetrated daily life with all of its misunderstandings and gradually became a topic of interest. In 1961, in the second volume of Critique of Everyday Life, published fifteen years after the first volume, Henri Lefebvre noted that daily life was radically transformed during this period. Technology began to have a huge impact – particularly on home management. Lefebvre wrote: What has happened? In fifteen years, day-to-day living has been radically transformed […]. Techniques and home management have not done away with 232

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the most trivial aspects of daily life. By reducing the time taken up with tedious work, these techniques put the question of available free time into sharp focus. Instead of transforming daily existence into a superior creative activity, they have simply created a vacuum.16 Kristin Ross believes that Lefebvre hit on the concept of ‘daily living’ following a remark made by his wife when lauding a famous brand of detergent.17 The philosophers’ task is to get as close as possible to ‘experience’ by seizing ‘the extraordinary from the ordinary’. Daily life is taken to extreme alienation, i.e. to profound dissatisfaction, in the name of recent techniques and the consumer society. What we should remember here, far from any principled position, is the pertinence of the search which seeks to stress the ordinary as a means of highlighting change. It is precisely the field of emotions that makes it possible to link intimate events to great transformations, the individual to a vast social and cultural movement, and the ordinary to the broad course of events. The historian Jacques Le Goff demonstrated how a study of laughter in the Middle Ages opened up a window on everyday life.18 Moreover, in the ‘Foreword’ to the second edition of the first volume of Critique of Everyday Life, Lefebvre, having already referred to the domestic arts, briefly alludes to vis comica (comic force). This link, which flowed naturally from the pen of Lefebvre, reiterates the ties between daily living and humour. In the second-half of the 1950s, the gag became very popular in comic books. In 1955, the comic artist for the Spirou series of adventures, Franquin, created the Modeste et Pompon series of funnies published in Tintin magazine. It was one of the rare onepage funnies published at this time in a European magazine, where the dominant form consisted of evolving stories that the reader could follow from one week to the next.19 Modeste et Pompon depicted a young couple living in a modern house furnished with the latest designs: the Arflex armchair designed by Gio Ponti (1955) and the Tecno sofa by Osvaldo Borsani (1954) appear in the sitting room. To draw these, all Franquin had to do was to look at his own furniture. As Franquin explained: ‘when it comes to drawing, the great thing about modern decor is its clarity’.20 Just like Hergé, the creator of Tintin, Franquin was a strong advocate of resolutely modern ‘clear lines’. Part of this cultural production was in phase with contemporary society and, because it drew upon this society for the inspiration of its jokes, it was not necessarily hostile to it. The 1958 World Fair in Brussels constituted an important milestone in this appropriation of high culture by popular culture. The exhibition represented the cutting-edge of architectural modernity and both the names and forms of its centrepieces – the Atomium and the Flèche du Progrès – became symbols of the time. The event was immediately taken up by drawings published in the children’s comic books Spirou and Tintin, a sign that this modernity had captured the collective imagination (Figure 12.1). These drawings are full of emotion, translating the excitement and joy generated by the fair. But as the section called La Belgique joyeuse recreated an oldfashioned neighbourhood, the world fair pointed at the machine as a deity with two faces: a tool of freedom as well as of destruction. In one of the films introducing ‘Expo 58’ – the 233

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Figure 12.1 ‘Demain, l’Expo!’ (Tomorrow, the Exhibition!), Le journal de Tintin, 16 April 1958, cover.

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first major world fair since the Second World War – entitled ‘For a more human world’, the exaltation of technology at the centre of the Expo and its symbols is accompanied by serious reserves referring inter alia to the atomic bomb. Then the march of progress resumed its course. (Figure 12.2.)

Figure 12.2 ‘L’élelctricité fait la maison heureuse’ (Electricity makes the home happy), late 1950s. Author’s collection.

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In the 1950s, modernity was presented to the general public as a theme of joy, an emotion close to laughter. Because it hailed from the USA, Americanization was synonymous with optimism and dynamism. The journalist Françoise Giroud published the following portrait of Hélène Lazareff, who created the French magazine Elle after editing Harper’s Bazaar for five years in the US where she took refuge during the War: With her American culture, she projected a modernity that – for better or for worse – was set to invade French society. She was made for the world of disposable lighters, dresses that you keep for just one season and plastic packaging. In a France that lay in ruins, consumer society was still a long way off but Hélène already embodied its hysterical clamour for change.21 This joy tending towards exaltation was also shared by the booming fashion, lifestyle and young people’s magazine industries. Modernity appeared not merely to provide a framework in which individuals evolve but a neutral framework for social relations. It appeared as both an external dynamic and an internal order that, because it was imposed, became a subject of preoccupation, wonder and emotion. Mechanization was one of its underlying dimensions. The machine became an everyday object and an extension not merely of the body but possibly, and most importantly, of the house. As James Scott points out, humour became an arm, one of the rare arms available to the weak.22 What humour demonstrates is the role accorded to users and those who have been ‘rationalized’: the place of the weak and of those who must submit to this imposed order even in little everyday matters. In day-to-day life, the car played a dominant role. This is apparent in the Modeste et Pompon series, which opens with a running joke about the Paris Motor Show, followed by many other similar gags. In a gag constructed as a variation of the fable of the hare and the tortoise, the automobile makes it possible to present an opposition between the old world and the modern world, represented at each turn by an old plough and a sports car. Modeste, at the wheel of his sport coupé, doubles on the country road a peasant driving an old plough full of hay and pulled by horses. He explains to Pompon that those ‘prehistoric vehicles’ should be banned ‘at the era of the artificial satellite’.23 But the sports car breaks down and ends its trail towed by the old plough! The great leap forward doesn’t happen and it’s the tortoise who comes to the aid of the hare to lead him to the arrival. The old world does not let itself be beaten so easily. Even in Franquin’s drawings, modernity needs a helping hand. The theme of the automobile is present in all the early drawings of the comic artist Sempé, published in album form in Rien n’est simple (Nothing is simple) (1962) and Tout se complique (Everything gets complicated) (1963). He uses these to depict a vertical social order to which the man in the street is subject, not unconnected to the spatial planning where decisions and practices are contingent on technocratic processes, with order imposed by the figure of a traffic policeman who tells inhabitants what they have to do. In the view of the geographer Öla Söderström, this laughter in appropriate comicstrip form portrays ‘little urban nonentities’ in contrast with the ‘grand everything’,24 236

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corresponding to the structural transformations of society and the change in order coming from on high. It is exactly here that laughter can serve as a useful tool.

Progress and hygiene, targets of humor As the images of destruction began to fade, the decade after the Second World War was accompanied by an increasing confidence in the future. In France new temples emerged to feed the new appetite for consumption. One of the most important was the Salon des Arts Ménagers (SAM), the French Ideal Homes’ Exhibition originally created in 1923 as the Salon des Appareils Ménagers (Household Devices Fair). After suspension during the Second World War, the exhibition opened its doors once again in Paris in 1948. In the wake of the World Fairs, the annual SAM’s combined science and entertainment via industry. The close links between this fair and the Office National des Recherches Scientifiques et Industrielles et des Inventions (the ancestor of the French National Centre for Scientific Research, or CNRS) meant that the SAM paid over any operating surplus to the CNRS every year. The engineer Paul Breton was head of the SAM from 1929 to 1976 and son of its founder. In 1952 he told L’art ménager français magazine that ‘scientific research is a response to the legitimate demands of users’.25 In the ‘Foreword’, Louis de Broglie, winner of the Nobel Prize for Physics in 1929, waxed lyrical: Science here is showing a more human face […] in the more intimate surroundings of household appliances it appears like a good fairy. It demonstrates the very close solidarity that links all scientific research efforts within an inseparable whole, from the most elevated speculations of Pure science in the quest of truth, to the most humble little inventions that bring help and succour to humanity as it struggles day in, day out.26 The religion practised in the temple of consumerism was that of progress. The corrosive dimension of laughter breaks out here as it seeks out the most elevated target that is the least suited to humour, i.e. science when it is placed in the service of all. It does this in the name of reason: the embodiment of Aufklärung as ‘thought in progress’ to use the expression of Horkheimer and Adorno. Here, as Barbara Rosenwein noted with much force, laughter, which is vast even when it targets these ‘most humble little inventions’, participates in deconstructing the traditional grand narrative.27 As the relation between science and social life deepens, hygiene became one of the markers of the perturbation that progress introduced in everyday life. Thus, it was soon to become the object of caricatures – as shown by the celebrated series of sketches by Honoré Daumier on the bathers of Paris, or the numerous parodies of medical and scientific rhetoric published in the mid-nineteenth century.28 As it has been shown, the first great World Fairs were dominated by nineteenth-century ideals of engineering progress. The glorification of industry, reason and progress took the form of a cult that literally turned these exhibitions into mass events that blurred the boundaries between 237

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science and entertainment.29 The inheritance of the Hygienist Movement can also be detected. Jules-Louis Breton, creator of SAM and Minister for Hygiene and Public Welfare in the government of Alexandre Millerand in 1920, was a man of science who sought to put technical progress to work in everyday life, especially by helping women in their daily household tasks. The concern for hygiene which was ever present in the 1950s is the subject of one of the key scenes in Tati’s film Mon Oncle. Against the backdrop of a sanitized decor, Madame Arpel prepares a simple meal of a hard-boiled egg and some bread for her son, Gérard. Dressed completely in white like some medical orderly, she adjusts the height of the child’s chair as a dentist would do and uses gloves to handle mysterious kitchen utensils that have been carefully disinfected beforehand. With his head in his hands and elbows on the table, the child appears bored. An intimate everyday scene that has been mechanized becomes very strange, and laughter leaps from the resulting incongruous situation.

‘Arts ménagers’: A revolution If we are to judge from the support given to the domestic arts’ fairs by associations lobbying for traditional family values, scientific progress also equated to moral progress.30 Using an idea dating from 1936, between 1947 and 1968, the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition organized a competition to find the French Housewife of the Year. Consequently, in place of the modernization that undermined social organization in the first-half of the twentieth century and imperilled the traditional family, by spreading exciting new ideas and seeking to free women from household chores, the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition presented another side of modernization that stressed the woman’s place in the home. ‘The domestic revolution’, to use the expression coined by Paul Breton, was on its way. The exhibition helped align modernity with traditional moral family values. One then understands better why the house and generally the architecture were to become objects of humour, as it happened in Tati’s films. Indeed, the one and the other are at the centre of changes concerning the design of modern spaces. These are characterized by the increasing development of norms as one of the most effective means of re-establishing a moral and spatial order. It is then very remarkable that a major ambition of Breton, who was trained as an engineer in arts and crafts (Arts et métiers), was to launch the process of standardizing French household equipment. During the war, when it was impossible to organize the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition, Breton launched the process of standardizing household equipment under the banner of Association Française de Normalisation (AFNOR), the French national standardization body. The French standard ‘NF label’ (Norme Française) was created on 15 November 1938. In 1945, he was asked by the new Ministry for Reconstruction and Urbanism to organize the ‘advance’ exhibition31 of reconstruction and in 1946, the exhibition of American housing and urbanism techniques. In 1947, he was in charge of organizing the international exhibition of housing and urbanism, which hosted 817 exhibitors and 14 nations at the Paris Grand Palais. Breton wrote: ‘Standardisation is one of the most 238

