Note that the writer gives equal weight to everyday objects as to art, to the picture frames as to the pictures, to the lacquerwork of the renowned Martin brothers as to the works of Watteau and “Veronese, etc.” The reference to the lack of bergères, which were fully upholstered armchairs fashionable at the time, was meant to draw attention to the unconventional simplicity of the decor.
The owner of the appartement was the Marquise du Châtelet, whom Graffigny archly referred to as la belle dame. In fact, Émilie du Châtelet was no great beauty, but she possessed something rarer, a formidable intellect—she was an accomplished mathematician and physicist, whose translation and commentary on Isaac Newton’s Principia Mathematica remains the standard French text to this day. She was also a talented singer and musician, a collector of books, diamonds, and snuffboxes, and an inveterate (though not very successful) gambler. In addition, this remarkable woman, as Nancy Mitford indelicately put it, “always had something of the whore.”
Louis XV bergère
The marquise’s most famous romantic liaison was with the great writer Voltaire. “She understands Newton; she despises superstition and in short she makes me happy,” he explained. The two were together, more or less, for fifteen years—until her death. The decoration of her country house at Cirey was one of their joint projects. Voltaire, whose business investments had made him a wealthy man, financed the work, but he didn’t have the final say. “Madame du Châtelet has become architect and gardener. She is putting windows where I’ve put doors, she’s changing staircases into chimneys, and chimneys into staircases. She’s going to plant lime trees where I proposed to place elms; and if I had planted a vegetable garden, she would turn it into a flower bed,” he complained. But he admired her talents. “What’s more she has waved a magic wand in the house. She is able to turn rags into tapestries; she has found the secret of furnishing Cirey out of nothing.”
The household arrangement at Cirey—a ménage à trois that included the marquise’s complaisant husband—was unconventional. Émilie and her lover each had their own study and their own library—science hers, literature his—an astonishing 21,000 books in all.1 Voltaire and Madame du Châtelet kept different hours—he worked throughout the day, she liked to work at night. While she prepared a study of Leibniz, he wrote poems, plays, and philosophical tracts. They met in the evening. Voltaire would dragoon houseguests and neighbors into performing his plays in a pretty miniature theater that he had installed in the attic. Graffigny describes a midnight meal following such a performance. “After supper, Madame du Châtelet will sing an entire opera … We can’t catch our breath here.”
The lovers occupied a newly built wing next to the crumbling old chateau. The heart of their home was a gallery facing the garden. Paneled and painted yellow, it was part living room and part laboratory; in addition to the usual furniture, it housed a collection of telescopes, astronomical models, pendulums, and globes—as well as a pet parrot. The room was heated by a porcelain stove “that makes the air as warm as in the spring,” wrote Graffigny. This was where the marquise played her harpsichord, and where papers and books were pushed aside to make room for morning coffee and evening supper; Graffigny describes sharing the table with an orrery. At the Château de Cirey, intellectual pursuits happily coexisted with material pleasures. One has the sense that the Enlightenment polymaths paid as much attention to decor and furnishings as to science and philosophy—they were all one.
Let’s Pretend
The carving around the main entrance of Cirey was designed by Voltaire. The allegorical ornament on each side of the door—art on one side and science on the other—represented its two occupants.2 The urge to decorate is as old as human history. Ornament was probably first applied to the human body, which, over the centuries, has been smeared, painted, dyed, and tattooed. Nor was this tendency limited to “primitive peoples”; Voltaire regularly wore a powdered peruke, and by all accounts whenever Émilie du Châtelet appeared in public she bedecked herself with jewels.
Ornamented tools and utensils are found in all preindustrial cultures. The decoration of utilitarian objects both humanizes them and makes them more enjoyable to use. I have a letter opener that I bought in a craft shop, made out of tornillo, a tropical hardwood. The object is as smooth as a Brancusi sculpture except for the handle, which is only partly carved; half of it is left in a natural state, the coarse grain plainly visible, a graphic reminder that this was once part of a tree. The rich dark wood—both smooth and rough—is satisfying to handle, even just to look at. Not that it slits paper any more effectively than a kitchen knife, but using this tool adds pleasure—and import—to the simple act of opening an envelope.
