Inside the Palais d'Iéna

A temporary installation by an artist friend at the Palais d'Iéna gave me the opportunity to explore the often difficult to access interior of Auguste Perret's masterpiece.

As part of the current 'Ca et Là' (This and There) exhibition running at a variety of sites across Paris, Italian artist Davide Bertocchi has installed a pièce entitled "Apologie de l’aléatoire (Pendolo)" on the monumental staircase inside the Palais d'Iéna. The sculpture is a play on Foucault's pendulum - by being resolutely anchored to the ground, and moving at the same time as the rest of the world! 

The choice of this spot in the Palais d'Iéna was essential for Davide, as the staircase - which sweeps in two separate directions - provides an interesting dynamic for the piece. It is us who move around the sculpture whilst it remains solidly and regally positioned in the centre. 

Despite being a close neighbour to the Musée d'art moderne de la ville de Paris and the Palais de Tokyo, the Palais d'Iéna has no links to the art world, and Davide told me that the building managers were initially hesitant about accepting his creation. However, now that it is in place, he informs me that they are delighted with it!

Built at the end of the 1930s, at roughly the same time as it's more well-known neighbours (the Musée d'art moderne de la ville de Paris and the Palais de Tokyo - which make up two wings of the same building - as well as the Palais de Chaillot (Trocadero)), it was originally designed as a museum.  

Perret - who has often been mentioned before on this blog (here, and here, and here) both designed and built the structure (with his Frères Perret company, the city's foremost concrete specialists), and it is often considered to be his greatest achievement. However, the building has never really had the occupiers it deserves, and has therefore always remained off the city radar.

Quite a well-known structure is also close by.

The concrete here gives an almost organic feel to the interior

The first occupier was the Musée National des Travaux Publics, which had the misfortune to open just as war broke out, and was also possibly the dullest museum in Paris. Displaying little more than scale models of bridges, dams and mines, it attracted fewer than 30,000 visitors a year and was closed in 1955.

Today it is used by the Conseil économique et social, a rather obscure assembly which advises French lawmaking bodies on questions of social and economic policies. Given its role, it has remained closed off to the general public for much of its existence, but recently there has been a move to more openness - which is reflected in their acceptance of a temporary art installation.

The interiors have kept a certain vintage feel

The hémicycle under a magnificent glass rotunda

Traces of a previous existence.

You can see Davide Bertocchi's installation in the Palais d'Iéna until May 21st, weekdays from 9am - 5pm. To enter the building you will need to present an identity card or passport, but once past security, you have free access to much of the building. Photography is accepted if it is not for commercial purposes.

The Palais d'Iéna
Place d'Iéna, 75016
M° Iena

The homes of Auguste Perret: Rue Franklin

I have written previously of the works of architect Auguste Perret (particularly his Mobilier National building), but not as yet of his two creations that also became his offices and homes. As these buildings are separated by 30 years (and around 500 metres!), it is also interesting to note how tastes and techniques changed in this period.

His first self-designed home, on the Rue Franklin in the 16th arrondissement, is also a building that is considered to be one of the seminal constructions of modern architecture. It was built in 1903 when Perret was only 29, and although it owes much to his upbringing and the comparitive success and wealth of his family, it also clearly showed the genius of the family's oldest son.

The Perret family, mother, father and five children, were evidently very close, choosing to live and work together throughout their lives. The father - Claude Marie Perret - was a stonemason and later a builder, and was determined to bring up his three sons to learn the trade.

Whilst working for the family firm, Auguste also continued his studies, eventually choosing to specialise in reinforced concrete (although he would never gain a full diploma in architecture). Together they were able to form a company called 'Entreprise Perret et Fils', which was capable not only of construction, but also of designing buildings and of providing the materials.

For this particular project on the Rue Franklin, the Perret family owned the land. Situated alongside the Trocadero and opposite the Eiffel tower, it was already a very desirable location, and although it was a speculative build (apart from the family apartments and offices on the ground floor), any design would probably have quickly sold in such a spot. Nevertheless, Auguste Perret - now acting as the firm's architect -, chose something radical and previously unseen.

Throughout his life, Auguste Perret would be obsessed with making buildings as organic as possible. He saw the framework of a building as being the equivalent of a human skeleton, and although the structure he produced on the Rue Franklin could have been made with wood or iron, he was determined to test a new process - reinforced concrete.

Interestingly, Auguste Perret was one of the first architects to apply the Hennebique (our friend with the 'Concrete chateau' in Bourg la Reine) system on a residential property. Nevertheless, for this first attempt, he was very unsure about how it would age over time. The building was covered in tiles, not so much for decoration, but more because Perret believed that the concrete would be damaged by the weather and start to decay (some people today may still argue that this is the best way to treat concrete!). As he said, "one must never allow into a building any element destined solely for ornament, but rather turn to ornament all the parts necessary for its support."