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tangible forms of progress […]. It participates […] in social liberation as it emancipates the housewife by making her household chores easier as well as cutting expenditure on household installations and equipment.’32 When the Salon des arts ménagers resumed in 1948, its spirit was renewed. Armed with this standardizing doctrine which was being promoted and marketed in popular French women’s magazines and the trade press – from Marie-Claire to Art & Décoration, La maison française and Techniques et architecture – it now sought to reach as many people as possible, a goal it achieved within a few years, and to widen its brief to include household appliances. Its popularity peaked in 1955 when it welcomed 1.5 million visitors, but by 1958 numbers had fallen back again.33 This unprecedented universe invaded various mass media and inspired humorists. In the weekly magazines for children Spirou and Tintin, which had their period of glory in the 1950s and 60s, this new landscape of everyday life appeared in cartoon series more or less durably renewed in the writings of renowned authors – in particular Jijé, Will, Tibet, Tillieux, Roba and Franquin. But its spread reached all forms of cultural expression. In 1955, the writer and jazz musician Boris Vian penned a song that would become a big hit, La complainte du progrès (A lament for progress). He originally called it Les arts ménagers (The domestic arts), and it reeled off a whimsical list of household appliances as a substitute for a declaration of love: When we used to court We spoke of love As a proof of ardour We used to offer our hearts But it’s not the same anymore Everything has changed To win the heart of the celestial being We now whisper (Ah? Gudule!) [Chorus:] Give us a kiss And I’ll give you A fridge A nice scooter An atomixer And a Dunlopillo A cooker With a glass oven door A pile of blankets And pie servers […] Vian was a graduate of the prestigious École Centrale engineering school and between 1942 and 1946, he worked as an engineer for AFNOR. On 24 May 1941, a decree issued by the Vichy Government centralized all standard-setting bodies and placed them under 239

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government control. His 1955 song was a satire of the consumer society. An indirect link to Tati can be found, his family wanted him to be an engineer but instead he became a severe critic of the mechanization of everyday life. The French historian Lucien Febvre, founder of the École des Annales along with Marc Bloch, wrote the Foreword to the nineteenth volume of Encyclopédie Française devoted to ‘Everyday civilisation’. In it Febvre explains that nobody is better placed than the Head of the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition to translate the collective needs of the French society as the exhibition was ‘a faithful mirror of our most advanced day-to-day civilisation’.34 He points out that he had to completely rework the Foreword he had written in 1940 when the war delayed publication of this volume: Between 1940 and 1954 […], a cataclysm swept away much more than just the pieces of a dislocated and broken material world. A certain way of thinking and experiencing life also went with it. A certain way of judging ‘Material civilisation’. […] I would even go so far as to say, a certain style. […] The wheel had turned full circle!35 Just like a number of his contemporary intellectuals, Febvre explains the feeling of having witnessed an entire civilization dying before his eyes. As such, he reflects a widely observed trend in research literature: the opposition between the old and the new worlds. In Journey to the End of the Night (1932),36 Louis-Ferdinand Céline mocks the modern city and ramshackle suburbs as well as the pretensions of American cities and their skyscrapers. At the beginning of René Barjavel’s novel Ravage (1943),37 an ironic passage depicts both a realistic and futuristic Paris in 2052. Mechanization is omnipresent and the city is disintegrating under the weight of its dependence on technology. Mon Oncle is structured around two opposing worlds. On the one hand, the old town of Saint-Maur where Monsieur Hulot lives, on the other, the Arpel modern universe, the Plastac factory and the villa. The old town provides a licence for antiquated gags based on the unexpected and puddles of water that splash the local inhabitants. In the new town, the humour often comes from the traps set by functional devices, which leave Monsieur Hulot perplexed despite his best efforts.

The kitchen The works of popular culture showed great attention to a specific space, that of the kitchen. Some of them, like Mon Oncle, find some of their great scenes here. Starting in the 1920s, domestic workspaces in Western Europe were the focus of particularly close scrutiny, to such an extent that they were viewed – both literally and figuratively – as laboratories of architectural rationalization. In the years that followed the Second World War these reflections, which had been conducted at a very high level and focused on the practices of the social and cultural elite, gradually embraced and transformed the living conditions of all social classes. In the 1950s and 60s, all households were equipped with appliances. 240

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While this is not new information, it is now an established fact in which the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition played a huge role: the kitchen is now the essential room in every apartment […]. Consequently, and thanks to mechanical progress, all sorts of amazing inventions have arrived to simplify (women’s) housework. Kitchens have become more perfected laboratories than rooms.38 This new ‘laboratory’, which made cooking a scientifically organized activity, put the housewife in the grips of machines and made her a character destined to be confronted with burlesque situations. The great comic authors had long since grasped the mechanization of everyday life, embroidering on the theme of the machine which from being a servant of man becomes its cold master. Charlie Chaplin confronted Charlot at the assembly-line work in Modern Times (1936) while Buster Keaton escaped into the imagination to generate various mechanical gags with The Electric House (1922). If mechanization had been the focus of particular attention for several decades, the modern house presented itself as a concentration of machines which flourished in the 1950s and 60s. In 1948, Sigfried Giedion, Secretary General of the International Congresses of Modern Architecture (CIAM), published Mechanization Takes Command. A Contribution to Anonymous History in which he tackled the effects of mechanization on daily lives.39 The story already went back a long way.40 The twentieth-century kitchen was functional, practical, clean and well lit. Figures such as the American Christine Frederick brought the concepts of Taylorism into the domestic sphere, particularly the kitchen. This provided the inspiration for Paulette Bernège, a French journalist specialized in home economics, who in 1925 founded the Ligue de l’organisation ménagère (League for Household Efficiency) and became a fixture at exhibitions of ideal homes before and after the war.41 Moreover, it was not in the US but in Europe, notably in Germany, that the idea of household design first appeared42 and was to give form to functionalism inside the dwelling itself. In the 1950s and 60s, these tendencies gave free rein to the development of the kitchen-laboratory. Scientific organization of housework combined rationalization, standardization and hygiene.43 In 1955, the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition featured ‘The electric house’ installation and in 1957, the Frigidaire brand presented the automatic kitchen of 2000, ‘the kitchen of the future’. If nowadays this kitchen provokes a smile because of the tone that brings it closer to science fiction, it began to nourish the collective imagination and directly inspire comic works. Year 2000. Let us make a wish for today’s woman that will in reality be for tomorrow or even after that. […] This dream kitchen is undoubtedly a projection of the ideal home but it is also a laboratory in which the daring inventions soon to become reality will radically transform our day-to-day lives.44 The future already looms large in such presentations but its sometimes tricky and mysterious access gives rises to all sorts of feelings. The question of use lies to the forefront 241

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here. As early as 1941, AFNOR informed its members that: ‘Established standards […] would result from cooperation between users, industrialists, technicians and artists.’45 Was this really the case?46 It was only logical that popular culture would reflect these novelties that now affected the lives of everyone. Humour also weighed in with all its different media, including publications that could appear to be far removed from such matters, such as children’s magazines. Humour focused on the difficulties in understanding this new and largely foreign universe. Modeste et Pompon was one of the works of popular culture that drew most extensively upon domestic humour. One of its key humoristic devices is the eruption of mechanization in day-to-day situations where the absurd is always lurking in the most ordinary actions. In one gag, Modeste, who always has his eye out for new technical gadgets, presents one of his own inventions, ‘the Modest-0-matic, a brand new dishwasher’ (Figure 12.3).47 In the cartoons Modeste tries to impress Pompon but instead his actions usually end up creating danger. The same process is at work in Mon Oncle when Monsieur Hulot is unable to use the kitchen in which his sister Madame Arpel manipulates all kinds of buttons and taps, leading him to tell his friends that she feels ‘at home’ here. For his part, Monsieur Hulot is not even able to open the cupboards. Linking these examples shows the extent to which they harked back to the stereotypes portrayed in the mass media as the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition of 1955 included a cupboard with an automatic door very similar to the one used in Tati’s film. Franquin’s gag was a reference to the ads for the button-operated kitchen that appeared in Art & Décoration magazine (Figure 12.4). Laughter acts as a form of criticism but also as a form of defence. When the automatic house starts to go off the rails, automation becomes alarming. Aside from laughter, there is also a whole range of emotions that demonstrate how we can react when faced with all this newness and the shock of modernity. The emotion demonstrates and enables the subject to participate in setting new standards, those that focus on angst when dealing with newness.

Popular humour, a crack in urban modernity As we have seen, laughter and humour from popular culture help us access urban modernity in a very specific way. They constitute a precious tool for perceiving and measuring the upheaval that shook Western societies a number of times from the second-half of the nineteenth century following the emergence of a new cultural and spatial landscape. Laughter focuses in particular on day-to-day things and the reaction to the shocks experienced by the inhabitants of the major cities who were most exposed. It makes the works of popular culture even more interesting. If we apply the concept of reception developed by the literary scholar Hans-Robert Jauss,48 the works may be analysed as popular forms of reception of urban modernity, i.e. those of users and spectators. If they are taken as ‘mirrors of French society’ – and even if they are not 242

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Figure 12.3 ‘La Modest-0-matic’ (The dishwashing machine), from A. Franquin, 60 gags de Modeste et Pompon, 1958: ‘Based on a bold use of centrifugal force, this good kitchen fairy…, ‘Beware, Modeste!’.

reduced to the function of mimesis insofar as they are not intended to merely redouble reality – they can usefully be set alongside products of mass culture, which we believe they simultaneously belong to and are distinct from. Indeed, reception theory accords 243

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Figure 12.4 ‘La cuisine presse-bouton’ (The button-operated kitchen), La cuisine ‘fonctionnelle’ (the ‘functional’ kitchen), publicité St-Laurent, c. 1954: ‘This trick…’ Author’s collection.

great importance to the emotion generated by the newness of something. It also teaches us that emotions are never pure but formed and codified by historical practices and that they are culturally determined. Emotions themselves are social constructs. Therefore, we may detect something more than just superficial or anecdotal emotive reactions in the humour present in the works. And we may contend that it gives access to a more profound meaning and another reading of modernity. Consequently, we adhere less to the interpretation developed by Adorno and Horkheimer whereby emotions force the spectator-consumer back to a reliance on the state of the frustrated individual, than on the perspective developed by Walter Benjamin concerning the ability of certain characters in stories – burlesque ones in our opinion (think de novo Charlie Chaplin to whom Benjamin refers) – to escape from their condition. We can use this approach to analyse Monsieur Hulot, the screen persona of Tati and central character and narrative device in all of his films from Les vacances de Monsieur Hulot (Monsieur Hulot’s Holiday) in 1953 to Trafic in 1971. The 1950s and 60s represented a new phase in the encroachment of modernity into urban life. In particular, this period featured the deployment of modernity for the masses whereas in the first-half of the twentieth century it had been the preserve of an elite. Household equipment and devices simultaneously reached all sectors of social life: transport via the automobile, housing, which was one of the aspects transformed most extensively by household appliances, especially one particular room that acquired unprecedented 244

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dimensions: the kitchen. Attempting to gauge the public’s reactions and emotions and the strange moments caused by modernity is a tricky business. We witness the power of functionalist processes which encompass all scales and permeate everywhere. But laughter can capture these emotions and moments and highlight the most acute aspects. Laughter offers the public a common experience and involves them in ‘emotional communities’.49 Humour from popular works (comic books, cinema, and songs in particular) produced one of the first cracks in modernity. Popular culture simultaneously embodies and combines a fascination with modernity (allowing itself to get carried away with new aesthetic forms), and a criticism of modernity (as it ironically casts doubt on modernity’s ability to be a credible narrative driver). Set against the old world with all of its curves and incomplete and unexpected forms, urban modernity claims to enclose all narrative possibility within smooth, straight geometric lines even though the lives of those who experience it are filled with bumps and knocks.

Notes 1

Marc Bernard, Sarcellopolis (Paris: Flammarion, 1964), back cover.

2

Olivier Ratouis, ‘Les Trente glorieuses: figures et usages de l’utopie’, in Philippe Chassaigne and Sylvain Schoonbaert (eds), L’urbanisme des idées aux pratiques (XIXème-XXème siècles) (Rennes: PUR, 2008), p. 153–61.

3

For an overview of knowledge about the links between laughter and the city, see: Olivier Ratouis and Martin Baumeister, ‘Rire en ville. Rire de la ville. L’humour et le rire comme objets pour l’histoire urbaine contemporaine’, Histoire urbaine, 31 (September 2011), pp. 5–18.

4

Philippe Simay and Stéphane Füzesséry, Le choc des métropoles. Simmel, Kracauer, Benjamin (Paris and Tel Aviv : Editions de l’Eclat, 2008).

5

Dominique Kalifa, La culture de masse en France, 1860–1930 (Paris: La Découverte, 2001).

6

Peppino Ortoleva, La société des médias (Florence: Casterman – Giunti, 1995).

