Modernity for the Sake of It
Moving forward in design
“To be modern is not a fashion, it is a state. It is necessary to understand history, and he who understands history knows how to find continuity between that which was, that which is, and that which will be.” — Le Corbusier
There’s a common trend in art, design, interiors and architecture to think of “modern” and “traditional” as polarizing terms, an oversimplification which fails to have regard to those unique individuals that straddle boundaries, or, simply defy categorization. “Modernity” of course, by definition, is not only a historical period (that is, aside from its application as a topic in the humanities and social sciences) but also an ensemble of socio-cultural norms, attitudes and practices that arose in the wake of the Renaissance “Age of Enlightenment” — an intellectual and social movement that dominated philosophical, political and scientific discourse from the late seventeenth to the early nineteenth century. It was a period decisive in the making of modernity and encompassed a wide range of ideas centred on the value of human happiness, the pursuit of knowledge obtained by means of reason and the evidence of the senses, and ideals such as liberty, progress, tolerance, fraternity, constitutional government and separation of church and state. In terms of modernity, academics and historians differ widely as to when exactly the era ended; and whilst some claim it to be as early as 1930, or 1945 with the end of the Second World War, the general consensus is that it was at some point in the1980s — after which came clichéd, bromidic postmodernism, which was not only a backdrop to, but a metaphor for unbridled capitalist excess. In a purely art historical sense “modernity” (modernité) is somewhat more limited — with “modern art” covering the period of c. 1860–1970. The use of the term in this context is largely attributed to French poet Charles Baudelaire (1821-1867), who in his 1864 essay “The Painter of Modern Life”, designated the “fleeting, ephemeral experience of life in an urban metropolis”, and the responsibility art has to capture that experience. In this sense philosopher Nikolas Kompridis (b. 1953) has said the term refers to “a particular relationship to time, one characterized by intense historical discontinuity or rupture, openness to the novelty of the future, and a heightened sensitivity to what is unique about the present”.
A proto-deco apartment building at 51 Rue Raynaud, Paris (1932) designed modernist architect Auguste Peret
The interior of Maison de Verre, Paris (1932) designed by Pierre Chareau, showing the elegant glass block facade
It was these new beliefs in the rejection of conservative traditions and values that gave architects far greater freedom to create new forms. Indeed modern architecture emerged at the very end of the nineteenth century initially as a means of challenging the traditional Beaux Arts and Neoclassical styles that dominated architecture in Europe and the United States. It was a movement or style in part spurred on by innovation in building and construction methods; early on for e.g. French architect Auguste Perret (1874-1954) managed to reconcile modernism with classicism, finding grace and elegance in the use of reinforced concrete, a material previously employed only in industrial buildings. His first important project in 1903 was a proto-deco apartment building on rue Franklin in the sixteenth arrondissement of Paris, where the concrete structure, instead of being concealed, was clearly visible as part of the exterior design. Glass blocks even were once the future, bringing light to the heart of urban tower blocks, courtyards and subterranean spaces; though it was perhaps arch Modernist Pierre Chareau (1883-1950) who used the material to greatest effect in his now iconic Maison de Verre (or “Glass House”). Hidden behind the solemn porte-cochere of an eighteenth century Hôtel Particulier on Rue Saint-Guillaume, the house is so extraordinary in that it challenges our assumptions about the rigid orthodoxies of mainstream Modernism. Built in the brief period between the two world wars, and compared variously to a Surrealist artwork, a theatre stage, an operating room and an elaborate piece of furniture — Chareau conceived its carefully articulated interior as an elegant composition of interlocking forms. Behind its great glass-block façade — floodlit by night so that it glows like a lantern — the only views of the outside world are to the back of the house, overlooking a small private garden; old Paris with its medieval squares, quaint street-side cafés and grand Haussmannian boulevards seems a world away. Even today architects still marvel at the way in which Chareau cleverly, and perhaps even theatrically, manipulated the space so as to separate areas for work and play, and for public and private life; something that post-pandemic, with changing ways of working and living we could stand to learn lessons from.
