From India, Le Corbusier wrote to her as if to a beloved child: “I hope you’re having a wonderful time in that sumptuous warm apartment looking out on the snow in the street. You’re a lucky girl! You can do your embroidery, read detective stories, be at peace, write to your kid [presumably young Rebutato]. In other words, freedom and happiness!”1
In Chandigarh, mid-1950s
Knowing Yvonne would never see the actual work in India, Le Corbusier sent her sketches of the major projects. While most photographs of Le Corbusier’s High Court and other monuments focus on the buildings alone, in his quick study of it for his wife, the architect drew a number of stick figures in proximity to the form he identified as the High Court. These represented “teams of women dressed in the wildest colors, carrying in baskets on their heads the earth of the foundations and relaying each other in a chain that was like a hallucination.” The drawing was in black ink, but Le Corbusier wanted Yvonne to picture the “the loveliest fabrics dyed brilliant colors.”2
In the sketch, the famous entrance columns of the great court are no taller than those women bearing their loads. The physical reality was otherwise, but that distortion of scale was Le Corbusier’s psychological truth. He did not see architecture as something that should diminish human life and impose itself as a representation of authority—as was often the case with the academic Beaux-Arts buildings he loathed. Rather, he considered building design an integral part of earthly existence that not only respected the natural setting but, equally important, accommodated rather than diminished the ordinary inhabitants of villages and cities.
2
This time, rather than commuting from Simla, Le Corbusier was living in the middle of all the bustling activity in Chandigarh. He was staying in an “extremely pleasant house” in the temporary camp for engineers and architects in the new city.3 He wrote Yvonne about “evenings, [when] everyone sleeps under a thatch of reeds supported by two low walls, and at night the whole place fills up with children and men. This all happens on the site itself, in the dust, among bags of cement, bricks, etc., naked kids running around everywhere. The women never have a place of their own. These people are nomads.”4 Five thousand people were at work on the construction. They worked twelve hours per day, he pointed out to both Marie Jeanneret and Yvonne—reminding both his mother and wife, whose complaints tortured him, of their good fortune.
Le Corbusier imagined Yvonne’s response to these local women with no place to live. “‘At least they can laugh!’ says a charming woman I know in a seventh-floor walk-up,” he wrote her, conjuring the good old days on the rue Jacob. He signed off with “a kiss to the loveliest girl on earth.”5
Le Corbusier wrote Yvonne about Varma: “my friend. A broad mind, a smile: calm, precision, order. In me he finds calm as well, and I can now say: mastery. A life dedicated to such themes has given me that. In contrast with my men here—Pierre and Fry and Drew—how fully I feel in possession of my thought.”6 Yet even if he considered himself one notch above, he was delighted with the progress his less-assured cousin had made. Pierre, who was in charge of a team of young Indian architects, was well liked. Thapar was enchanted with him. Since Le Corbusier’s own house was only ten meters away from Pierre’s, where there was a cook and a valet, he took his meals there.
In the past, Le Corbusier had, at the start of each major project, been totally convinced that he would change the world with it. Now, after years of reversals, he was, to his mother, more skeptical: “The work, which is all my own: the city (urbanism) then the Capitol (five palaces) will be a link in the chain of history…if we come to a good end, without the breaks and catastrophes which have accompanied all my undertakings.”7
Yet the hardships that might have troubled other westerners in this hot and foreign country—the changes of food and diet, the terrible roadways, the crowds, the dirt and dust—were of no note. He had a large office with a view of cows, amiable bulls, and a well-irrigated esplanade of flowers and trees. He loved the way things were done: “All this is accomplished in an administrative calm that delights me.”8
The sky, consistently blue, gave him confidence. And he was again—it was often the case—rereading Don Quixote. “One of the finest, healthiest and most masterful books that was ever written,” he wrote his mother about Cervantes’s magisterial portrait of a dreamer.9
In that mood, he wrote one of his most reverent and, at the same time, critical remarks to his wonderful, infuriating mother: “I see dear little Maman, a lioness in her lair, her face pink and glowing with joy, torn between the moon (the Moonlight Sonata) and the glorious sun of the next washday!!”10
FROM CHANDIGARH, Le Corbusier posted his mother a copy of a letter he had recently received. The first time he sent it was at the start of December. The document was a “Strictly Private and Confidential” declaration from the Royal Institute of British Architects that he had been unanimously elected its Royal Gold Medalist for the coming year. If he would accept the honor and if royal approval was granted, the ceremony would occur on March 31, 1953.
