Stop, Look and Listen
Atmospheric Interiors
“Architecture is an art when one consciously or unconsciously creates aesthetic emotion in the atmosphere and when this environment produces well being.” — Luis Barragán
Taste is something incredibly personal, and those for e.g. who love clean lines, mid-century furnishings and minimalist art are unlikely to embrace the cluttered, textile strewn interiors of Duncan Grant (1885-1978), Vanessa Bell (1879-1961) and rest of the Bloomsbury set. Similarly, “good taste” and “bad taste” are entirely subjective, and, for that matter, to throw a proverbial spanner into the works, the French are often of the opinion that an elegant interior might entail an item that feels off, or an objet or artwork that flirts with the realms of bad taste (of course to do so successfully requires something of a heightened level of sophistication, as those without could simply end up with an awkward and ill-judged “conversation piece”, to coin a polite descriptive). Atmosphere, or lack thereof, is, however, universal and applicable across the spectrum of interior and architectural styles; quite simply, only those designers with a particularly nuanced appreciation and understanding of art, architecture, craftsmanship and perhaps even more importantly, human nature, are able to conjure it up out of the ether. Those more traditionally inclined might put forward the hypothesis that period properties are inherently atmospheric, and that the same sort of charm and personality is absent in new-build modernist homes or “white boxes” — as they are often incorrectly mislabelled by those with a penchant for tried and tested pastiche; however, we’ve all seen those “rustic idylls” in France and Italy drained entirely of their personality by expats trying to create a sterilized, wipe-clean rural fantasy — and so clearly a crumbling pre-war pile isn’t the sole pre-requisite for an interior that oozes charm and character. In any event, those who discount modernism in its entirety clearly have little or no understanding of the movement. Yes, of course, there are poor examples, as with Georgian and, especially, Victorian architecture; for e.g. the bland, lifeless postmodernism of Philip Johnson (1906-2005) is nothing more than a stage-set, a stylish backdrop to unabashed corporate greed — but then by no means was he a great modernist like Mies van der Rohe (1886-1969) or Lina Bo Bardi (1914-1992), and not even a particularly good architect. Taking entirely an opposite approach, the legendary Mexican architect Luis Barragán (1902-1988), frustrated by the cold functionalism of modernism (Le Corbusier (1887-1965) for e.g. saw homes as nothing more than “machines for living in”), embraced space, colour and light so as to create buildings that engendered warmth, meditation, and reflection.
The living room of the Templeton Crocker penthouse, designed by Jean-Michel Frank (c. 1930), with walls and ceiling clad in parchment, a piano hidden behind a low folding screen, and a quartz block lamp
An West Village apartment designed by American designer Alyssa Kapito, on the side table a “Croisillon” table lamp by Jean-Michel Frank
Objectively, of course, when it comes to “atmosphere” one immediately tends to think in terms of interiors that positively vibrate with warmth, comfort and cosiness; but for some designers this simply isn’t the objective (for e.g. the central massing of Sir John Vanbrugh’s (1664-1726) Blenheim Palace was designed specifically so as to intimidate and overawe visitors — an effect felt in spades by those standing in the great forecourt looking up at the plethora of urns, vases and statues peppering its towering baroque façade). An early arbiter of minimalism, storied French decorator Jean-Michel Frank (1895-1941) made a name for himself creating austere, airy, uncluttered interiors that by the mid-1920s were considered the very epitome of chic. Frank’s own 3,200-square-foot apartment, in an eighteenth-century building in Saint-Germain-de-Prés was a calling card for his “renunciation aesthetic” of extreme refinement. Choosing what was, at the time, a somewhat unusual palette of materials, each of its ten rooms were an amalgam wood, marble, leather, straw, and parchment. An exercise in studied emptiness, there was nothing that wasn’t entirely necessary, with no pictures, paintings or superfluous ornamentation other than the occasional, meticulously selected item, for e.g. a Chinese statuette on the dining room mantelpiece and a wire sculpture on the bedroom wall. The overall impression was one of elegant, understated luxury — an antidote to the florid eighteenth-century pastiche favoured by the majority of the haute bourgeois and a welcome respite from the chaos of interwar Europe. Yet, for some of Frank’s clients at least, the monastic severity of his interiors would prove a step too far; the novelist François Mauriac (1885-1970) was told, his son recalled, that the designer was “willing to decorate our new apartment so long as we agree to get rid of most of our furniture”. He complied, and yet, of the finished result Mauriac lamented its Spartan, minimally furnished appearance, complaining that he could no longer find his bearings, that “it is cold” and “sad,” “in the taste of the abbey cell of a monk,” grumbling long after completion that, “this century will be known for inventing ruinous poverty”. As a contemporary counterpoint one might look to the work of Eyre de Lanux (1894-1996), whose interiors are often compared to those of Frank; an extraordinary designer, with a short but stellar career, her work was something of a bridge between the early pioneering modernism of Eileen Gray (1878-1976) and the rationalism of Charlotte Perriand (1903-1999).