7

Olivier Voirol, ‘Retour sur l’industrie culturelle’, Réseaux, 2, 166 (2011), pp. 125–57.

8

Max Horkheimer and Theodor Adorno, Dialectic of Enlightenment. Philosophical Fragments (Stanford, CA: Stanford University Press, 2002 [1st edn 1947]), pp. 111–13.

9

We will give preference to the expression ‘popular culture’ over ‘mass culture’ in order to avoid negative connotations.

10 Harry Morgan, Principes des littératures dessinées (Angoulême: Editions de l’an 2, 2003), p. 382. 11 Roberto Nepoti, ‘Hulot dans les villes: histoires de dépaysements’, in Matteo Porrino (ed.), La ville en Tatirama: la città di Monsieur Hulot (Milan: Mazzotta, 2003), pp. 44–6. 12 Serge Daney, Jean-Jacques Henry and Serge Le Péron, ‘Entretiens avec Jacques Tati’, Cahiers du cinéma, 303 (September 1979), p. 15. 13 Cited in David Bellos, Tati, sa vie, son art (Paris: Le Seuil, 2002), p. 258. 14 Cited in Hugues Dayez, Le duel Tintin-Spirou (Brussels: Luc Pire, Paris: Editions contemporaines, 1997), p. 178. 15 Anne Magnussen and Hans-Christian Christiansen (eds), Comics & Culture. Analytical and Theoretical Approaches to Comics (Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen, 2000). 245

Laughing at Architecture 16 Henri Lefebvre, Critique de la vie quotidienne. T.2: Fondements d’une sociologie de la quotidienneté (Paris: L’Arche, 1961), pp. 8–9. 17 Kristin Ross, Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture (Boston, MA: MIT Press, 1996). 18 Jacques Le Goff, ‘Le rire. Une enquête sur le rire’, Annales HSS, 3 (May–June 1997), pp. 449–55. 19 André Franquin, Jijé, Philippe Vandooren, Profession créateur de bandes dessinées. Franquin, Jijé, Entretiens avec Philippe Vandooren (Brussels: Nifle, 2001). 20 José-Louis Bocquet and Eric Verhoest, Franquin, Chronologie d’une œuvre (Monaco: Marsu productions, 2007), p. 30. 21 Françoise Giroud, Leçons particulières (Paris: Fayard, 1990), p. 143. 22 Scott identifies three powers available to the weak: humour, gossiping and tiny acts of sabotage. See James Scott, Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance (New Haven, CT: Yale university Press). 23 André Franquin, 60 gags de Modeste et Pompon (Brussels: Éditions du Lombard, 1958 [1955]), p. 14. 24 Ola Söderström, ‘Observer’, Urbanisme, 370 (January–February 2010), pp. 46–7. 25 Paul Breton, L’art ménager français (Paris: Flammarion, 1952), p. 11. 26 Ibid., p. 5. 27 Barbara Rosenwein (ed.), Anger’s Past. The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press, 1998), see chap. 11 ‘Controlling paradigms’, pp. 233–47. 28 Davide Lombardo, ‘Se baigner ensemble. Les corps au quotidien et les bains publics parisiens avant 1850 selon Daumier’, Histoire urbaine 31 (September 2011), pp. 47–68. 29 Antoine Picon, ‘Expositions universelles, doctrines sociales et utopies’, in Anne-Laure Carré, Marie-Sophie Corcy, Liliane Hilaire-Pérez and Christiane Demeulenaere-Douyère (eds), Les expositions universelles en France au XIXe siècle: techniques, publics, patrimoine (Paris: CNRS Editions, 2012), pp. 37–47. 30 Martine Segalen, ‘The Salon des Arts Ménagers, 1923–1983: A French Effort to Instill the Virtues of Home and the Norms of Good Taste’, Journal of Design History, 7, 4 (1994), pp. 267–75. 31 Very shortly after the end of the war, the Ministry decided to organize exhibitions to help people become familiar with new materials and construction techniques. 32 Paul Breton, La normalisation dans le domaine de l’économie domestique, fascicule 2939 (Paris: Presses documentaires, 1953), p. 1. 33 Claire Leymonnerie, ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers dans les années 1950. Théâtre d’une conversion à la consommation de masse’, Vingtième siècle, 91 (2006), pp. 43–56. 34 Lucien Febvre, ‘Avant-propos’, in Paul Breton (ed.), Encyclopédie française, ‘La civilisation quotidienne’, vol. 14 (Paris: Société de gestion de l’Encyclopédie française, 1954), p. 14. 35 Ibid. 36 Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Voyage au bout de la nuit (Paris: Denoël et Steele, 1932). 37 René Barjavel, Ravage (Paris: Denoël, 1943). 38 René Chavance, ‘La cuisine, centre vital du logis contemporain’, Mobilier et décoration, 4 (May 1956), pp. 38–50. 39 Siegfried Giedion, Mechanization Takes Command. A Contribution to Anonymous History (New York: Oxford University Press, 1948). 246

The Modern City through the Mirror of Humour 40 The dust extractor was invented in 1859, the dish washer in 1865, and the modern-day washing machine in 1869. One chapter was given over to the kitchen. In the nineteenth century, kitchens became smaller in response to increasing demands for better hygiene and so that women – who were previously frowned upon – could work there more easily. See Anthony Rowley, Le livre de la cuisine (Paris: Flammarion, 1999). 41 Paulette Bernège introduced Taylorism in the conception of the kitchen in France. 42 June Freeman, The Making of the Modern Kitchen (Oxford and New York: Berg, 2004). 43 Lucie Bariset-Marc, ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers: la ménagère française sous les tirs croisés de l’hygiène et de la rationalisation’, in Les Bons Génies de la vie domestique, exhibition catalogue (Paris: Centre Pompidou, 2000), pp. 43–50. 44 ‘Les actualités françaises’, Journal national 27 (February 1957 [television]), http://www.ina.fr/ video/AFE85007295 (accessed 15 September 2016). 45 Association Française de Normalisation, Circular to Members 2 (1941). 46 Paul Breton confirmed this after the war: ‘Standardisation can only triumph if it is understood, appreciated and adopted by the user’ (Breton, La normalisation, p. 1). As the archives of the Ideal Homes’ Exhibition and the specialist press bear out, there was considerable disarray and even guilt in the face of the novelty and technical complexity of the new products. One of the aims of the NF brand was to provide consumers with guarantees given their inability to evaluate product quality themselves (Leymonnerie, ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers’). 47 Franquin, 60 gags, p. 9. 48 Hans-Robert Jauss, Pour une esthétique de la réception (Paris: Gallimard, 1978 [1972–1975]). 49 Barbara Rosenwein, ‘Worrying About Emotions in History’, American History Review, 107 (2002), pp. 821–45.

Bibliography Bariset-Marc, L. (2000), ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers: la ménagère française sous les tirs croisés de l’hygiène et de la rationalisation’, in Les Bons Génies de la vie domestique, exhibition catalogue, Paris: Centre Pompidou. Bernard, M. (1964), Sarcellopolis, Paris: Flammarion. Bocquet, J.-L. and Verhoest, E. (2007), Franquin, Chronologie d’une œuvre, Monaco: Marsu productions. Breton, P. (1952), L’art ménager français, Paris: Flammarion. Breton, P. (1953), La normalisation dans le domaine de l’économie domestique, fascicule 2939, Paris: Presses documentaires. Franquin A., Jijé, and Vandooren P. (2001), Profession créateur de bandes dessinées. Franquin, Jijé, Entretiens avec Philippe Vandooren, Brussels: Nifle. Freeman, J. (2004), The Making of the Modern Kitchen, Oxford and New York: Berg. Giedion, S. (1948), Mechanization Takes Command. A Contribution to Anonymous History, New York: Oxford University Press. Horkheimer, M. and Adorno, Th. (2002) [1947], Dialectic of Enlightenment. Philosophical Fragments, Standford, CA: Standford University Press. Jauss, H.-R. [1972–1975] (1978), Pour une esthétique de la réception, Paris: Gallimard. Kalifa, D. (2001), La culture de masse en France, 1860–1930, Paris: La Découverte. Lefebvre, H. (1961), Critique de la vie quotidienne. T.2: Fondements d’une sociologie de la quotidienneté, Paris: L’Arche. 247

Laughing at Architecture Le Goff, J. (1997), ‘Le rire. Une enquête sur le rire’, Annales HSS, 3 (May–June): 449–55. Leymonnerie, Cl. (2006), ‘Le Salon des arts ménagers dans les années 1950. Théâtre d’une conversion à la consommation de masse’, Vingtième siècle, 91: 43–56. Magnussen, A. and Christiansen, H.-C. (eds) (2000), Comics & Culture. Analytical and Theoretical Approaches to Comics, Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanum Press, University of Copenhagen. Morgan, H. (2003), Principes des littératures dessinées, Angoulême: Editions de l’an 2. Nepoti, R. (2003), ‘Hulot dans les villes: histoires de dépaysements’, in M. Porrino (ed.), La ville en Tatirama: la città di Monsieur Hulot, Milan: Mazzotta. Ortoleva, P. (1995), La société des médias, Florence: Casterman – Giunti. Picon, A. (2012), ‘Expositions universelles, doctrines sociales et utopies’, in A.-L. Carré, M.-S. Corcy, L. Hilaire-Pérez and C. Demeulenaere-Douyère (eds), Les expositions universelles en France au XIXe siècle: techniques, publics, patrimoine, Paris: CNRS Editions. Ratouis, O. (2008), ‘Les Trente glorieuses: figures et usages de l’utopie’, in P. Chassaigne and S. Schoonbaert (eds), L’urbanisme des idées aux pratiques (XIXème-XXème siècles), Rennes: PUR. Ratouis, O. and Baumeister, M. (2011), ‘Rire en ville. Rire de la ville. L’humour et le rire comme objets pour l’histoire urbaine contemporaine’, Histoire urbaine, 31 (September): 5–18. Rosenwein, B. (ed.) (1998), Anger’s Past. The Social Uses of an Emotion in the Middle Ages, Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press. Rosenwein, B. (2002) ‘Worrying About Emotions in History’, American History Review, 107: 821–45. Ross, K. (1996), Fast Cars, Clean Bodies: Decolonization and the Reordering of French Culture, Boston, MA: MIT Press. Rouaud, J. (1993), 60 ans d’arts ménagers, Paris: Syros-Alternatives. Rowley, A. (1999), Le livre de la cuisine, Paris: Flammarion. Scott, J. (1985), Weapons of the Weak: Everyday Forms of Peasant Resistance, New Haven, CT: Yale University Press. Segalen, M. (1994), ‘The Salon des Arts Ménagers, 1923–1983: A French Effort to Instill the Virtues of Home and the Norms of Good Taste’, Journal of design history, 7, 4: 267–75. Simay, Ph. and Füzesséry, S. (2008), Le choc des métropoles. Simmel, Kracauer, Benjamin, Paris and Tel Aviv : Ed. de l’Eclat. Söderström, O. (2010), ‘Observer’, Urbanisme, 370 (January–February): 46–7 Voirol, O. (2011), ‘Retour sur l’industrie culturelle’, Réseaux, 2, 166: 125–57.