This was all top secret. But Le Corbusier sent it to Vevey nonetheless, with a few lines scribbled on the bottom telling “Petite Maman” he knew it would make her happy. He also underlined the word “confidential.”11 On two subsequent occasions, he mailed her identical copies. He kept sending it until he had some response.
IN MID-DECEMBER, the architect went from Chandigarh to Delhi to start work on a project he was never to realize: the National Museum of India. He then flew on to Bombay.
There, more than in the north, Le Corbusier was dumbfounded by the serious food shortages and other problems posed by population density. At a lunch gathering of people in important positions, the architect predicted that in ten to twenty years there would be seven hundred million Indians and widespread famine. Another lunch guest commented that it was essential to suppress hormones, to which Le Corbusier, livid over the imperiousness of anyone suggesting that the masses would be better off with less sexual drive, retorted, “It is hypocrisy that must be eliminated.”12
From Bombay, the architect caught a direct flight to Paris. Landing at Orly on a Saturday, he maintained his breakneck schedule with meetings all day Sunday. On Monday, he worked at the office until the last possible minute before taking the train south to spend the Christmas holiday at Roquebrune-Cap-Martin with Yvonne. In the midst of it all, he suddenly realized that he had committed a great oversight. He had forgotten to give de Montmollin instructions to transfer the funds for a turkey for his mother and Albert to eat on Christmas Eve.
That failure was a signal: he was overworked and exhausted. He now confided to Marie Jeanneret that he would probably turn down the request for the British honor. Work and his mother’s needs had to be priorities; there was no time to waste.
3
Back in Paris after the winter break in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin, Le Corbusier renewed his frantic pace. His busy life was possible thanks to his great physical fitness, about which he became increasingly diligent. He began working out with a private trainer named Doyen, who came to the apartment every morning at 7:30 for half an hour; Le Corbusier liked his company and the way he felt after the exercise. His morning routine now consisted, first, of serving Yvonne her morning coffee in bed; then she lay there while the house shook with his calisthenics. Her limp had worsened, and she now had difficulty walking even with a cane, so she waited for him to come back before getting out of bed.
In February, he decided to accept the medal in London after all. To his mother, he feigned modesty, insisting that the applause did not interest him; while four banquets were planned, he agreed to only one. But of course he wanted her to be impressed. The architect wrote the widow a description of Queen Elizabeth: “She’s quite sympathetic, this little woman.”13 He didn’t bother with more description; for a man of his importance, with such a great mother, seeing the nice “little woman” was a routine event.
The architect Berthold Lubetkin was given the t
ask of showing the honoree around London. Lubetkin asked Le Corbusier what he would most like to see; the answer was the corner of Oxford and Regent streets. The gold medalist cared less for architectural monuments than for being at the crossroads of a bustling metropolis and feeling its pulse; nothing by Christopher Wren or Inigo Jones interested him as much as the heartbeat of urban life.
WHEN HE RETURNED to the Paris office, Le Corbusier began to finish up his projects for Ahmedabad, which now included a museum in addition to the Villa Sarabhai and the Millowners’ Building.
Work was moving ahead on Ronchamp, and construction on Nantes was to begin April 1. Marseille was garnering further praise, and Le Corbusier had progressed with what had become two splendid houses for André Jaoul in Neuilly and was giving further consideration to the convent near Lyon, the project that would evolve into the magnificent La Tourette.