The ceramics of Alexandre Bigot on the facade of the building though are one of its most remarkable features today. If you manage to crouch down to almost floor level (as I did for these photos), you can see the signature tiles, but what is particularly noticeable is the graceful restraint of the work. This was the height of Art Nouveau period, but here the ceramics are almost monochrome, and in a pattern that is repeated over almost the entire building.

The family's move to this building was however not initially a happy one. Claude Marie, the father, died in 1905, leaving Auguste at the head of the family. The building though was a success, and Auguste was delighted with the results that the reinforced concrete had given. To reflect these changes, the family company became known as 'Entreprise Perret-Architectes-Constructeurs-Beton Arme', and soon flourished.

Thirty years later, the Perret offices and Auguste's family home moved 500 metres down the road to a new building, but that's another story....

This building is located at 25a Rue Franklin in the 16th arrondissement, M°Trocadero/Passy

Read more about what makes this a great building, including some of the original plans, in this PDF document.

When concrete was a craft

A small workshop in the 11th arrondissement proudly displays the trade of the craftsmen originally based here. Through an elegant, swirling font and a carved mural above the entrance, these masons of reinforced concrete (béton armé) showed that they were a new breed of worker whose skills were comparable to the best carpenters or stone masons. In the modern world at the beginning of the 20th century, they were the ones that represented the future.

Concrete today has such bad press that it is difficult to imagine a time when artisans would boast about their prowess with the material. Swamped in concrete jungle cities where trees of towers are blamed for all of societies ills, few would dare boast today of such a service.

As the architect Mies Van der Rohe noted however, “we must remember that everything depends on how we use a material, not on the material itself”. At the beginning of the 20th century, inspired by precursors such as Anatole de Baudot, the architect of the revolutionary Saint Jean de Montmartre church, everybody wanted to work with concrete. The forms and structures of buildings could now be adapted, opening up a future that would be limited only by the size of our imagination.

In the 1920s, concrete became synonymous with modernity and luxury, and when Mallet-Stevens or Le Corbusier were chosen by the elite to build their houses, this was the material the clients requested. The owners of the establishment photographed here would have been involved in such projects, and would have been naturally keen to highlight their competence to work on such prestigious constructions.

So where did it all go wrong? Concrete is still used massively around the world, with more than one cubic metre produced each year for every person on Earth, but when did it lose its prestige? Paris contains many fantastic examples of concrete constructions, notably the structures designed by Auguste Perret in the 1930s (such as the Palais d’Iena or the Mobilier National), but the real damage to its reputation was done in the second half of the century.

Whereas concrete buildings were once divided into two schools, described by architecture historian Bernard Marrey as the ‘lyrisme de la courbe’ (lyricism of the curve) and ‘la poésie de l'angle droit’ (poetry of the right angle), today they are grouped together with a general sentiment of penny-pinching and poverty of thought. The ubiquity of the material and the lack of reflection on its suitability and sustainability has lead to concrete cancer and crumbling public infrastructure.

Would those who created this enterprise have imagined this future? This was to be a noble material, one that they had mastered and for which they had helped build a solid reputation. It is a shame that I cannot knock on their door and ask them to put us on the right path once more.

Guilbert Père et Fils

On the facade of the Chemistry and Natural Science facility at the Ecole Normale Supérieure, two names stand out; the architects A & J Guilbert. A father and son whose work spanned the first half of the twentieth century and the many upheavals that this period brought. Their story is one of kinship and collaboration, but also one with a sad ending.

I have previously written about the work of the father, Albert-Désiré Guilbert. Born in 1866, his first major commission came at the end of the century with the construction of the Notre Dame de la Consolation church in the Rue Jean Goujon. This very classical structure was built on the site of the Bazar de la Charité charity fire as a memorial to those killed in the tragedy. The building brought him a certain renown, and he was soon commissioned to build another church on a neighbouring plot, this time the neo-byzantine Eglise Arménienne.

At the same time as these constructions were taking place, another important event in his life occurred – the birth of a son. I have no information on whether Albert-Désiré had other children or not, only that it would be with this son, Jacques, born in 1900, that he would later form a partnership.

How significant was it that Jacques should be born at the dawn of a new century? This was to be the beginning of a new age in society, art and architecture, a thoroughly modern age where children rejected the weighty inheritance of their forefathers. Jacques followed his father into the architectural trade, but in a very different register. He was one of the founders of l'Atelier du Palais de Bois a group of students who rejected traditional architectural teaching at the Ecoles de Beaux Arts, and chose instead to study under the modernist Auguste Perret.