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CHAPTER 13 SPLENDID?! PREPOSTEROUS! CHINESE ARTISTS MOCK THE ARCHITECTURAL SPECTACLE Angela Becher In October 2014, Chinese President Xi Jinping made an unusual appearance at a literary symposium, which he utilized to remind the symposium’s participants that art should, above all, be patriotic. Moreover, he felt that China should no longer engage in ‘weird’ architecture (qiqi guaiguai de jianzhu),1 and in order to illustrate what he meant, he named the new Beijing headquarters of the state’s very own broadcaster, CCTV, as an example: a costly, monumental and oddly shaped tower, co-designed by the Dutch star architect Rem Koolhaas. Given Xi’s increasingly powerful position, it came as no surprise that two years later the Chinese State Council issued a paper on urban planning that had transformed Xi’s personal views into an official directive. Alongside pledges to tame architecture into being ‘suitable’ and ‘pleasing to the eye’, the directive also outlined what architecture in today’s China should not be, that is: ‘oversized’, ‘xenocentric’ and ‘weird’.2 Many Chinese artists also take a critical stance when it comes to China’s contemporary architectural exuberances. Given China’s extraordinary economic growth that has seen enormous funds being channelled into the construction sector, the latest cutting-edge skyscrapers and civic buildings have been mushrooming at an unprecedented speed throughout the country. However, some artists vent their criticism in more humorous ways than their president. They irreverentially portray China’s built environment as grotesque, anthropomorphized and absurd, and thereby mock the grand narrative of China’s progress, power and economic ascendency that appears to be inscribed in architectural form. In an interesting contrast to President Xi, however, artists tend to blame precisely the ruling elite for what they perceive as architectural embodiments of the narcissism and self-interestedness of those in power. Architecture in China has become a space of contention not only because extravagant prestige developments underline the growing divide between the rich and the poor, but also because relentless urban renewal projects have destroyed large areas of the vernacular city fabric as well as cultural heritage sites, frequently enabled by (forced) evictions and demolitions.3 Given the growth of the construction sector, China has quite naturally become a hot spot for the realization of cutting-edge architectural designs by international and Chinese star architects. Underneath the shiny surface of iconic buildings, however, there exists a socio-political (and cultural) complexity that Yomi Braester has described as the ‘urban contract’, which involves the government, developers and residents as the three key players in shaping the Chinese city.4 This urban contract often involves mutually beneficial collaborations between politicians and developers, which neglect the interest

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of residents and the public. Furthermore, these collaborations are intransparent in a way that even Chinese textbooks on the city acknowledge that Chinese urban planning ‘is part of a process of political activity which is not yet fully understood’.5 In the face of urban planning, which is immune to public scrutiny but at the same time radical in scope and implementation, satire can be a tool for artists to shed light on what they perceive as the true nature of architecture, one which tends to remain hidden beneath the glorious message that emanates from shiny glass surfaces. This essay looks at some examples of how Chinese artists allegorize conflicting binaries of the authoritarian state and the individual, of ostentation and destitution, and of the local and the global, that suffuses the Chinese built environment. However, while these dialectics play a clear and discernible role, it will also be shown that the meaning of artworks remains ambiguous and subject to differing interpretations. Moreover, Chinese artists’ traditionally complex relationship to the state in which they operate rules out an all too stereotypical distinction between the ‘overpowering state’ and the ‘dissenting artist’. However, given the enormous amount of money that is involved in the Chinese construction sector and the ongoing social unrest that evictions and relocations have caused, the humorous engagement with architecture that will be discussed here hints at broader social concerns, which are addressed via a seemingly innocuous lightheartedness. Shanghai-based artist Shi Yong (b. 1963, Shanghai) is among those who have observed China’s urban transformation, and that of Shanghai in particular, with a habitually sardonic tone. His works range across media, including photography, video, oil painting, performance, installation and interactive online projects.6 In 1984 he graduated from the Fine Art Department of the Shanghai College of Applied Technology, where he first studied commercial advertising and later specialized in oil paintings, becoming experienced in classical realism and Romanticism.7 His predominantly conceptual works are often characterized by a witty penchant for the grotesque. In his works that reflect on China’s urban transformation, he has focused in particular on Shanghai’s skyscraper frenzy and related societal transformations. He carved out themes such as the fetishization of the foreign in China, relentless commercialization, consumption and identity crisis. The photomontage series chongjin (Yearnings) (2000), for instance, portrays three generations of a Chinese family, all of whom feature absurdly strident golden hair. Against the background of an equally golden iconic Shanghai skyscraper they engage in Dadaesque conversation, composed of shallow communist catchphrases, underlining the discrepancy between China’s modernized cityscape and the continued proliferation of outdated ideological discourse and policies. In his interactive mixed media installation Yiding yao baochi gaodu (Keep the Height by all Means) (2003) (Figure 13.1), Shi Yong mocks Shanghai’s craving for high-rise architecture in a 7.3-metre-high replica of a skyscraper. It is made of transparent plastic with four air pumps attached to it on each side, and the gallery visitors are invited to operate it in order to pump air into the sculpture. This erects the skyscraper mimesis fully, which, otherwise, has the tip of the building flabbily facing downwards. Only when all pumps are engaged does the installation achieve its full size, and then, at its climax, it 250

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Figure 13.1 Shi Yong, Yiding yao baochi gaodu (Keep the height by all means), 2003. ShanghART.

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plays the sound of an opera aria, which is a cartoonish audio visual allegory of the male sexual climax. Shi Yong’s transparent sculpture has a humorous undertone, given the transgressive nature of alluding to sex in the context of a Chinese public exhibition. The light-hearted nature of the work, however, also bears a political symbolism that revolves around the relationship of verticality and power. In this regard Henri Lefebvre argues that, the arrogant verticality of skyscrapers, and especially of public and state buildings, introduces a phallic or more precisely a phallocratic element into the visual realm; the purpose of this display, of this need to impress, is to convey an impression of authority to each spectator. Verticality and height have ever been the spatial expression of potentially violent power.8 By compromising that verticality of the tower, which Lefebvre associates with power, Shi Yong irreverentially deprives the building of its authority and transforms its assumed ‘violence’ into benign and clumsy incompetency. The interactivity of the installation, through which gallery visitors help to rebuild the skyscraper’s archetypal shape, moreover, does not counterbalance the scorn that is arguably inscribed in a drooping tower. Instead, it further contributes to it: as soon as the eager gallery visitors stop pumping air into the sculpture it immediately collapses again, which turns any eagerness of this mimicked construction activity into a nonsensical endeavour. Likewise, the Western opera aria that is played when joint efforts achieve the sculpture’s dramatic punctuation of the exhibition space turns even the most assiduous attempt of ‘keep[ing] the height by all means’ into a parody since it bears the imprimatur of a farcical occidentalism. In Shi Yong’s work, the constructive act of pushing down the pump is indeed more reminiscent of controlled blasting and evokes the paradigmatic demolition of the Pruitt-Igoe Building in St Louis (USA) in 1972, which has been considered to be the inception of post-modernism. Shi Yong translates his own post-modern negation of any grand narrative revolving around the architectural model into a nihilism whose message is exacerbated by drawing on (post-object) audience participation. Shi Yong’s choice of material also contributes to the derision. In architectural history, glass and the birth of the structural frame are the founding principles of the large-scale construction that underlies the skyscraper and which Siegfried Giedion praised as being a trend-setting combination of ‘unmistakable grandeur with a certain gentleness’.9 The benefits of the use of glass in monumental skyscraper architecture, however, are subverted in Shi Yong’s installation. By using transparent plastic as a malleable and decrepit glassalternative, a material unable to withstand the forces of gravity, Shi Yong deliberately leads his skyscraper mimesis to forlorn structural flaws. This stands in contrast to the works of Lu Hao (b. 1969, Beijing), who similarly mocks architecture via transparent models of Chinese landmark buildings, including the CCTV tower in Beijing or the Shanghai World Financial Centre. For his critique, Lu Hao opts for the more stable Plexiglas to sculpt his models and his attack is both figurative and representational. He pierces his Plexiglas mimesis of 252

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factual Chinese buildings with numerous arrows that appear as if they had been shot into the buildings by a crowd of outraged primitives. Lu Hao’s penetration of his architectural models evokes the attacks of 11 September 2001 in New York (or 9/11), as a subject matter which has resonated surprisingly strongly with Chinese artists. Lu Hao’s Plexiglas models propose a conflictive dialectic of architectural hypermodernity and the archaic, not dissimilar to Shi Yong’s gold-haired family clad in Western-style clothes, while uttering outdated propaganda. Yet it remains ambiguous in Lu Hao’s architectural models whether the notion of ‘primitive’ should be ascribed to the arrows or to the lavish building itself. Returning to Shi Yong, it should be noted that he is not the first artist to associate sexuality with glass. The French-American artist Marcel Duchamp (1887–1968), who undertook intensive studies of glass as an artistic material, investigated sexual intercourse in a conceptual installation entitled The Bride Stripped Bare by her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass) (1915–1923). A horizontal glass plate is thereby divided into a female, upper section (the bride) and a lower section (the bachelor apparatus). The installation is intent on depicting what is described as ‘a diagram of an ironic love-making machine of extraordinary complexity in which the male and female machines communicate only by means of two circulatory systems, and without any point of contact’.10 In Shi Yong’s installation, there is no imminent contact with any female counterpart either. The flabby phallic building stands alone, singled out in the large gallery space which further underlines the skyscraper’s pitiable existence. Derision of architecture by means of opposing the hypermodern and the archaic in the context of sexual allusion is also apparent in the work of Zhang Huan (b. 1965, Anyang, Henan Province). In the mid-1990s, Zhang was a core member of the seminal avant-garde artist community in the East Village on the fringe of Beijing, and his work has crucially shaped the canon of Chinese contemporary art. His most well-known work is his performance piece 12 Square Meters (1994), for which he sat naked, in a dirty public toilet in the Beijing East Village, his body coated with a mix of honey and fish sauce in order to lure innumerable flies to sit on his body. Zhang Huan endured this masochistic procedure for one hour in an attempt to demonstrate the harsh life of the lower classes in Chinese society.11 Captured by his artist friend Rong Rong (b. 1968), the photographic documentation would later attain iconic status and be reproduced in all of the major overviews of contemporary Chinese art.12 Zhang Huan has often operated on the brink of the socially acceptable, and his works of self-inflicted violent body art are at times reminiscent of the twentieth-century art movement of the Vienna Actionists, who experimented with dead flesh, bloodshed and physical transgressions of a disconcerting kind. This tendency also infuses Zhang Huan’s mixed media work entitled lv (Donkey) (2005) which Zhang denominates on his website as a ‘sculpture’. It was exhibited, among other places, at the Saatchi Gallery in London in 2008 and constitutes another mockery of Shanghai’s relentless proliferation of the tallest and most outstanding skyscrapers (Figure 13.2). The sculpture is a replica of Shanghai’s Jinmao Tower, a factual super-tall building located in Shanghai’s Lujiazui area in Pudong. In Zhang Huan’s sculpture, the tower’s verticality is 253

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Figure 13.2 Zhang Huan, lv (Donkey), 2005. Saatchi Gallery.

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thwarted in that it is inclined at about 60 degrees, hence resulting in it being considerably less vertical than the iconic Leaning Tower of Pisa in Italy, which has been subject to concern and irony for many years. Zhang moreover attaches a real, but inanimate, stuffed donkey to the building, which clings to it as if with the intention of a sexual advance towards the building, or possibly sexual assault. Attached to the donkey’s testicle area is a large steel pole which penetrates the grid-like structure of the Jinmao Tower, affirming the sexual notion of the work. Zhang Huan’s tower is soldered to a steel foundation and is connected to electricity, so that when it is switched on the donkey mechanically moves its ‘shaft’ back and forth in the tower, which reportedly creates a ‘very noisy’ sound.13 Zhang Huan’s representation of the Tower undermines the habitually favourable narrative of Shanghai development that is associated with the building. The Jinmao Tower was designed by the North American architecture, interior design, engineering and urban planning firm Skidmore, Owings & Merrill (SOM), a key player in the field of super-tall buildings, and it was completed in 1999 recalling ‘historic pagoda forms, with setbacks that create a rhythmic pattern’.14 It houses the Grand Hyatt Shanghai hotel, as well as other upmarket work and leisure facilities.15 With its height of 420 metres, the Jinmao Tower was (at the time of the fabrication of Zhang Huan’s sculpture) the tallest building in China, until it was surpassed in 2007 by the nearby Shanghai World Financial Centre. In its impressive tallness, the Jinmao Tower equates the architectural symbol of China’s tremendous, fast economic growth, in which the coastal city of Shanghai has played a particular role since the early 1990s, when Pudong became one of the Special Economic Zones (SEZ) in which China experimented with market economy and globalization in initially geographically delimited areas. The success of this approach became apparent in Pudong’s increasing density of skyscrapers over the years. However, the skyscraper was not only the result of economic progress but in turn created economic stimuli for the clustering of further economic development. The American architectural critic Ada Louise Huxtable aptly remarked that the skyscraper is not only a ‘celebration of modern building technology’ but also the ‘biggest investment game in town’.16 In Zhang Huan’s sculpture, however, the famous tower is quite undeniably on the brink of collapse. The imposition of a life-sized donkey not only amounts to an objectification of the tower to seemingly involuntary intercourse, it also belittles and miniaturizes the building whose size hardly exceeds that of the donkey. The elongated steel phallus attached to the animal further grotesquely monumentalizes the donkey’s phallus and concomitantly dwarfs the building. Zhang Huan moreover breaks with the habitual association of the skyscraper with the phallus and instead ascribes virility to the donkey, an animal whose function traditionally is that of a hard-working workhorse and in the Chinese language allegorizes the working class. Given Zhang’s idiosyncratic sculptural arrangement, he therefore projects onto the iconic building a deliberate inversion of the connotative forces of high and low, of the dynamics of capital and labour as well as of privilege and disenfranchizement. The sculpture carves out the role of workers, who, in the context of iconic architecture, are habitually relegated to anonymous creators whose names and hard work are eclipsed the very moment their splendid œuvre is inaugurated. 255