It is easy to forget in our functional age that, until recently, most machines and tools were ornamented, lathes as well as typewriters. Expensive shotguns are still decorated, as are some musical instruments such as harps and harpsichords, and old-fashioned implements such as fountain pens, but, on the whole, modern tools are plain. The computer on which I am writing—a Mac—has been lauded for its design, but its smooth shape is about as expressive as a toaster. Using it does not provide the same tactile and visual pleasure as my letter opener.
While few of us occupy rooms “as precious as a snuffbox,” we do dress up our homes—with wallpaper, window treatments, and patterned rugs. Remove these embellishments and a house looks unlived-in. The desire to ornament can emerge in the least likely circumstances. I’ve seen mud huts in African villages whose front doors were carefully outlined with colored paint. The modest decoration was prompted by the same impulse that makes Americans decorate their front doors for Thanksgiving and Christmas: celebrating entry into the home.
The British architectural historian John Summerson pointed out that there are two distinct types of ornament. One simply modulates surfaces with patterns or decorative designs. Surface modulation provides a focus for the eye, as well as a contrast between surfaces that are ornamented and surfaces that are plain. It can also provide a tactile experience, a sense of scale, a definition of edges, or the articulation of different parts. In a Louis XV armchair, for example, the floral pattern on the upholstery fabric can mimic the carved motifs on the legs and arms.
The second type of ornament Summerson called “subjunctive” (he admitted it was an awkward term). What he meant was the desire to make something appear “as if” it were other than it really was: a rosette carved out of wood, a plant motif embroidered on a chairback, or a guilloche chain carved on a chair rail. Subjunctive ornament can be natural forms rendered in inert materials, or forms transposed from one material to another. A rococo chair may have arms carved like foliage, and feet in the shape of clenched animal claws. Such ornament brings to mind the frisson of wonder at an illusionist’s levitation or a conjurer’s card trick. The world is not what it appears to be.
Subjunctive ornament could be called “let’s pretend,” since play is never far beneath the surface. Because we have learned to treat classical architecture with a respect that often borders on reverence, it is easy to miss how joyful and even prankish classical ornament can be. Although plants carried serious symbolic meanings in the ancient world—the evergreen stood for eternity, the vine for fertility, the oak for wisdom—the rotund fruits, curling leaves, and sinuous stalks also introduce a frolicsome quality that undermines the solidity of architecture. A seventeenth-century British visitor to Venice described a Corinthian capital, which is a riot of acanthus leaves that resembles tumbled hair, as “decked like a wanton courtesan.”
Garlands, fronds, swags, and other floral motifs, whether carved in wood or cast in bronze, turn eighteenth-century armchairs into horticultural samplers. A profusion of encrusted shells and sea urchins gives the impression of something pulled from the briny deep. When tastes shifted to the neoclassical, furniture legs resembled fluted columns and marquetry was more likely to show classical ruins than floral arrangements.
Whatever its iconographic or symbolic content, or
nament inevitably blurs the distinction between what we perceive with our senses and what we intellectually know to be true. That is why ornament has always consisted of plant life, chains, ropes, and knots, as well as human and animal figures. Such decoration starts by catching the eye, and ends by engaging the mind. As Voltaire famously quipped about luxury: “The superfluous is such a necessary thing!”
Art and Function
I own an eighteenth-century French snuffbox, a family heirloom, but I don’t have a rococo chair. Not that I could afford one—a gilded Louis XV armchair, originally commissioned by Madame de Pompadour, sold at Sotheby’s in 2013 for $653,000. In any case, a rococo chair would look out of place in our home, which is austere by ancien régime standards. However, I do have a pair of beautiful chairs that similarly combine art with function. They are fully upholstered armchairs, modern versions of a bergère. The plump upholstery swells lasciviously, like Madame de Pompadour’s bodice, and the gently curved legs are tapered, giving the impression of a ballerina en pointe. The upholstery material has a copper-colored thread running through it that creates an eye-catching glimmer as well as a pleasing geometrical pattern. The chairs have a languorous sense of luxury. It’s hard to pinpoint exactly why. It has something to do with the generous proportions, the sensuous curves of the upholstery, and the shapely saber legs. The other chairs in my living room appear dowdy compared with this pair of glamorous beauties.