Immediately after graduating though, Jacques made a curious choice. He began working with his father. Albert-Désiré was the Architecte en chef des bâtiments civils et palais nationaux, and had continued to build neo-classical and neo-byzantine constructions such as the Sainte Jeanne d'Arc church in Versailles. What would the two produce together? The answer was the Chemistry and Natural Science facility at the Ecole Normale Supérieure.

This, along with a similar construction at the Collège de France, would be Albert-Désiré’s last work. Was he just passing on a lifetime of experience to a very promising talent rather than any of his personal ideas and influences? The building itself, in concrete and brick, certainly owes more to the style of Perret than to his previous constructions. It was a success though and is today a listed building, perhaps principally for the wonderful moulded concrete typography on the facade.

As the father’s career ended, war broke out. This was not a time for extravagance, but rather for the practical and functional. Jacques remained close to Auguste Perret, becoming a teacher at his Atelier in 1943 and helping with the reconstruction of Le Havre at the end of the war. It was a career that looked as if it would be dedicated towards post-war reconstruction and the teaching of the new generation, but fate decided otherwise.

Biographies can be harsh recorders of facts. The lifes of Albert-Désiré and Jacques Guilbert are sometimes reduced to just two dates; birth and death. What stories are hidden behind these dates though? It is easy to imagine the joy of the father at the birth of his son, happiness that blended seamlessly with the optimism of a new century and two large commissions. We can also sadly imagine his devastation in 1948 when his descendant and architectural heir died. Fathers are not meant to bury sons, particular after the most murderous conflict in the history of the planet had ended. Simple dates tell us that Albert-Désiré lived until his 83rd year. They also tell us that he died less than a year after his son. We draw our own conclusions.

Let Sleeping Dogs Lie

A concrete palace built alongside a hidden underground river from which thousands of the national treasures of the French state have disappeared. Definitely a part of the city worthy of further investigation!

At the entrance to the headquarters of the Mobilier National in the 13th arrondissement of Paris, the architect Auguste Perret placed two concrete guard dogs. Laying motionless on their plinths, they seemingly offer little protection to the state treasures that are stored inside the building. These treasures, perhaps tapestries from the Gobelins workshops or Louis XVI desks, are made available to ministers, bureaucrats and diplomats who are free to choose exactly how they wish to decorate their offices and reception rooms. At the end of their mandates they are supposed to return the goods, but it would seem that this does not always happen. Today, upwards of 16,000 pieces are unaccounted for.

Created over six hundred years ago, the Mobilier National has the role of storing, lending, repairing and sometimes creating a selection of national treasures. Originally based on the Place de la Concorde, by the twentieth century the Mobilier National desperately needed a newer and better adapted structure, and in 1934, modernist Auguste Perret was given the job. The creation he designed and built is one treasure that will hopefully not be allowed to vanish!

Perret was given a rather awkward piece of land to work with, nestled behind the Manaufacture des Gobelins within the grounds of the old family chateau. The terrain has a large slope, and was limited by the contours of the River Bièvre, a small stream which has today been buried underground (and which I will write about in more depth very shortly!). Perret though had a particular idea in his head, and was able to use the slope to his advantage to create a very astucious and interesting structure.

Auguste Perret was at once a rationalist, modernist and a classicist. He received a classic education at the Ecole des Beaux Arts, but became convinced by the qualities of concrete. For Perret though, concrete would architects of the modern era to create structures that would be the equal of those of antique eras. His buildings (the most famous of which are probably the Palais d'Iéna and the Théatre des Champs Elysées) all followed classical rules, and the Mobilier National was no exception.

Perret wanted to create a stately cour d'honneur for the building, but with the 4m slope he needed first to create an artificial ground level. Once this was in place he was able to build the three-sided structure around this courtyard. This raised platform also gave him a natural basement level where vehicles could enter directly from the rear. In many respects, he created a kind of updated version of the Hôtel Particulier with a built-in basement garage!

Although built entirely in reinforced concrete the building is nevertheless an attractive one. Perret believed in a rational use of materials and mostly chose to work only with the simplest block forms, but he often broke his own rules for purposes of decoration. He added traces of coloured marble into the concrete mix to find the perfect tint to the building and produced a series of columns which support a cornice on which the name of the building is written.

And then there are the dogs. A classical touch again, they look out across the sunken stream and make visitors hesitate before entering the building. Unfortunately though, the front of this building, alongside the Square René-Le-Gall, sees few visitors, and the dogs have slipped into an apathetic slumber. Whilst they rest, local dogs come and urinate on them, and members of the powers that be help themselves to the treasures from the unguarded rear of the building.