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The domination of the skyscraper by the donkey is a gendered negotiation of architecture, not unknown to Western architectural discourse, which, notoriously heterosexist in its assumptions, assumed that ‘man builds and woman inhabits, that man is outside and woman is inside, that man is public and woman is private; that nature, in both its kindest and cruellest aspects, is female and culture, the ultimate triumph over nature, is male’.17 However, it is mostly Henri Lefebvre’s critique of the relationship between capital accumulation and the ‘phallocratic’ order of space that is mirrored in Zhang’s subversion of accustomed symbolisms. Informed by Lefebvre’s account, Esha Niyogi De argues that gender is thus a particularly useful category in which to examine the effects that globalization has on embodied subjects: This masculine rationality constructs a social space divided into sites of production and reproduction, and capital and labor generation. This space invariably stratifies its occupants: those who command privileges of gender, class, race, or ethnicity gain access to the tools of production […] which enable them to move ‘with the times’ into better and bigger futures; others, who lack these privileges, remain fixed in the labors of a nonteleological present. Those who become peripheral in these spaces of accumulation are people clinging to putatively nonproductive, ‘backward’ ways of life.18 By imposing a ‘backward’ and archaic symbol of the working class onto the skyscraper mimesis, Zhang Huan emphatically interchanges the centre and periphery associated with globalization, he allegorically reverses habitual attributes of privilege and disenfranchizement, of progress and ‘backward ways of life’ and defies its underlying masculine rationality. Zhang Huan’s mockery symbolically overwrites the Jinmao Tower as fetish, he empties it of its social meaning and re-codes it into a counter-monument to the unfair apparatuses of modernity. The penetration of the high-rise, be it by arrows or by a monumentalized phallus, only implicitly evokes the terror attacks of 9/11, unlike one of the video art works by Chen Shaoxiong (1962–2016), one of the founding members of the Big Tail Elephant Group, a Guangzhou-based circle of conceptual artists in the 1990s. His work entitled Huayang fankong (Anti Terrorism Variety) references the event rather explicitly (Figure 13.3). In the video, which was presented at the Venice Biennale in 2003, Chen restages the events on Chinese territory, specifically in the cities of Shanghai and Guangzhou. In different sequences of the video, the Shanghai Oriental Pearl Tower and the CITIC Plaza in Guangzhou are subjected to attacks by slowly approaching airplanes which are heading directly into the buildings. Yet each sequence takes an unexpected twist: in contradistinction to the factual event, the Chinese skyscrapers engage in witty selfdefence by bending and knuckling down. On some occasions a building temporarily tears itself apart to leave a gap through which the attacking plane can fly unhampered and harmlessly. In another instance the skyscraper’s façade proves firm enough that the attacking plane simply bounces off, explodes and dramatically scatters to the four winds; 256

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Figure 13.3 Chen Shaoxiong, Huayang fankong (Anti Terrorism Variety), 2002, Video 5’00”. Courtesy Pékin Fine Arts On Behalf of the Estate of Artist Chen Shaoxiong. the explosion then reveals an unexpected second layer in which a serene cityscape cleared of airplanes suggests nothing ever happened. Chen’s video spoof is humorous in that it deliberately contradicts viewers’ expectations attached to the widely mediated event. By now, 9/11 is a visual icon connoting that the juxtaposition of an airplane with a high-rise building is a blueprint for disaster. By rewriting the story into a happy ending, Chen achieves a comic relief, which briefly disencumbers the burdened relationship of architecture and politics. The jocularity of a humanized building that undertakes gymnastics to defend itself disguises the fact that the very act of imaginatively transposing the terrorist threat to Chinese territory challenges Chinese political sensitivities. Chen’s video, possibly unknowingly, hints at China’s, as yet, uncertain role on the stage of global politics in a climate where the aftermath of 9/11 has seen a Chinese discourse on terror in line with global vocabulary but also the opportunistic broadening of the interpretation of ‘terrorism’ in order to radically silence dissent and pursue domestic political ‘stability’. Chen Shaoxiong chooses to mischievously scrap, hackle and mince his own cinematic mimesis of the canonized event, and his visual ‘massacre’ is a whimsical attack against the routinized self-perpetuation of the event in images. Its meaning, however, remains ambiguous: while the transposition of 9/11 onto Chinese 257

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territory seems somewhat daring, the self-defence of the skyscrapers could also be seen as what the Paris-based avant-garde movement Situationist International (1957–1972) called ‘recuperation’, an act of appropriation (e.g. of images) and re-representation by the spectacle, by which true resistance is ultimately hollowed out. In that sense, Chen’s satire could be understood to deprive the event of its threatening nature rather than to suggest the possibility of it taking place in China. Not dissimilar to Chen Shaoxiong, photographer Jiang Pengyi (b. 1977, Yuanjiang, Hunan Province) plays with incongruity and dislocation of audience expectations in his negotiation of Beijing. A graduate of the Institute of Art & Design in Beijing (1999) and of the China Academy of Art in Hangzhou (2014), Jiang has made a name for himself through his two series All Back to Dust (2006–2007) and Unregistered City (2008–2010) in which he impiously photoshops China’s resplendent cityscape into rubbish and pollution. A photograph entitled ‘Unregistered City No.2’, that idiosyncratically negotiates the city in the context of demolition, history and memory, has earned him the Jury Grand Prize of the Société Générale Chinese Art Awards in 2010. The photograph All Back to Dust No. 2 (2006) (Figure 13.4) derives from a series of the same name, in which Jiang uses photographs of buildings and spaces of Beijing which he took during his two years of work as a professional photographer at a real estate advertising company.19 In All Back to Dust No. 2 Jiang appropriates and re-assembles the architectural photographs on horizontal, transversal and

Figure 13.4 Jiang Pengyi, All Back to Dust No. 2 , 2006, photograph. Courtesy of Jiang Pengyi. 258

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perpendicular planes to create the illusion of a scrap dump made of architecture. Important iconic landmarks in Beijing, such as the egg-shaped National Centre for the Performing Arts or the Jianwai Soho buildings, are intermingled with shopping malls, broadcasting satellite dishes, heavy traffic expressways and a statue of Mao Zedong. Some of the individual images of buildings are themselves refracted, furthering the idea of broken and rejected material. This cataclysmic mass is then placed within a differently scaled photograph which depicts the antithetical pastoral setting of Beijing’s rural outskirts. Located between conceptualism and appropriation, Jiang makes use of the disjunctive technique of photomontage to deconstruct Beijing into an ironic postmodern kaleidoscope of repudiated and disorderly ‘waste’. Closely related to the collage and montage pioneered by Dada, photomontage also serves to cut and re-contextualize photographic images to create new and surprising meanings.20 With reference to Dadaist works produced in Berlin, the deliberate separation of signifier and signified (in language and imagery) was a highly political endeavour that allegorically rejected the imposition of any meaning by conventional reasoning, political or otherwise.21 This technique also inspired Chinese photographers in the 1930s, often for commercial publication in illustrated magazines, though they lacked the political message that had characterized some of the Western avant-gardes.22 Photomontage also emboldened the ’85 New Wave Movement to free themselves from Maoist and post-Maoist artistic practices and to forge new forms of expression.23 It is via the digital technology of Photoshop that Jiang Pengyi negotiates the aesthetic eclecticism of Beijing with its imperial and socialist monumentality and its punctual adumbrations of hypermodernity. Through photomontage, Jiang Pengyi not only disrupts the spatial iconography of Beijing but also its rural setting. In line with how Walter Benjamin described the related montage technique, here too ‘[t]he superimposed element disrupts the context into which it is inserted’,24 so that the rural landscape in which Jiang places the pile of waste loses any possible idyllic notion. Here, the photomontage serves to destroy the cultural implications of both the city and nature. What comes to mind is the beginning of a much-cited verse by the Chinese poet Du Fu (712–770), written around 757 CE, that reads Guo po shan he zai (The country is shattered, mountains and rivers remain). It underlines the perennial qualities of nature, which in Jiang’s photograph, however, are endangered by modern civilization. The disorder can also be seen as commentary on the unsettling changes that the urban transformation has wrought upon the Chinese landscape and social fabric, most notably via demolition and relocation. Over recent decades, Beijing’s small alleyways (hutongs), courtyard houses (siheyuan) and the city’s urban fringes have been relentlessly sacrificed for the sake of high-rises, some more generic, some of impressive design, but often evocative of Rem Koolhaas’s critique of the soullessness and homogeneity of modern architecture, which he tellingly calls ‘Junkspace’.25 In a recent interview, Jiang Pengyi laments the disconcertingly rapid transformation of Beijing, and contrasts it to the reassuring (shufu) continuity of his rural hometown 259

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Yuanjiang, which he claims had not seen any major changes for many years.26 More than just a visual commentary on the geographical unevenness of economic development, Jiang’s representation of the city also seems to reflect back on the artist’s own psychology. While the distorted skyline he represents is somehow familiar and certainly recognizable as ‘Beijing’, it is still incongruous with any conventional representation of the capital. This cognitive dissonance is what Freud called the ‘uncanny’, or in other words an experience of unhomely strangeness,27 but at the same time it contributes to the humorous oddity of the photograph. The city, in its desolate state of rejection, as outdated, derelict and unhomely, therefore, forms a miniaturized space of abjection. The uncanny and the abject are different psychoanalytical concepts, but both hark back to the psychic turmoils engendered by that which is perceived as unhomely and contemptible, and in the case of the abject leads to its rejection by the force of expulsion.28 According to Julia Kristeva, the reason for the psychic process of abjection lies in the need of the individual for identity formation.29 Therefore, the individual rejects that part of itself which it perceives as socially unacceptable, or abject, thereby not dissimilar to the notion of waste, which also requires social norms to designate that which is to be marginalized.30 Jiang Pengyi’s abject city can hence be considered the outcome of his own process of identity formation in the face of relentlessly changing Chinese spatialities. The dramatic remodelling of the Chinese city has, indeed, caused a strong sense of alienation for the older generation who frequently do not recognize their home cities anymore and engendered an outright Chinese ‘era without memories’.31 At the same time, the modernized city represents a customary reality for the younger generation, whom Margaret Hillenbrand describes as the ‘offspring of the city – urbanites born and bred – who have no bodily memory of the soil and the wistfulness it engenders’.32 In his photograph, Jiang Pengyi grotesquely reinvents his own social reason for the abjection. Unlike contemporary Chinese society, which tends to consider rural life as anachronous, poor and backward (luohou), Jiang whimsically and recalcitrantly projects the disreputable qualities onto the very city itself. The pictorial disorder is also an embodiment of the ideological and systemic perplexity of a country in transition: a miniature Mao Zedong unshakably still waves heavenwards from his pedestal, while the adjoining National Centre for the Performing Arts tilts perilously like the Titanic. What comes to mind is Mao Zedong’s famous quote of 1967, the early stage of the Cultural Revolution: ‘There is great disorder under heaven, the situation is excellent’ (Tianxia daluan, xingshi da hao), which the helmsman had used to indicate the possibility of a new beginning through revolution. In the latter stage of the Tang Dynasty (618–907) artists turned from portraiture to landscape painting as a form of withdrawal from perturbed political times and by revering nature as unspoiled by humankind. During the Song Dynasty (960–1279) this engagement with landscapes would moreover evolve into an independent genre used to express differing world views from that of the imperial court.33 In his photograph, Jiang Pengyi also contrasts the ailments of civilization with the unpopulated quiet of nature. As a matter of fact, in the photograph the human is nowhere to be found: its existence 260

