Le Corbusier and the Salvation Army

Le Corbusier lived for most of his life in Paris until his death in 1965, but relatively few of his designs were ever constructed in the city itself. Here though is a quick look at two of his creations built in conjunction with the Armée du Salut (Salvation Army) in 1929.

1929 was an important year in the life of Le Corbusier as it marked the point where he began putting into places his theories of urban planning. The two commissions from the Salvation Army are good examples of this, with Le Corbusier himself saying that "these buildings played the role of a laboratory".

The first, alongside the Gare d'Austerlitz is the most unusual. It is not a building as such, but a converted barge called the Louise-Catherine. The barge was first built in 1915, and was initially used to transport American coal from Rouen to Paris. Less than 15 years later though it was acquired by the Salvation Army who wanted to turn it into a floating shelter. Le Corbusier was brought in to imagine a revolutionary usage of the space.

Le Corbusier himself wrote about the project;

"Le barge was 80 metres long. We built, from the bottom to the top...a vast space divided into three compartments. We added 160 beds, a dining room, kitchens, toilets, sinks, showers, private apartments and a hanging garden on the roof of the barge".

Le Corbusier wrote of its mission to house the 'clochards' (tramps) who had been chased out from under the bridges by the cold. However, it was also moved down the Seine when it got warmer and used as a summer camp for young boys. Today though it is difficult to imagine how luxurious it would have seemed at the time. The hulk is rusting, and the barge is closed off to visitors. It was nevertheless used for over 60 years until finally being closed down by the authorities in 1994. A project is now underway to restore the barge and to use it for artistic and educational purposes.

The second Salvation Army construction is situated around 1km away on the other side of the railway lines. The Cité de Refuge was designed by Le Corbusier with his cousin, Pierre Jeanneret, who were specifically chosen by the philanthropist, the Princesse de Polignac, who paid for the work. Le Corbusier and Jeanneret were given almost a free hand, which enabled them to come up with a radical design, but also one that would eventually be found to be ahead of its time.

The central feature of the design was a south facing sheer glass wall. The design was based around an ambitious and revolutionary system of double glazing and a type of air conditioning that unfortunately never worked. This glass wall had to be replaced in 1952 after a series of summers in which the residents had been almost baked in their rooms! A series of polychromic sun-screens were added at this point.

The idea behind this building, and one that still applies today, was not simply to house the homeless, but also to transform these outcasts into useful members of society. Despite his rather pious protestant upbringing, Le Corbusier was not a religious man, but he did share some of the principles of the Salvation Army movement, and clearly believed in this project. He created not only dormitories but also classrooms and relaxation zones, most of which are still operational. However, if it is seen as an important building today, it is more because of the role it played as an experiment for Le Corbusier's subsequent constructions.

Note: If you are interested in seeing these constructions, both feature in the 'Contemporary Architecture' free downloadable walk I produced last year. Download it here.

Paris Brutal t-il?

Almost all architectural styles are visible in Paris, but I've long wondered if there are any authentic examples of the truly brutal. Coming from the United Kingdom I share my birthplace with a style of architecture that was harsh and cold, and which marked my upbringing. On Saturday afternoons we parked the family car in damp multi-story car parks then trudged around windswept concrete shopping centres watching the rain form large patches of moisture on the blank, grey exteriors.

I've since come to associate these images with the United Kingdom and had found nothing similar in Paris - until one day when I was walking across the 13th arrondissement and discovered this office block at 64-68 Rue du Dessous des Berges. The rarity of such structures could be considered surprising, as although the school of architecture was British-based, the origin of the term brutalism comes from the French béton brut, or "raw concrete". It was the English architects Alison and Peter Smithson who first coined the term in 1954, and two of their influences were also French based; one that could be safely mentioned, Le Corbusier and his love of concrete, and one that was almost unmentionable - the German sea-defences that had been built along the western coast of France.