The beauties are the work of John Dunnigan, a contemporary Rhode Island furniture maker whose work is sometimes called “studio furniture.” Like eighteenth-century cabinetwork, studio furniture is produced one piece at a time. Moreover, like his earlier counterpart, the studio furniture maker is able to shape wood, finish surfaces, and stretch fabrics in ways that are either impossible or impractical in a factory or on an assembly line. Making furniture the old-fashioned way provides opportunities for personal expression which, in Dunnigan’s case, is sometimes mischievous. “One of the best things about rules is figuring out how to break them,” he says. The rule that my chairs break is the rule of symmetry. The curved backs, which resemble lotus leaves, are asymmetrical, each chair a mirror of its mate, which makes them appear to be leaning toward each other—as if they were separated at birth. They are definitely a pair.
American studio furniture originated in the 1950s. What distinguished woodworkers such as Wharton Esherick, George Nakashima, and Sam Maloof from other furniture designers was their firm rejection of mass production (they built the furniture themselves, by hand) as well as their use of preindustrial materials (they worked exclusively in wood). The handcrafted furniture movement of the 1950s is sometimes called a revival, but it was a revival of skills, not of forms. This plain and undecorated furniture, although often inspired by early American folk models, resembles the abstract sculptures of Henry Moore and Jean Arp, a curious mixture of preindustrial craft and modernist aesthetics.
Conoid Chair (George Nakashima)
Dunnigan belongs to the second generation of studio furniture makers, which emerged in the 1980s. Some of these craftsmen moved from utility to artistic expression, creating fanciful chairs that are more like sculpture than furniture. Others accepted the traditional discipline of furniture-making, combining utility with beauty. Dunnigan belongs to the second group—his chairs not only look like chairs, they are often versions of specific types of chairs: armchairs, slipper chairs, side chairs, sofas. Versions, but not imitations. The exaggerated wedge-shaped seats of my chairs, for example, create the impression of forced perspective so that the chairs seem to be opening up to receive the sitter, and owe something to eighteenth-century cabriole chairs. The faceted saber legs, on the other hand, recall the klismos, while the plump asymmetry and the contrasting textures of bubinga wood and cotton damask veer away from historical precedent. Every time I walk through the living room, I can’t help running my hand over the curved back. What does that tactile experience of a chair have to do with sitting? Nothing—and everything.
Pair of armchairs (John Dunnigan)
What about comfort? “There is a necessary distinction to be made between trying to design something that is comfortable,” Dunnigan once wrote, “and trying to design something that is not uncomfortable.” Defining sitting comfort is like trying to prove a negative, because it is often discomfort that is more immediately experienced when sitting in a poorly designed chair. This may be soreness of the thighs if the front edge of the seat is too high, or stiffness of the neck if the angle of the chairback causes the head to be out of alignment with the spine. The most common discomfort is felt when a chair is too hard, which causes stresses in the muscles and tissues of the body.
My Dunnigan chairs are extremely comfortable. Both my wife and I, despite a difference in body size (I am larger), find the chairs equally accommodating. For all their resemblance to a French bergère these are not easy chairs. Dunnigan says that he wanted to replicate the calm position of someone meditating—back straight, arms at rest. “I wanted a person to be able to sit without noticing the chair.” The sitting position in my chair is upright rather than slouched, so the head, neck, and spine are aligned; the arms are slightly lower than usual, so the shoulders are relaxed. The exact form of the chair is the result of trial and error; Dunnigan built a number of fully upholstered mock-ups before he finalized the dimensions.