Fired with confidence, Le Corbusier imbued his mother with the flair and force he was feeling himself. On March 1, he wrote her, “Your letters are (always) a ray of sunlight. You have a happy soul, playful and strong. For us it is a blessing to see you cock a snook at the coming century with such a youthful heart: Madame centenarian. Ordinarily old age makes us tough. You know how to see the sun where it is and the blue sky and the lake. You’re tough only for housework—work, work, work. And really, what does that matter? All of us forge our own chains, which establish the frontiers of our action.”14
Now in his midsixties, questioning how he would manage the ultimate phase of his existence, Le Corbusier was evaluating his own capacity for life and its pleasures. His mother’s longevity thrilled him, but he knew it had little bearing on how long his own biological clock would run. She was his role model for energy and work ethic, though—the main difference being that the compulsion to do well had her at the washbasin and him at the drafting table.
4
In March, one of Le Corbusier’s dreams came true. His mother agreed to go to Marseille to see his building. She would be accompanied by Albert.
Le Corbusier organized the details of the voyage. He bought second-class train tickets from Vevey to Paris, with a departure scheduled for April 5. He would be at the station waiting for them. After about a week in Paris, Marie and Albert would take a sleeping car to Marseille, where they would spend a day at l’Unité before returning the following morning to Geneva. He drew diagrams to show the logistics of the trip.
That was plan A. With Marie Jeanneret, nothing was ever simple. A week after the initial proposal, Le Corbusier’s secretary wrote to say that she could travel “3ème classe” if she absolutely insisted, but that she really should not hesitate to pay the supplement to travel via “2ème classe” to be more comfortable and in order to have lunch in the dining car. Now a friend would drive them to Marseille and, afterward, from Marseille to Vevey—so that Marie could be spared a complicated and exhausting train journey on the return. The secretary concluded, “M. Le Corbusier hopes this plan is to your liking and is delighted to be seeing you again.”15
All was in order. But just before his mother embarked on the journey, Le Corbusier scribbled off a word of warning. Yvonne had “a nervous condition” her hyperthyroid imbalance made her occasionally violent. “So, dear little Maman, you whose blood also occasionally acts up, be a good girl now and a grown-up. Yv is a little girl, utterly devoted, correct and generous. But she’s sick now, as well as suffering from very painful rheumatism + her lame leg. So: no lectures about hygiene, no reflections or animadversions about tobacco or drinking. Yvonne is stubborn, nothing you can do about it, don’t even try. All of us must follow our own path, our own destiny, our own instinct.”16
His two worlds were again about to collide. With his mother, at least, there was some possibility of control.
THERE IS NO KNOWING how things went between “Vonvon” and “La Petite Maman,” but photographs testify to the successful visit of Le Corbusier’s mother to the building in Marseille. The white-haired lady from Switzerland can be seen beaming in the modern skyscraper that was so totally different from the world in which she had nurtured its architect. His, perpetual wish for her to be proud and happy was, however briefly, again realized.
5
After the triumph of Marseille, there was no stopping Le Corbusier. In the early spring, he wrote his mother, “I lead a dog’s life here, very difficult. Or a cab-horse’s, as I said in my London lecture at the end of March.” He was further exhausted because of the shots of anticholera vaccine he had to take to prepare for his next trip to India, as well as by struggles over the Unité proposed for Nantes, where he was battling “bastards (at the top of the profession)”—the underlining reflecting his usual rage at the practice of architecture. But the Tate Gallery had bought his most recent painting, magazine articles about his architecture were appearing all over, and a large catalog was in the works for a major exhibition in Paris that fall. He told his mother about all of it and more, while tempering his glee: “Dear Maman, I’m bothering you with all my troubles. You know what kind of a life I must lead. Everything becomes harder and harder: responsibilities and the Responsibility.”17
While he was beleaguered by obligations, Marie Jeanneret, at least, should free herself of the shackles of domesticity and enjoy the liberation he intended to give all women. Le Corbusier linked his own mental state to hers: “You mustn’t lead such a life ‘at the lake’—housework and laundry, etc., along with everything else. I want Maman to let herself go!!! For God’s sake!”18
HIS SIX WEEKS in India at the end of May and into June were a welcome respite from his frantic life in the west. His spirits were raised even more when he got word that the French minister had agreed to the project in Nantes, which transformed itself into an outburst of warmth toward his mother. Le Corbusier attributed his success to her, writing, “You are a great woman, worthy of the great historical periods.”19
The heat in Chandigarh was oppressive that spring. This prompted Le Corbusier to draw for his mother a remarkable self-portrait to illustrate an Indian bath. The technique was to take a bucket of water that came out of the faucet at forty degrees Celsius and throw it on his body with a metal ladle. Le Corbusier’s sketch shows his balding head, with beaklike nose and glasses. The image of him dousing himself is full of life and humanity. It is also astonishing. For in this self-portrait drawn for his mother, his sagging testicles are clearly visible in profile, as is his penis, with a drop falling off its tip.