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is to be inferred from its cataclysmic civilizational remains, or left to our guessing as an inconsiderably small presence behind shiny, but crooked, façades. Another take on Beijing that operates in the liminal realm of the lighthearted and the uncanny is the photography of Beijing-based artist Chi Peng (b. 1981). He graduated from the Digital Media Department of the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing in 2005. His work is strongly marked by experimentation with digital photo alterations, producing a number of surreal, critical and humorous photographic works that are widely exhibited inside and outside of China. In a series entitled 2008, Chi Peng delivers a visual commentary on Beijing’s fashionable, almost libidinous iconic buildings and the urban indulgence in visual exorbitance and commercialization. One of them depicts the National Centre for the Performing Arts, which also featured in Jiang Pengyi’s urban waste. In Chi Peng’s imagination, there are two female legs attached to the building, so that its egg-shape appears to be the belly of a grotesque human–architecture hybrid. The imaginary woman attached to the building is wearing a pair of red high-heels and stretches one leg lasciviously as if the Grand National Theatre was a foxy lady permeated by lust and sexual desire. Another photograph by Chi Peng, entitled Ping shenme rang wo ai ni? (Why Should I Love You?), is an anthropomorphized representation of the new headquarters of China Central Television (CCTV) (Figure 13.5), finished in 2012 and co-designed by Rem Koolhaas and his collaborators at his Office for Metropolitan Architecture (OMA). With a height of 234 metres and a useable space of 473,000 square metres, it is one of the largest office buildings in the world, and opinions on the building differ considerably within China and abroad. Arguably, however, the building sits awkwardly in Beijing’s skyline. The bulky colossus by far exceeds most of the surrounding buildings in height, except for the nearby China World Trade Center Tower III, which was the highest building

Figure 13.5 Chi Peng, Ping shenme rang wo ai ni? (Why should I love you?), 2008, photograph, 300 × 624 cm. Courtesy of Chi Peng. 261

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in Beijing until 2011. Critics praised the building as a post-9/11 reinvention of the tall building as it avoids the classic skyward structure of the high-rise; however, its characterizing feature is ‘bigness’, a concept which Koolhaas claims to be the determinant of the world’s urban future and which results in architecture that contains cities in themselves, such as the CCTV chaojianzhu (hyperbuilding).34 The CCTV tower encloses space through a giant loop of a ring-shaped form and intricately designed multiple folds, and houses CCTV’s entire process of TV-making, administration, production and broadcasting of 200 TV channels. Chi Peng satirizes the Beijing landmark by creating an anthropomorphized effigy of the building in the form of an oversized man or monster. The figure is easily associated with the factual CCTV tower as both share a characteristic grid structure that guarantees the indexical nature of Chi Peng’s representation. Koolhaas’s much lauded architectural œuvre is here caricaturized as a walking behemoth, taking on a life of its own and seemingly liable to wreak havoc on the city at any moment. The impetus to anthropomorphize architecture can be seen in relation to what Heinrich Wölfflin described as ‘empathy’ specific to architecture, by which he meant that beholders of buildings tend to project life into inert shapes which is why windows are sometimes likened to human eyes, a building’s cornices to eyebrows and doors to a mouth.35 By exaggerating the scale of the CCTV ‘man’, Chi certainly lampoons the megalomaniac aesthetic of the tower. However, it does not require much decoding effort to also interpret this CCTV man in the light of the Chinese state-controlled media and the propaganda organ of the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). Despite its hypermodern twenty-first-century headquarters and obvious modernization in terms of programming and commercialization, CCTV is still representative of an autocratic state apparatus which adheres to principles of ideological streamlining through censorship and information filtering.36 Chi Peng’s CCTV man seems to be a metonymy of this perpetuated omnipotence in the hands of the one-party state as well as the prosperity engendered by economic liberalization, because Chi Peng’s figure appears strong, menacing, insurmountably tall but at the same time also doltish and a little preposterous. Chi’s photographic artwork also evokes images of oversized urban monsters in the history of cinema, such as ‘King Kong’ (USA, 1933) and Gojira (Godzilla) (Japan, 1954). If the cultural engagement with monsters results from the desire ‘to name that which is difficult to apprehend and to domesticate (and therefore disempower)’,37 then Chi Peng’s abject creature can be seen as the visual attempt of the subaltern to marginalize and mock the authoritarianism for which CCTV stands.38 Eventually, however, all of these celluloid monsters such as King Kong suffer the same fate: they disintegrate or engulf in flames. Interestingly, one year after Chi Peng’s photomontage, on Chinese New Year 2009, a similar fate overtook the Television Cultural Centre (TVCC), another iconic building adjacent to CCTV, also designed by OMA. Employees of CCTV had illicitly launched celebratory New Year’s fireworks whose sparks reached the neighbouring TVCC, which as a result burnt down completely within a few hours, leaving nothing but a carbonized skeleton. The international architectural world was stunned by the technical deficiencies of a building designed by 262

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one of their star architects, and it triggered a debate about the need for and sustainability of so called ‘starchitecture’. Chinese netizens, on the other hand, prepared their own visual mockeries of the event, but they directed their slander not towards Koolhaas but towards CCTV as the symbol of a perceived oppressive governmentality.39 Some of these images bear striking resemblance to Chi Peng’s monster, representing CCTV as an anthropomorphized man urinating onto the neighbouring building to extinguish the fire. Other representations transform the fire accident into an attack from outer space or from giant behemoths such as Godzilla or the Transformer. Some of the Internet satire makes reference to the caonima (translated as grass mud horse), which has become a symbol of Chinese netizens’ contestation of censorship and their claim to free expression.40 Unsurprisingly, at the time, these images were rather quickly removed by Internet censors. The science-fiction notion of Chi Peng’s promenading man is also reminiscent of Ron Herron’s 1964 architectural vision of the ‘Walking City’, which, just like the CCTV Tower, was devised to be an urban centre in itself.41 Herron imagined mobile architectural vehicles that would traverse the landscape, constructed through giant roaming pods and containing different urban and residential areas.42 However, unlike Chi, one could argue, the architectural vision that Herron had was a utopian one: fascinated by technological advance and striving for indeterminacy, he imagined architecture capable of adapting to people’s and the environment’s changing needs. Koolhaas’s giant monument to CCTV, on the other hand, suggests that it was built to last. Unless, of course, one day it is engulfed in flames too. While President Xi Jinping’s assessment of contemporary Chinese architecture in 2014 was serious enough to turn into an official directive that would prescribe how architecture in China should be, the aforementioned artists’ sardonic narratives exert some influence too, even if on a different level. All of the mentioned artists exhibit their work in China and abroad, thereby, achieving a transnational cultural reflection on the aesthetics as well as the function and politics of architecture today. Particularly countries in a state of transition instrumentalize architecture, and the iconic building in particular, in an ambitious but simplifying rhetoric of ‘modernization’ and ‘progress’. In the Chinese context this has led to the unmindful sacrifice of cultural heritage – and in many cases of civic rights – for the sake of architectural modernization. While the economic policies of the Communist Party have lifted millions of people out of poverty in recent decades, a growing social divide is crystallizing which manifests itself tellingly in the speculative property market and the resulting unaffordability of housing for many urbanites. Moreover, President Xi Jinping himself quite rightly draws attention to the incongruity between a globalized Chinese cityscape of individualistic and deconstructivist (‘weird’) architectural designs and his own political agenda that dwells on the streamlining of expression and the increasingly harsh silencing of dissent in recent years. Architecture is an intriguing material embodiment of these complexities that underlie the post-socialist Chinese society. Chinese artists’ mockeries of this built environment not only represent a cheekily refreshing perspective on habitually revered architecture but also allow for an allegorical look behind the all-too impeccable façades. 263

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Notes 1

‘Xi Jinping cheng “Bu yao gao qiqiguaiguai de jianzhu” huo wangmin chengzan’ (Xi Jingping’s appeal to not build ‘weird’ architecture earns netizens’ praise), Cankao Xiaoxi, 18 October 2014, http://china.cankaoxiaoxi.com/2014/1018/532784.shtml (accessed 18 October 2014).

2

Nectar Gan and Liu Zhen, ‘“No More Weird Architecture”: Chinese Directive Draws Line in the Sand on “Strange” Buildings’, South China Morning Post International Edition, 22 February 2016, http://www.scmp.com/news/china/policies-politics/article/1915125/nomore-weird-architecture-chinese-directive-draws-line (accessed 22 February 2016).

3

There exist hardly any all-encompassing statistics on this subject. Estimations for the years between 1996 and 2008 conclude that at least one million people were displaced in Beijing, whereas in Shanghai, between 1991 and 2006, four million people had to leave their old homes. Between 1990 and 2007, the conversion of farmland and the redevelopment of city centres together have displaced between sixty and seventy-five million people, both in urban and rural areas. You-Tien Hsing, The Great Urban Transformation: Politics of Land and Property in China (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010), p. 4.

4

Yomi Braester, Painting the City Red: Chinese Cinema and the Urban Contract (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), p. 6.

5

Yang Fan, Chengshi Guihua Zhengzhixue (The Politics of Urban Planning) (Nanjing: Dongnan daxue chubanshe, 2008), p. 22.

6

For more information see Shi Yong’s representing gallery, Shanghart, Shanghai: http://www. shanghartgallery.com/galleryarchive/artist.htm?artistId=2 (accessed 4 March 2016). See also: Robin Visser, Cities Surround the Countryside: Urban Aesthetics in Post-Socialist China (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2010), pp. 180–83.

7

Ibid., p. 180.

8

Henri Lefebvre, The Production of Space (Oxford: Blackwell, 1991), p. 98.

9

Sigfried Giedion, Space, Time and Architecture: The Growth of a New Tradition (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1967), p. 255.

10 Marcel Duchamp, ‘The Bride Stripped Bare by Her Bachelors, Even (The Large Glass)’, 1915–1923. Source: Tate, http://www.tate.org.uk/art/artworks/duchamp-the-bride-strippedbare-by-her-bachelors-even-the-large-glass-t02011/text-catalogue-entry (accessed 3 March 2016). 11 Lv Peng, Zhongguo Yishu Biannianshi 1900–2010 (A History of Chinese Art, Year by Year from 1900–2010) (Beijing: Zhongguo qingnian chubanshe, 2012), p. 1169. 12 For further information on Zhang Huan see Wu Hung, Contemporary Chinese Art: A History: 1970s–2000s (New York: Thames and Hudson, 2014), p. 198; see also the artist’s website, http://www.zhanghuan.com (accessed 10 February 2016). 13 Zhang Huan, ‘Donkey’, 2005. Source: Saatchi Gallery, http://www.saatchigallery.com/artists/ artpages/zhang_huan_donkey_5.htm(accessed 12 February 2016). 14 Ibid. 15 SOM, ‘Jin Mao Tower’, 1999. Source: SOM, http://www.som.com/projects/jin_mao_tower (accessed 11 March 2015). 16 Ada Louise Huxtable, On Architecture: Collected Reflections on a Century of Change (New York: Walker, 2010), p. 133.