In France where cooking is king, it is hard to imagine a material being left completely raw. And yet here is a building that is truly coarse and unrefined. This is perhaps not true brutalism as it is just too much of a regular block form, but it does have several design tricks that make it lean towards that school. The two basement levels are cut away from the street level enabling light to seep into a small plant-filled courtyard. The main building above is supported by pilotis or stilts from this level, and the only entrance into the building is through a bizarre, almost children's game-like tunnel which flies over the courtyard below.

Mostly though it is its use of plain, raw concrete that suprises in this city. Like many buildings of a similar 60s/70s vintage, especially in damper, northern climates, the concrete has suffered and is streaked and specked. The letters spelling out the address have slipped off the wall one-by-one, and yet as I walk by new residents are moving in. It is an address that is still obviously in demand and for me, oddly comforting to come across something so reminiscent of my youth.

Are there any other examples of brutalism in Paris? In reality it is a city that had no use for the style. Large parts of Britain were flattened during the war and quickly and cheaply rebuilt afterwards whilst Paris was very largely spared during the conflict. Large-scale construction projects were mostly limited to the suburbs, and it would be in some of these new towns that I would need to go if I really wanted to track down the brutal. However, whilst it can be comforting to return to your hometown, sometimes you find that after discovering new places, the previously familiar in fact becomes banal and ugly in comparison. Finding this building is sufficient for me!

God is in the Details

On opposite corners of the Rue de la Victoire two unlikely neighbours stand facing each other. Rejected, forgotten and closed to casual visitors, these two very different structures pass the time exchanging tales of former glories. As they see pedestrians scuttle past their locked and guarded entrances, they can only wonder when times and fashions will enable them to open their doors wide once more.

At number 37 Rue de la Victoire, a teal-blue refurbished cruise liner sits waiting for passengers and a chance to set sail again. Created in 1958 by the architects Jean Balladur and Benjamin Lebeigle, this lightweight, elegantly curved creation was a revolution when it arrived in the city. This was the first entirely moduble building in Paris with no internal structural posts. Built around a steel skeleton, with a flexible skin of glass and steel stretched across the frame, it was nevertheless inside that the difference could truly be appreciated. The Caisse Centrale de Réassurance, who moved into the structure, were able to appropriate the space as they wished, throwing up temporary non-supporting dividing walls wherever they were needed.

Reflected in the glass façade of this building is the far more imposing structure of the Grande Synagogue de Paris. Built between 1867 and 1874 by the architect Alfred-Philibert Aldrophe in Romanesque/Byzantine style, this is a building that had a slightly more troubled beginning. As part of Haussmann’s 19th century regeneration of Paris, it was planned that the city’s 20,000 strong Jewish community would have a building of their own to be proud of. Paid for by both the city of Paris and the Rothschild family, it was to have its entrance on the new, wider Rue de Chateaudun, but the Empress Eugénie judged it to be inappropriate to place a Jewish place of worship between the Trinité and Notre Dame de Lorette churches. The original plan was therefore turned around 180°, and the entrance was finally situated on the quiet Rue de la Victoire backstreet.

A common expression in Paris at the time of the Synagogue’s construction was “triste comme la Victoire” (as sad as la Victoire), emphasising the quiet and unfashionable aspect of this district. It was also to brighten up this area that Balladur and Lebeigle chose an unusual and colourful shiplike structure for their creation. Balladur had been taught by Sartre at the Lycée Condorcet and was influenced by both Le Corbusier and the German king of minimal, Mies Van Der Rohe. The theories of both architects found their way into this construction. From Van Der Rohe, the skin and bones, the lightness and the clarity. From Le Corbusier, the usage of his modulor system. All of the measurements in this building, from the staircase in the entrance to the balconies on the higher levels were calculated according to Le Corbusier’s theory. This openness and minimalism is certainly not reflected in the heavy stone temple opposite.