An Indian bath: self-portrait drawn for his mother, 1953
TO COUNTER the Indian heat, Le Corbusier would cool himself with a fan, then drink boiling-hot tea, and, at night, down a whiskey under the mosquito net on the lawn in front of the house; he had changed his stance on alcohol. He wrote his mother assuring her that what he was achieving in India was going to be a sensation. It was “raw concrete, as sharp and clear as Egyptian or Greek architecture: a great step forward.” Adding to his joy, he had a recent picture of his mother with her “lovely nostrils,” which he looked at all the time.20
Everything was for the best. Pierre was happier than he’d ever been; Le Corbusier even convinced himself that Yvonne was fine. Although she could no longer leave the apartment, he had organized someone to come in and play the accordion for her. If one made the effort to focus on joy, it could always be had.
6
Le Corbusier returned to Paris from India on June 21. The following day, Douglas Dillon, the American ambassador to France, awarded him “the rosette” of the American Institute of Arts and Letters, with a diploma naming him as an honorary member for his service to architecture. The induction ceremony at the American embassy might have been the beginning of a reconciliation with the United States. However, five days later, the United States and England definitely vetoed Le Corbusier’s design for UNESCO. It baffled him to be turned down by the two countries from whom he had recently received official honors. “Reign of the mediocre and triumph of the timid,” he wrote his mother, to whom he had proudly sen
t a newspaper clipping about Ambassador Dillon.21
The summer, however, was more restful than usual. Le Corbusier and Yvonne left for their hideaway in Roquebrune-Cap-Martin on July 17 and settled there for an unprecedented six weeks, in which the architect swam, caught up on sleep, and painted twenty watercolors for a new project with Tériade. Twice every day, he and Yvonne repaired to l’Etoile de Mer for their pastis and seafood.
Then, in September, Le Corbusier left Roquebrune-Cap-Martin for Paris with such a bad cold that he traveled via train in a sleeping car rather than fly or drive as usual. The illness turned into severe pneumonia; for six days, he had a fever of forty degrees Celsius. Too sick to read or work, he passed the time lying in bed and listening to the radio.
The radio was almost dead—he had great difficulty getting reception—but, with much effort, he managed one afternoon to tune in to the Wagner opera Tristan and Isolde. In his feverish state, he wrote to his mother about hearing “the indefatigable duet and the orgasm. Then I said to myself: I’ll send dear Maman a note to tell her what tremendous emotion I experienced hearing this music you so love and respect and that I admire and ‘consume’ for reasons different from yours: yours are those of a musician and mine of the life experienced precisely where communion is possible between two human beings. If all the reasons were put on the table, it would be apparent that you and I are in perfect agreement. For in that half hour of Wagner everything is in order and reaches a conclusion. And so, dear Maman, while you’re telling YOUR Albert: ‘Don’t listen to your brother, he’s luring you away from your proper (musical) path.’—for Albert will have received my letter from Cap-Martin—make a new listing for your son on the first page of the New Year: ‘architect-sculptor-swimmer-diver,’ fundamentally a musician par excellence and inventor of the Modulor, that eminently musical creation. And moving on to the circumstantial kisses.” Le Corbusier signed off, “To Dear Maman, young as she is with her magnificent smile, all our best wishes, our affection, our admiration, our gratitude. And thanks too for all the wonderful nourishment you managed to get inside us all along.”22 How clear it was: a Wagnerian duo, an orgasm, him and his mother.
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