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Chinese Artists Mock Architectural Spectacle 17 Diana Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman, ‘Introduction’, in Diana Agrest, Patricia Conway and Leslie Kanes Weisman (eds), The Sex of Architecture (New York: Harry N. Abrams, 1996), p. 11. 18 Esha Niyogi De, ‘The City between the Global State: Architecture and the People in Singapore’s Gendered Imaginations’, in Sonia Sarker and Esha Niyogi De (eds), Trans-Status Subjects: Gender in the Globalization of South and Southeast Asia (Durham, NC and London: Duke University Press, 2002), p. 190. 19 E-mail Interview with Jiang Pengyi, 23 July 2015. 20 Hal Foster, Postmodern Culture (London: Pluto Press, 1985), p. 85. 21 Benjamin Buchloh, ‘Allegorical Procedures: Appropriation and Montage in Contemporary Art’, Artforum, 21 (September 1982), pp. 44–52. 22 Claire Roberts, Photography and China (London: Reaktion, 2013), pp. 87–9. 23 Paul Gladston, Contemporary Chinese Art: A Critical History (London: Reaktion Books, 2014), p. 109. 24 Walter Benjamin, Michael William Jennings and Brigid Doherty, The Work of Art in the Age of Its Technological Reproducibility, and Other Writings on Media (Cambridge MA: Harvard University Press, 2008), p. 90. 25 Rem Koolhaas, ‘Junkspace’, October, 100 (2002), pp. 175–90. 26 Fangtan Jiang Pengyi: Guang shi yi zhong yimi de youhuo (Interview with Jiang Pengyi: Light is a Secret Lure), interview by Yao Yao, Ray Art Center, Shanghai, 6 February 2015, http:// www.rayartcenter.org/?p=7194 (accessed 25 June 2015). 27 Sigmund Freud, The Uncanny (London: Penguin, 2003), pp. 123–59. 28 Julia Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection, trans. Leon S. Roudiez (New York: Columbia University Press, 1982), p. 5. 29 Ibid., p. 1. 30 Mary Douglas, ‘Pollution’, in Implicit Meanings: Selected Essays in Anthropology (London and New York: Routledge, 1999), pp. 106–15. 31 Jiang Jiehong, An Era Without Memories: Chinese Contemporary Photography on Urban Transformation (New York: Thames and Hudson, 2015). 32 Margaret Hillenbrand, ‘Nostalgia, Place, and Making Peace with Modernity in East Asia’, in Jerome De Kloet and Lena Scheen (eds), Spectacle and the City: Chinese Urbanities in Art and Popular Culture (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013), p. 174. 33 Shane McCausland, ‘Categories of Paintings in China: Genres and Subjects’, in Zhang Hongxing (ed.), Masterpieces of Chinese Painting 700–1900 (London: V&A Publishing, 2013), p. 46. 34 Liu Qian and Lin Tao, ‘Da, xukong, midu: Kuhasi jianzhu de chengshi zhi wei’ (Bigness, Void, Density: Urban Aspects of Rem Koolhaas’ Architectural Design), Jianzhushi, 160 (2012), pp. 68–9. 35 Linnea Wren and Travis Nygard, ‘Heinrich Wölfflin (1864–1945)’, in Chris Murray (ed.), Key Writers on Art: The Twentieth Century (London and New York: Routledge), p. 241. 36 The ideology, which the CCP had developed in the early years of being in power, and which reckoned ‘that the media must accept the CCP’s programmes, policies and directives; and that they must accept the CCP’s leadership and stick to the CCP’s organizational policies and the press policies’ , is still topical today. Xiaoling Zhang, ‘Mass Media in China’, in Xiaowei Zang (ed.), Understanding Chinese Society (London and New York: Routledge, 2011), pp.

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Laughing at Architecture 156–69. Xiaoling Zhang, ‘Breaking News, Media Coverage and “Citizen’s Right to Know” in China’, Journal of Contemporary China, 53 (November 2007), p. 158. A regularly updated insight into the practice of media censorship in China can be found on the website of China Digital Times, an online media project initiated in 2003 by the Graduate School of Journalism at the University of California, Berkeley, which translates leaked censorship guidelines that are sent to media outlets in China by the authorities. 37 Jeffrey Jerome Cohen, ‘Preface: In a Time of Monsters’, in Jeffrey Jerome Cohen (ed.), Monster Theory (Minneapolis and London: University of Minnesota Press, 1996), p. VIII. 38 Chi himself, however, clearly denies any political intentions underlying his work. Interview with Chi Peng, Beijing, 17 May 2013. 39 A summary of some of the most popular images can be found on http://www.chinasmack. com/2009/pictures/cctv-fire-funny-photoshops-by-chinese-netizens.html (accessed 4 March 2012). 40 Caonima is a pun on the words caonima, literally ‘fuck your mother’ with a different pronunciation of tones, and refers to resistance against censorship on the Chinese Internet. One way to bypass censorship thereby consists in writing politically sensitive words through homophone characters, but whose intended meaning is still recognized among Internet users. 41 Ron Herron was a founding member of Archigram, the influential British group of architects known for its admixture of science-fiction and pop culture. Terence Riley, The Changing of the Avant-Garde: Visionary Architectural Drawings from the Howard Gilman Collection (New York: Museum of Modern Art, 2002), p. 54. 42 Ibid.

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267

INDEX

Acton, Harold 153, 155, 169 Adalberto, Adalberto 131 Adamson, Walter 134, 148 n.2, 149 n.16 Adorno, Theodore 230, 232, 237, 243, 245 n.8 Ainiala, Terhi 193, 203 n.5, 204 n.15 Algarotti, Francesco 141 Altenberg, Peter 112–15, 118, 124 n.8 Anderson, Benedict 49, 53 n.57 Arbuthnot, Charles 60 Archer, Thomas 63 Arnold, Karl 7 Arp, Jean 174, 187 n.3 Bahr, Hermann 118 Balaguer, Victor 99–100, 102, 106 n.19 Bardi, Pier Maria 132, 135–6, 140–2, 149 n.21, 150 n.37 Barjavel, René 240, 246 n.37 Barker, Jonathan 46 Barnouw, Dagmar 110, 124 n.4 Bartoli Natinguerra, Amerigo 136 Bätschmann, Oskar 25, 26, 34 n.2, 34 n.7 Bazzani, Cesare 136, 142 Beaton, Cecil 153 Beerbohm, Max 155 Behnes, William 67 Bencini, Angiolo 129, 130 Benjamin, Walter 183, 189 n.28, 230, 244, 245 n.4 Berger, Peter L. 9 Bergson, Henri 9, 10, 20 n.26, 21 Bernard, Marc 229, 245 n.1 Bernège, Paulette 241, 247 n.41 Bernini, Gian Lorenzo 28, 29, 30, 34 n.16 Betjeman, John 3, 4, 18 n.6, 153, 155–7, 159–62, 169, 171 n.4, 171 n.9 Beveridge, William 169 Birdsall-Jones, Christina 193, 200, 204 n.16, 205 n.40 Blackhall, Thomas 48, 53 n.49 Blackwell, Caitlin 8 Bloch, Marc 240 Blomfield, Reginald 157 Blum, Ernest 78, 83, 87 n.25, 88 n.46 Bocabella, Josep Maria 98 Bontempelli, Massimo 130–1 Borromini, Francesco 12, 29 Borsani, Osvaldo 233 Boudon, Philippe 14, 19 n.17, 204 n.21

Bouvier, Jean-Claude 193, 203 n.5 Bowra, Maurice 156 Braem, Renaat 194, 200, 204 n.18 Brasini, Armando 136, 142 Breton, Jules-Louis 238 Breton, Paul 237, 238, 246 n.25, 246 n.32 Breuer, Marcel 14, 167, 174, 182, 183 Britton, John 66, 69 n.45 Browne, K. R.G. (Kenneth Robert Gordon) 181, 188 n.19 Brunet i Torroll, Llorenç 95 Bugiani, Pietro 141 Burke Nuala 42, 51 n.18 Burton, Decimus 4 Buzzi, Aldo 212, 224 n.21, 224 n.22, 224 n.24, 225 n.53 Byron, Robert 4, 155, 157, 171 n.3 Cadsky, Klaus Peter 3 Cafiero, Vittorio 143 Campbell, Robert 40, 50 n.15 Carrà, Carlo 146 Carracci, Annibale 26 Carrington, Edmund Frederick J. 62, 68 n.22 Carrington, Noel 160 Casey, Christine 37, 50 n.6, 50 n.8, 50 n.10, 51 n.23, 52 n.39 Casson, Hugh 168 Céline, Louis-Ferdinand 240, 246 n.36 Chambers, William 1, 18 n.1 Chaplin, Charlie [Charlot] 241, 244 Chen, Shaoxiong 256–7, 258 Chi, Peng 261–3, 266 n.38 Christiansen, Hans-Christian 232, 245 n.15 CIAM. See International Congresses of Modern Architecture Clark, Kenneth 156, 158–9, 171 n.7 Cockerell, Charles Robert 61, 63, 68 n.21 Colvin, Howard 3 Connell, Ward & Lucas 163 Connolly, Cyril 153 Costa Ferrer, Josep [Picarol] 93, 106 n.4, 106 n.9, 107 n.23 Craske, Mattew 42, 51 n.21 Crozza, Maurizio [Massimiliano Fuffas] 8 Cruikshank, George 4, 7, 13, 21 n.36, 57, 60–1, 64–7 Cullen, Louis 38, 50 n.7

Index D’Annunzio, Gabriele 112 d’Ors, Eugeni 103 Dahlerup, Vilhelm 17 Daumier, Honoré 7, 9, 237, 246 n.28 de Broglie, Louis 237 de Cordemoy, Abbé Jean-Louis 31 de Cronin Hastings, Hubert 156, 168 de Saint-Albin, Albert 78, 87 n.23 de Vere Tipple, Guillaume 162 Devos, Jean 202 Dickens, Charles 67, 70 n.48 Dickson, David 37, 50 n.2, 50 n.6, 50 n.7, 52 n.38, 53 n.47 Dörmann, Felix 14, 117–9, 121, 125 n.19, 125 n.24 Dossi, Carlo 143, 147, 150 n.49 Dougill, Wesley 158, 161, 171 n.6 Du, Fu 259 Duchamp, Marcel 253, 264 n.10 Dudok, Willem M. 139, 140, 141 Dunn, Alan 7, 184, 189 n.31 Durand, Jean-Nicolas-Louis 222, 227 n.78 Dürrenmatt, Friedrich 222, 227 n.75 Eiffel, Gustav 83, 88 n.48 Elias, Feliu 93, 106 n.6 Eliot, T.S. (Thomas Stearns) 162 Elmes, James 66, 69 n.43 Fahrenkampf, Emil 140, 147 Farinacci, Roberto 130 Farnsworth, Edith 184, 189 n.32 Febvre, Lucien 240, 246 n.16 Fernandes, Paulo Jorge 8 Fitzwilliam, Richard 38 Fitzwilliam, William 38–9, 50 n.8 Fleetwood-Hesketh, Peter 4, 18 n.5, 159, 160, 171 n.10 Forty, Adrian 3, 16 Frampton, Kenneth 3, 16 Frank, Robert 221, 226 n.59 Franquin, André 233, 236, 239, 242, 246 n.19 Frederick, Christine 181, 241 Freud, Sigmund 9, 115, 120, 260, 265 n.27 Frézier, Amédée François 29, 31, 33, 34 n.14 Friedell, Egon 112, 115, 124 n.8 Galante, Nicola 146 Garcia Junceda, Joan 94, 106 n.8 Garven, Oskar 175, 188 n.5 Gastpar, Alfred 176, 178, 188 n.9 Gaudí, Antoni 3, 13, 16, 91–2, 94–5, 97–100, 102–5, 105 n.1, 106 n.3, 106 nn.9–11, 107 n.22, 107 n.24, 107 nn.27–9 Gehry, Frank O. 7 Georgian Group 155 Gerken, Rosemarie 8, 86 n.2 Giedion, Sigfried 241, 246 n.39, 252, 264 n.9