The sprung upholstery of my chairs has a lot to do with their comfort. Sprung upholstery appeared in the nineteenth century and is not normally associated with modern designer furniture, which tends to rely on foam and thin padding. The presence of sprung upholstery in Dunnigan’s chairs is a reminder that truly comfortable sitting furniture is difficult to achieve without carefully considered upholstery, and that a good chair provides support for the body as well as pleasure for the eye.
Dunnigan has given a lot of thought to the art of furniture-making.
If I had to describe my furniture, I would say that it’s sensual sometimes, that it’s comfortable sometimes, that it’s traditional or historically referenced sometimes, but it’s really about what I see as a basic issue of human existence—it’s about how a person moves their body in space and how they interact with other objects. Furniture is about how the body sits on it or puts something on it. It would be the same for someone living in 2000 A.D. or 2000 B.C.
This is an important insight. Yes, a chair is an everyday object—even if it’s sometimes decorated—but it’s an everyday object with which the human body has an intimate relationship. You sit down in an armchair and it embraces you, you rub against it, you caress the fabric, touch the wood, grip the arms. It is this intimacy, not merely utility, that ultimately distinguishes a beautiful chair from a beautiful painting. If you sit on it, can it still be art? Perhaps it is more.
THREE
Sitting Up
There is a pivotal early scene in David Lean’s film Lawrence of Arabia in which T. E. Lawrence and his superior, Colonel Brighton, visit the desert encampment of Prince Faisal, a leader of the Arab Revolt. The royal tent is spartan yet luxurious, patterned woven cloths hang from the low ceiling, a large brass samovar gleams in the candlelight, the ground is covered with a rich carpet. There is no furniture; the men sit on the carpet. Brighton in his tailored uniform, polished Sam Browne belt, and riding boots looks distinctly ill at ease with his legs awkwardly stretched out in front of him. Lawrence, a lieutenant and less formally dressed, appears slightly more comfortable, with his legs folded to one side. The prince, attired in a dark robe and a white ghutrah, reclines on a pile of sheepskins, while his colleague, Sherif Ali, leans casually against a tent pole. The various postures cinematically underline a central point: the relaxed Bedouins are at home in this place—the desert—while the stiff English colonel is an interloper. Lawrence is somewhere in between.
The world is divided into people who sit on the floor and those who sit on chairs. In a classic study of human posture around the world, the anthropologist Gordon W. Hewes identified no fewer than one h
undred common sitting positions. “At least a fourth of mankind habitually takes the load off its feet by crouching in a deep squat, both at rest and at work,” he observed. Deep squatting is favored by people in Southeast Asia, Africa, and Latin America, but sitting cross-legged on the floor is almost as common. Many South Asians cook, dine, work, and relax in that position. Sedentary kneeling, that is, sitting on the heels with the knees on the floor, is practiced by Japanese, Koreans, and Eurasians, and also used by Muslims at prayer. The half-kneeling position, one knee up and one down, that I saw in ancient Egyptian paintings occurs among Australian aborigines, some native Americans, and black Africans; a variant in the American West is known as the “cowboy squat.” Certain Native American tribes in the Southwest, as well as Melanesians, customarily sit on the floor with legs stretched straight out or crossed at the ankles. Sitting with the legs folded to one side—Lawrence’s position above—is described by Hewes as a predominantly female posture in many tribal societies.
The diversity of different postures around the world could be caused by differences in climate, dress, or lifestyle. Cold or damp floors would discourage kneeling and squatting and might lead people to seek raised alternatives; tight clothing would tend to inhibit deep squatting and cross-legged sitting; nomadic peoples would be less likely to use furniture than urban societies; and so on. But cause-and-effect does not explain why folding stools originated in ancient Egypt, a region with a warm, dry climate. Or why the Japanese and Koreans, who have cold winters, both traditionally sat on floor mats. Or why the nomadic Mongols traveled with collapsible furniture, while the equally nomadic Bedouins did not.
Now I Sit Me Down Page 3