The recently opened Chateau Voltaire hotel, Paris, demonstrating the recent trend for traditional mid-century style interiors
In a recent interview with the Financial Times How to Spend It magazine, French writer Virginie Mouzat said “I dread modernity for the sake of it — this is the disease of the planet”. In context she was referring to the Michele Bonan designed JK Place hotel in Paris’s seventh arrondissement, which Mouzat explains, with regards to modernity, “they don’t even try to go there, which I love”. This naturally leads one to ask when “modernism”, a mode of design and philosophical thought that stemmed from the lofty ideals of improving society for the better, is merely for the sake of it, or presumably, ex hypothesi, when is it used merely as a motif, without any thought or meaning behind the design, and simply for the sake of appearing contemporary and new? Paris is a particularly beautiful city and part of its charm lies in the fact that much of its original fabric remains, including certain restaurant’s and bistros, which are somewhat tattered, smoke stained and, to borrow a French term (often used in the context of the preservation and restoration of interiors and furniture), “dans son jus” — literally, “in its juice”. Over the past decade there have been a number of unfortunate gut renovations, presumably as a means of luring in foreign tourists who don’t necessarily appreciate or understand such patina and age, that have entirely destroyed the allure and charm of some of the city’s most elegant eateries. For e.g. Café Le Nemours on the edge of Palais Royal has one of the most wonderful terraces to be found in any European capital city; but it’s recent interior refurbishment, a bizarre, mismatched confection of hexagonal tiles, Gubi beetle chairs and “quirky” bric-à-brac, is a travesty that completely disregards its surroundings. The previous 1970s style bistro interior, despite being somewhat worn and rough around the edges, felt far more authentic than its current incarnation, which is banal to the extreme (this is presumably why there’s been a recent renaissance in mid-century-style Parisian interiors, as can be seen at Chateau Voltaire and Hotel Wallace etc.). In terms of an unapologetically contemporary intervention in an historic setting one might look to architect Sir David Chipperfield’s (b. 1953) skilful and sympathetic renovation of London’s Café Royal in Piccadilly; whist original details (such as boiseries, wrought iron balustrades and carved-stone mouldings) have been refreshed and restored, its new hotel rooms are unabashedly modern, with Carrara marble bathrooms and cast-plaster walls echoing the building’s rusticated stone façade. Indeed whilst the nineteenth century fabric has been preserved, new additions are just that, and the overall feeling is very much of the now. Obviously these two projects can’t be compared like for like, as the former was clearly done on a shoe string budget and the latter cost upwards of £200 million — the point is however, that modern, or rather, contemporary design can be every bit as sensitive and elegant as its historic forebears if not sometimes more so.
The general public has something of an entrenched distrust of modernism and modern architecture — which is in part as a result of the need to rebuild cities and to provide housing for a rapidly growing population in the aftermath of the Second World War. London, in particular, saw some truly hideous 1960s developments that despite often egalitarian intentions, aged badly and are currently being demolished at a rate of knots (as can be seen with recent wrecking of the monstrosity that was the Elephant & Castle shopping centre). Equally, in recent years the city skyline has been blighted by a succession of controversial high rise towers, the “Gherkin”, the “Shard” and the “Walkie-Talkie”, to name but a few, which are unlikely to stand the test of time, at least aesthetically speaking, and whose novelty silhouettes are already deeply unpopular with local residents. The real issue here is poor design, and city planners allowing greedy developers to throw up brash mindless buildings whose overall appearance brings to mind the outskirts of Dubai or Shenzhen. Seemingly once bitten twice shy the British public, and in particular the baby boomer generation, has something of rocky relationship with such “avant-garde” offerings — favouring instead a rose tinted ideal of chocolate box cottages and cookie cutter Victorian terraces. Prince Charles (b. 1948), who famously described architect Peter Ahrends’ (b. 1933) proposed National Gallery extension as a “monstrous carbuncle” has long been a mouthpiece for such traditionalist sentiment. This illogical preoccupation with a past that has long since sailed can be seen to great effect at the Prince’s personal pet project of Poundbury in Dorset; a fanciful toy town of flint-clad cottages, miniature pink gothic castles and a hotel based on Palladio’s 1561 Convento della Carità in Venice. “The silent majority like this sort of building,” says British architect Quinlan Terry (b. 1937), who, along with his son Francis, designed most of the buildings around the town’s grandiose Queen Mother Square; including Strathmore House, a yellow fronted neo-classical apartment block that somewhat inexplicably looks straight out of Imperial Russia.
One of the elegant new rooms at the Hotel Café Royal in Piccadilly designed by British architect David Chipperfield
For centuries there was a constant progression in terms of architecture and design from Elizabethan and Jacobean, to Georgian and Regency — a period when cash strapped aristocrats would often re-front an earlier house simply so as to appear au courant — briefly interrupted by the Victorian nationalistic tendency to throw up gothic monstrosities (as a means of promoting the Empire through a Saint George and the dragon image of medieval Britain), and then various incarnations of twentieth century modernism until the 1990s when there was a sudden surge in unimaginative and poorly executed pastiche architecture. There are countless bad examples of any architectural style or genre, but that shouldn’t stand in the face of progress. In 1984 when I.M. Pei (1917-2019) presented his design for a 71-foot-tall glass-and-metal pyramid in the ninetieth-century Cour Napoléon, the main courtyard of the Grand Louvre, the immediate reaction was outrage. “I received many angry glances in the streets of Paris,” Pei later recalled, confessing that “after the Louvre I thought no project would be too difficult.” Indeed in January 1984, at meeting with Paris’ Committee on Historical Monuments, the critique was so vitriolic that Pei’s translator was apprehensive about explaining to him what was said. Today these reactions are almost unfathomable, with Pei’s now iconic Pyramid transforming what was a car park into one of the world’s most iconic public spaces. Whilst our historic fabric should clearly be preserved and maintained for future generations, “modernism” in terms or architecture and interiors should not be seen as the brash, unwelcome guest at a party, but as a means to innovate, improve and stimulate. French fashion designer Roger Vivier (1907-1988) shocked the Parisian beau monde with his elegantly appointed apartment on the Quai d’Orsay by juxtaposing a prophetic mix of Cycladic idols, French court furniture and abstract art by the likes of Jean-Michel Atlan (1913-1960), Serge Poliakoff (1900-1969) and César (1921-1998). The designer had no interest in recreating museum-like period rooms, but rather capturing the best of the past and presenting it in a personal, approachable way — an ideal template for the way in which to approach contemporary modernist design.