Across the façade of the building is an inscription in Hebrew taken from Genesis; “This is none other than the house of God; this is the gate of heaven”. Missing is the phrase which comes just before this which reads ‘how dreadful (awe inspiring) is this place’. The Grande Synagogue de Paris has become the centre of the Jewish faith in Paris, but its impenitrability has also turned it into a kind of fortress. It is the second biggest such structure in Europe, with space for over 5,000 people, but whilst the outside is solid and well protected, the insides are supposedly light and simply decorated. Unfortunately, although it is possible to visit the building today, you will need an official invitation to enter if you are not a member of the local Jewish community. It is not clear whether this is to protect the integrity of the building and the strict rules of the faith or simply for more mundane security reasons, although the permenant police guards around the building point towards the latter.

Turning back towards number 37, the rather sad, empty state of this building is due to the vagaries of fashion rather than questions of security. Following a recent renovation it is in as perfect condition today as it was when inaugurated 50 years ago, but it is now struggling to find new residents. Such buildings have become commonplace, and what was innovative has slowly become charmingly retro. It is though still a remarkable building, with stacked balconies on the higher levels leading up towards a rooftop terrace that gives wonderful views across the city as well as the impression of standing on the bow of a ship.

When describing his buildings, Van Der Rohe said that God was in the details. For Le Corbusier, the details were natural and mathematical. Following Da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man theories, he stated that buildings should have a “range of harmonious measurements to suit the human scale”. But what about the human mind? Balladur may have looked across at the Synagogue opposite his building when it was finished and remembered that Sartre had only become his teacher because the wartime Vichy government had made it impossible for his school to continue employing the Jewish teacher he replaced. When we look carefully today at his building we can see that many details are reflected in the windows. Some of them are tiny, and some unimaginably large.

Mon Paname, que Tu es Loin

Like many large cities, Paris has its own affectionate nickname. To tourists it is the city of light, but to locals it is known simply as Paname. It is not entirely clear where this name originated from, but it seems that there may be a connection to the city of Panama and its canal, possibly linked to Ferdinand De Lesseps's failed attempt to build the waterway in 1880. A connection was made to Paris, a city cut in half by a river, but the name was probably only adopted because it had such a nice musical ring. Indeed, the continuing popularity of the nickname is probably due to its continual use in song lyrics, such as Edith Piaf's "Marie la Française" featured in the title of this post.

Which brings me to the Residence Paname. It is a little surprising to see the nickname used for these large blocks of appartments between Bastille and Republique, but I imagine it seemed entirely appropriate when the construction was on the drawing board. This post is largely an excuse to publish a series of photographs of buildings that I found to be graphically very interesting, but there is also a strange atmosphere to this Residence, a place that imagined itself as a small-scale version of the entire city.

The construction almost certainly dates from the 1970s, a period when the city decided to replace run down insalubrious housing with modern multipurpose edifices. Between the Boulevards Beaumarchais and Richard Lenoir in the 11th arrondissement, a series of constructions replaced industrial passageways and crumbling courtyards, with the Residence Paname being the largest and most interesting. In a similar manner to Le Corbusier's 'Unités d'habitation', this residence combined living areas with spaces dedicated to other purposes including shops and offices.

Today the dream of contented communal living seems to be over. The appartment blocks stretch skywards, the inhabitants breathing fresh air from their large balconies and enjoying open views across the city. At ground level, the doors to the shopping galeries are locked. The individual appartment units seem clean and well looked after, but down below, the original concrete design features are damp and crumbing. Residents have also complained of problems with the local homeless population. Whilst they sympathise with their predicament, they are fed up with their stairways being used as beds and the gardens surrounding the residence being used as open toilets.

I find an open door into the heart of the construction, an area known as the Centre d'Affairs Paname. Here the units that previously welcomed shops and which were open to the public at large have become individual office units. It is a curious mix of nature and concrete. Dark passageways open out onto roofless square plots, where trees reach desperately up away from the gloom. Looking up through these plots gives a glimpse of angular appartments climbing skywards. There is no link today between this top and bottom, between luminous balconies and the opaque alleys leading to locked gates.

Appartments in this residence are still much in demand as people in cities always want to escape away from the street. Living in the sky, your environment is the patchwork you see stretched out before you. Watching the sunsets beyond the city limits you can almost forget the locked passageways down below and the groups of faceless individuals whose only view is of the stars above.