Château de Fabrègues, the home of of French interior architect Pierre Yovanovitch, a “Snowflake” chandelier by Paavo Tynell hangs above the dining table, photograph by Jérôme Galland
Contrary to Frank, de Lanux did not possess the Trappist’s sensibility; she sought the light, airy quality of white-walled interiors but rejected entirely their abstinence. Attuned to the qualities that make an interior feel relaxed and inviting, she would temper stone floors with voluptuous rugs, and if curtains were rough-woven, she was careful to counter it with soft woollen fringes. It wasn’t just a question of gender, as some have implied; Frank was a connoisseur of the decorative arts, a purist, who drew inspiration, amongst other sources, from ancient Egypt, Louis XVI, and the Art Deco movement of the era — he chose his materials for their varying textures and colours, much as a painter chooses paints, each contributing to the overall decorative effect. De Lanux however, despite using Frank’s furniture and lighting designs, was more interested in comfort, intimacy and the visceral impact of an interior — she appreciated for e.g. the emotive impact of colour, and that materials have a fragrance, either dry or delicate, to be experienced by those inhabiting the space. Her approach was so nuanced that the sociologist Jean Baudrillard (1929-2007) and architect Gae Aulenti (1927-2012) carried out experiments into the feelings one experiences when viewing de Lanux’s interiors. In 1930 fashion journalist and editor Madge Garland (1898-1990) wrote of the apartment de Lanux decorated for Mrs. Forsythe Sherfesee overlooking the Jardin du Luxembourg: “Madame de Lanux has a strange and very personal taste in colour combinations which always makes her work interesting and unusual. Terracotta red, white and grey are one blend that goes well together; light tobacco brown, black and white is another. The fine grain of the type of wood, the softness of the leather, the roughness of the hand-woven rugs are used to bring out the best in otherwise banal objects.” The thread that binds Frank and de Lanux is of course their deep sensibility for and appreciation of materials and materiality, and how they can be employed so as to create depth and atmosphere in an interior.
Thinking in terms of twenty-first century design, it tends to be those “trend-driven” interiors, that on a tight budget try to mimic the work of those currently en vogue for e.g. Joseph Dirand (b. 1974), Rose Uniacke (b. 1964) and Vincent Van Duysen (b. 1962) that ultimately fall flat; often for e.g. panelling will consist of laser-cut MDF, sprayed flat, mat hues, architraves are off the shelf and the furnishings “nine point” knock-offs of renowned twentieth-century makers. The very best interior designers are able to create magic, or rather, to bring together an interior that, regardless of budget, makes best use of what is available, without resulting to a watered down version of another designer’s work. It is an ability, or rather a gift, that comes, in part, from innate talent and a sensibility for the intricacies of scale and proportion, but also from a learned understanding of design, the nuances of period and stylistic details, and how to manipulate them so as to achieve an unashamedly contemporary interior, whilst at the same time, losing none of their charm and subtlety. I think we can all agree with Picasso who said, “Learn the rules like a pro, so you can break them like an artist”. After all, “trends”, however odious they might be, inherently stem from originality, and it’s often those who are prepared to go against the grain that make their way into the pantheon of design greats. Of course this doesn’t necessarily mean breaking the mould, but rather reinterpreting and manipulating it so as to create an interior that feels fresh and unexpected, a new take on styles and genres we’ve seen myriad times before.
An apartment in the seventeenth arrondissement of Paris, designed by Fabrizio Casiraghi, in the drawing room a mixture of antiques and mid-century furnishings
Axel Vervoordt (b. 1947) is perhaps one designer a good many of us will think about when asked for an example of an “atmospheric” interior; yet his designs are far from ground-breaking in the same sense as for e.g. Le Corbusier, Oscar Niemeyer (1907-2012), or, going full circle, Luis Baragan. What sets Vervoordt apart, like Frank and de Lanux, is his extraordinary sensibility for materials in their honest, pure form, and in turn how they can be used so as to create quietly confident, artfully curated interiors that feel as if they’ve been assembled over the aeons. Similarly, on a smaller and perhaps more approachable scale, Paris based designer Fabrizio Casiraghi (b. 1986) is particularly adept at creating nuanced, atmospheric interiors that conjure all the Italian magic of a Paolo Sorrentino film. Whilst Casiraghi denies having any particular signature style, “If I had a style now, at age 33, what would I do at 50?” he told Architectural Digest, I would suggest his “paw”, as the French put it, is, in a similar way to Vervoordt, an innate ability to create a sense of an interior that has been built up gradually over time, that radiates warmth and a human spirit. A key tenet of his approach to designing an interior is that his spaces serve the people that live in them; he doesn’t fall into the trap, as do many designers, of creating what for all intents and purposes is nothing more than an editorially pleasing stage set. Atmosphere is, of course, a feeling, and architects, designers and patrons will necessarily intend something different depending on building type, location, function, use etc., and as such, one cannot advocate any singular approach as to how it should be achieved; yet, whether it be a cottage in the Cotswold’s, a riad in Tangier or an Italian Palazzo, it’s easy to see when it’s lacking. What is clear however, is that to create interiors with atmosphere, one must possess an inherent sensibility for history, humanity and art — as well as an understanding of human psychology, and of the way in which people react to certain spaces, materials and environments; for many, they simply lack that level of observational sensibility and awareness for the hows and whys of societal behaviours. To be a truly great designer, one first needs to stop, look and listen.