Giroud, Françoise 236, 246 n.21 Godin, Jean-Baptiste André 194 Gombrich, Ernst 16, 21 n.39, 213, 224 n.33 Goodhart-Rendel, Harry Stuart 59, 160, 171 n.8 Grattan, Richard 44, 52 n.35 Green, Martin 153, 155, 169, 171 n.1 Grenville Wodehouse, Pelham 155 Grey Bennett, Henry 60, 63, 66–7 n.4 Gropius, Walter 140, 173, 176, 180 Gruner, Charles R. 9 Gruppo 7 135 Guadet Julien 13, 73, 74, 81–4, 86 n.7, 88 n.52 Gualino, Riccardo 132, 149 n.12 Güell, Eusebi 102, 103 Gwynn, John 40, 50 n.15 Habermas, Jürgen 37, 42, 50 n.5 Hallett, Mark 8, 20 n.30, 52 n.36 Harris, Karen 156 Harrison, Wallace 209 Haskell, Douglas 211, 223 n.10 Haussmann, (Baron) Georges-Eugène 3, 8, 13, 75, 86 n.2 Heath Robinson, William 4, 14, 181, 188 n.19 Heine, Thomas Theodor 176, 188 n.7 Hellman, Louis 2, 3, 7, 19 n.7 Henriot [Henri Maigrot] 9, 88 n.50 Hepworth, Philip Dalton 166 Hergé [Georges Prosper Remi] 233 Herron, Ron 263, 266 n.41 Heseltine, Michael 171 Hillier, Bevis 170 Hitchcock, Henry-Russell 211, 221 Hobhouse, Christopher 160 Høegh-Guldberg, Emmerik 17 Hoffman, Josef 118, 126 n.40 Hogarth, William 7, 8, 11, 20 n.22, 20 n.30, 52 n.36 Horkheimer, Max 230, 232, 237, 244, 245 n.8 Hoste, Huib 195, 204 n.21 Howard, Brian 153, 169 Humphry, George 57, 65 Hussey, Christopher 163 International Congresses of Modern Architecture (CIAM ) 157, 241 Isozaki, Arata 9 Jacobs, Jane 209, 211–2, 219–20, 223 n.11, 223 n.12, 223 n.14, 224 n.18, 224 n.19, 225 n.47 Jauss, Hans-Robert 242, 247 n.48 Jencks, Charles 209, 212, 223 n.1 Jiang, Pengyi 258, 259, 260, 261, 265 n.19 Jijé, Joseph Gillain 239, 246 n.19 Johnson, Philip 184, 209 Jordan, Peter 191, 203 n.1 Juvarra, Filippo 132

269

Index Keaton, Buster 241 Knevitt, Charles 7, 19 n.8 Koch, Joseph Anton 12, 26, 28–31, 33, 33 n.1, 34 n.3, 34 n.11, 34 n.12 Kolkhorst, George Alfred 156 Konig, Pierre 184 Koolhaas, Rem 249, 259, 261, 262, 263, 265 n.25, 265 n.34 Kopp, Anatole 185 Kovarsky, Anatol 184, 189 n.30 Kraus, Karl 14, 112, 114–15, 118–19, 121, 124 n.4, 124 nn.10–12, 125 n.13, 125 n.24, 126 n.27, 126 n.38 Kulka, Heinrich 110 Lacy, Murtagh 44, 45, 52 n.44 Lagrange, Jacques 232 Lahor, Jean [Henri Cazalis] 73, 86 n.1 Lancaster, Osbert 2, 4, 7, 14, 18 n.5, 153–72 Landau, Royston 3 Lapadula, Ernesto 143 Le Corbusier 14, 15, 19 n.17, 173, 176, 178, 181, 185, 186, 188 n.12, 189 n.33, 204 n.21, 209, 216–18, 225 n.35, 225 n.37 Le Goff, Jacques 233, 246 n.18 Lefebvre, Henri 232–3, 246 n.16, 252, 256, 264 n.8 Lega, Achille 146 Leopardi, Giacomo 140–1 Lewis Marks, John 61 Lipchitz, Jacques 140 Lipstadt, Hélène 3, 14, 21 n.38, 157, 171 n.5 Littlehampton family 161 Longanesi, Leo 3, 16, 129, 130, 136–8, 140–3, 146–8, 148 n.2, 149 n.26, 150 n.28, 150 n.30, 150 n.33, 150 n.34, 150 n.39, 150 nn.40–1 Longhi, Roberto 134, 148 n.2, 149 n.19 Loos, Adolf 13–14, 16, 109–10, 112–23, 124 n.4, 124 nn.1–2, 124 nn.5–8, 124 nn.10–11, 125 n.24, 125 nn.16–18, 126 n.26, 126 n.32, 126 n.35, 126 nn.28–9, 126 nn.38–40, 176, 188 n.6 Loos, Lina 112, 124 n.9 Lu, Hao 252–3 Lubetkin, Berthold 163, 169 Lutyens, Edwin 166 Lux, Joseph August 121–2, 126 n.36 Maccari, Mino 3, 16, 129–32, 134, 136, 138, 140–4, 146–8, 149 n.3, 149 n.5, 149 n.19, 149 nn.7–10, 150 n.33, 150 n.39, 150 n.44, 150 n.56 Magnussen, Anne 232, 245 n.15 Mailer, Norman 209 Malabotta, Manlio 143, 150 n.52 Malcomson Anthony 42, 51 n.19

270

Mallet Stevens, Robert 140 Mallgrave, Harry Francis 120, 126 n.31 Maltraite, Will (Willy) 232 Maragall, Joan 98, 102 Marcelin, Emile 7 Marinetti, Filippo Tomaso 131 MARS Group 157 Matteotti, Giacomo 130 Maude Richards, James 168 May, Ernst 173, 179 Melba, Nelly 115, 121, 125 n.17 Mengoni, Giuseppe 8, 20 n.23 Michelucci, Giovanni 140 Mies van der Rohe, Ludwig 2, 14, 174, 176, 182, 184, 188 nn.10–11, 210, 218–19, 221–2, 225 n.46, 226 n.70 Milizia, Francesco 11–12, 20 n.32, 21 n.33, 29, 31, 33, 34 n.18, 34 nn.15–16 Millerand, Alexandre 238 Minnucci, Gaetano 131 Mitrovic, Branko 4 Mollino, Carlo 3 More, Thomas 131 Morgan, Harry 231, 245 n.10 Morris, William 174 Morton Shand, Philip 4 Morton, J.B. (John Cameron Andrieu Bingham Michael) 169 Moussaoui, Abderrahmane 193, 203 n.12, 205 n.38 Mumford, Lewis 209, 211–12, 223 n.14, 224 n.19, 224 nn.16–17 Murray, John Grey 160.1, 163, 169 Mussolini, Benito 129, 143, 150 n.50, 213 Muthesius, Stefan 3, 88 n.47 Myers, Garth Andrew 193, 204 n.14 Napoléon III 8, 13, 73, 166 Nash, John 57, 60–7, 68 n.12, 68 n.25, 68 nn.14–15, 68 nn.18–19, 69 n.29, 69 n.33, 69 n.40, 69 nn.37–8, 70 n.50 Nepoti, Roberto 231, 245 n.11 Nestroy, Johann 115 Neve, Richard 45, 52 n.41 Nevin, James 44 Niemeyer, Oscar 209 Ojetti, Ugo 131 Olbrich, Joseph Maria 118 OMA 261–2 Orco Bisorco [Mino Maccari] 130, 149 n.3, 149 n.8 Ortoleva, Peppino 230, 245 n.6 Pagano, Giuseppe 140–1 Palumbo, Peter 2 Peach, Harry 160

Index Peacock, James 45, 52 n.41 Peichl, Gustav 7 Peller Malcolm, James 45, 52 n.42 Peniakoff, Dimitri 195 Perriand, Charlotte 186 Persico, Edoardo 141, 150 n.39 Petit, Emmanuel 9, 226 n.69 Pevsner, Nikolaus 3, 4, 68 n.20, 168 Piacentini, Marcello 3, 132, 134–7, 141–4, 146, 149 n.15, 149 nn.25–6, 150 n.53 Pijoan, Josep 98, 102, 106 n.16 Pinheiro, Rafael Bordalo 9 Pires, Mat 193, 203 Piscator, Erwin 174 Planat, Paul 77, 87 n.19 Ponti, Gio 233 Powell, Martyn J. 37, 50 n.3 Pozzo, Andrea 29, 34 n.13 Pred, Allan 193, 203 n.6 Prodicus of Ceos 26 Propp, Vladimir 10, 20 n.28, 23 Publicola [Josep Costa Ferrer] 42, 43, 48, 51 n.25, 53 n.53 Pückler-Muskau, Prince 67, 70 n.47 Pugin, Augustus Welby Northmore 4, 19 nn.12–13, 62–4, 66, 68 n.23, 69 n.45, 158

Scott, Geoffrey 165 Scott, James 236, 246 n.22 Segimon, Roser 94, 97 Sempé, Jean-Jacques 15, 236 Semper, Gottfried 34 n.4, 110, 120 Sharp, Thomas 161, 166 Shi, Yong 250, 252, 253, 264 n.6 Shulman, Julius 184 Simmel, Georg 230 Skidmore, Owings & Merrill 255 Smirke, Robert 4 Söderström, Öla 236, 246 n.24 Soffici, Ardengo 134, 146, 149 n.17 Stam, Mart 14, 178, 182 Stamp, Gavin [Piloti] 2, 3, 18 n.6 Steinberg, Saul 7, 15, 209, 210–23, 223 nn.2–7, 224 nn.19–23, 224 nn.25–30, 224 nn.32–3, 225 n.38, 225 nn.34–5, 225 nn.43–4, 225 nn.50– 4, 225 nn.56–8, 226 n.69, 226 nn.59–67, 226 nn.71–2, 227 n.83, 227 n.85, 227 nn.76–81 Strachey, Lytton 155–6 Stuart, Harry 159, 171 n.8 Stuart, James 11 Stynen, Léon 199 Summerson, John 1, 2, 3, 19 n.9, 68 n.12, 69 n.29 Swift, Jonathan 44, 52 n.37, 165

Raimund, Ferdinand 115 Repton, George Stanley 4 Revett, Nicholas 11 Richardson, Margaret 3 Ridolfi, Mario 143 Riegl, Alois 120 Rietveld, Gerrit 182 Ripa, Cesare 26, 34 n.8 Rivière d’Arc, Héléne 193, 203 nn.10–11 Roba, Jean 239 Rocque, John 46 Rodríguez-Galindo, Vanesa 8 Rong Rong 253 Rosai, Ottone 146 Rosenwein, Barbara 237, 246 n.27 Ross, Kristin 233, 246 n.17 Rossi, Aldo 109, 124 n.1 Rowlandson, Thomas 7, 18 n.1 Rubió i Tudurí, Nicolau 97 Ruskin, John 100, 106 n.20

Tati, Jacques 7, 15, 231–2, 238, 240, 242, 243, 245 n.12 Taylor, John 60 Taylor, Richard 183, 189 n.26 Teja, Casimiro 8, 20 n.23 Tibet, Gilbert Gascard 239 Tigerman, Stanley 7, 9 Tillier, Bertand 79, 86 n.8 Tillieux, Maurice 239 Timms, Edward 115, 125 n.13 Twain, Marc 67, 70 n.49, 117 Tzara, Tristan 174, 187 n.2

Sacconi, Giuseppe 137, 143 Saint, Andrew 3 Sala, George Augustus 4, 19 n.11 Sartoris, Alberto 182, 188 n.22 Schilling, Enrich 182, 189 n.25 Schulz, Wilhelm 174, 176, 187 n.4 Scott Brown, Denise 9

Utzon, Jørn 8 Van Dalen, Anton 222, 226 n.74 van de Velde, Henry 118, 176, 188 n.6 Van der Swaelmen, Louis 195, 204 n.21 Veretennicoff, Alexis 195 Vergo, Peter 109, 110, 120, 124 n.3 Vian, Boris 239 Viollet-Le-Duc, Eugène Emmanuel 93 Vittorio Amedeo II 134 von Humboldt, Wilhelm 99 Wade, Charles 157 Wagner, Richard 103 Wallis Gilbert and Partner 171 Ware, Isaac 45, 52 n.41

271

Index Watlin, Messrs 163 Waugh, Evelyn 153, 156, 157 Wilkins, William 4 Williams, Charles 61 Williams-Ellis, Clough 4, 160–1 Wilson, James 39, 50 n.9 Wittgenstein, Ludwig 115, 124 n.4 Wittman Richard 11–12, 18 n.2, 42, 49, 51 n.22, 53 n.57

272

Wolfe, Tom 7 Wren, Christopher 63, 64 Wright, Frank Lloyd 8 Xi, Jinping 249, 263, 264 n.1 Zhang, Huan 253, 255, 256, 264 nn.12–13